Beside us, Rowan loses his own battle for control, his movements rough, desperate, his focus locked on her completely as he fucks her throat. Moments later, he groans and comes deep down her throat with a curse.
The room fills with the rhythm of our breathing, low murmurs, her fractured sounds woven between them—an echo of what we’ve become together: tangled, consuming, and inseparable.
Berk slumps against Emerson’s chest, her breath warm against his skin, and within seconds a soft, almost soundless snoreescapes her. The noise freezes all of us mid-motion before Em glances down and lets out a quiet laugh.
“She’s out like a light,” he murmurs, his voice low with affection as he cradles the back of her head, his fingers threading gently through her hair.
I ease back carefully, not wanting to wake her, every movement slow and deliberate. Em stays still for a moment longer before shifting with equal care. Rowan’s already grabbing a warm cloth, and the three of us move quietly, working together to make sure she’s comfortable. It’s a simple act, but it feels intimate—protective, grounding.
When we finish, she sighs in her sleep, curling closer to Emerson. I catch the faint sound of a growl from one of my brothers—maybe both—and I can’t blame them. The thought of her like this, soft and safe between us, stirs something deep and possessive in all of us.
Her face is tucked against Emerson’s chest, breath slow and even. One hand curls into his ribs, as if she’s still anchoring herself to him even in sleep. The sight loosens a tight place inside me—one I was convinced had long since hardened over.
Rowan and I lie on either side of them, keeping watch while the room settles into shadow, quiet broken only by the soft hush of the night.
I don’t look away for a long time. I track the steady rise of her breathing, the faint flutter of her lashes when dreams pull at her. It steadies me in a way that borders on pain. She’s here. Alive. Ours.And the fear of waking up to her absence again never quite leaves my grip.
Rowan breaks the silence first, his voice barely a whisper. “I can’t believe the shit they pulled right under our noses. All this time, and we never saw it.”
His words hang heavy in the air. I stare up at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster. “They were good at hiding it,” I say. “Too good. The things they did to our moms, to Reign, to Berk…” My throat tightens around their names. “They made monsters out of themselves and thought no one would ever come for them.”
Emerson shifts slightly, careful not to wake her. His hand moves in slow circles on her back, his eyes far away. “They hurt everyone who ever loved them,” he says. “They ruined everything they touched—but they didn’t finish the job.”
“No,” Rowan agrees quietly. “They didn’t.”
The silence stretches again, thicker this time, full of memories we can’t put into words. For a moment, I see my mother’s face, Reign’s laughter, the flashes of what we’ve lost because of the men who raised us. And then I look at Berk—safe, warm, alive—and it reminds me why we’re still breathing.
I reach out, letting my fingers skim over the scars along her arm. My thumb brushes the fading mark at my side without thinking—healed cleaner than it should be, stitches already gone, like my body’s racing to keep up with everything we still have to survive. “Tomorrow,” I murmur, “we take another step toward finishing this. For them. For her.”
Rowan nods, his voice firm and unyielding. “And for us.”
Emerson doesn’t answer. His hand stays at her back, moving in slow, protective passes, like he’s memorizing the feel of her there.
Silence settles over the three of us again, heavy but not crushing. It presses in close, binding instead of breaking. The room slips deeper into shadow, and the steady cadence of Berk’s breathing fills the space, drawing us down with her.
Sleep finds us easier with her here than it ever did in the years she was gone—weighted, purposeful. Tomorrow, the fight waits. But tonight, she’s with us. And for now, that’s enough to keep the fire burning.
Chapter Twenty-One
Berkley
The morning sun filters through the blinds, slicing thin lines of light across the floor as I sink into my chair in the war room. My coffee’s gone cold beside me, untouched, but I don’t care. The screens in front of me are alive with motion—feeds from every corner of the city, coded signals, shifting data trails that I know better than my reflection. My fingers hover above the keyboard, steady but restless. We’re close. I can feel it.
The comm crackles softly, and then Dahlia’s voice comes through, light and teasing as always. “Bugs in place, sweetheart,” she says. “Clean and quiet. He didn’t even notice.”
Relief loosens a knot between my shoulders I didn’t realize was there. “You’re sure he didn’t catch you?” I ask, watching her signal flicker on the corner screen.
“Positive,” she answers, laughing softly. “Bryce was too busy feeling sorry for himself to notice anything.”
I can’t help the faint smile that tugs at my mouth. “Good work, D. Stay away now and keep your head down.”
Her response is a satisfied hum before the line goes dead. I lean back, letting out a slow breath. For now, things are unfolding exactly as planned.
My guy’s drift in one by one, drawn by the hum of screens and the smell of burned coffee. Rowan takes up his usual place bymy shoulder, quiet and observant, scanning the feeds. Ronan settles into the chair next to me, stretching his long legs and cracking his knuckles. Emerson stays standing, hands clasped behind his back, that steady calm radiating off him even when I can tell his mind is spinning.
“Under control?” Rowan asks, his voice steady, threaded with curiosity.
“For the moment,” I reply, typing in a few more commands. “Dahlia got the bug planted. We’re pulling data now.”