Ronan’s grip eases, not because he trusts me but because he knows I listened. He gives a short, curt nod, then steps back and goes still, the animal in him coiled but obedient. Rowan pulls his handgun closer, Emerson checks the timers on his device one last time, and then they move out, shadows sliding toward the dock like predators.
I give them space and trail at a distance, keeping my movements slow so their backs are always in my sight. The nearer we get to the dockside shed, the thinner the foot traffic becomes until the only sound is the wind dragging across corrugated metal and the distant thud of crates settling.
We line up outside the door, and for a second everything goes still. Then a voice cuts through the metal—Bryce, screaming, completely unhinged, like the world has slid out from under him.The sound makes my teeth ache. I crouch, palms on my knees, mapping exits, watching shadows. I force myself to breathe, to keep the timing tight—but there’s a hard, burning pressure under my ribs that wants to charge in and rip him apart with my bare hands.
Emerson doesn’t hesitate. He kicks the door in, and it crashes back with a sound like a gunshot, then Ronan and Rowan flow after him without a second thought. I stay where I am, pinned to the darkness, listening as their boots hit the concrete and their voices collide with Bryce’s. He shouts names into the empty space, hurling threats at no one in particular, a frantic spiral of accusation and rage.
I can’t see inside. The feed on my phone is a useless smear of light and dark, but I strain to make out voices through the static. There’s a sharp sound—wood or metal striking—and then men talking, a low, dangerous banter of predator and prey. Bryce’s voice slices through it, brutally and raw. “You think you can do this to me? Who the hell—” He stops like he’s noticed something, like a thought has found its way into the wrong room.
Then Emerson’s voice, steady and cold, asks the only thing that matters. He doesn’t bother with names. He doesn’t need to. “Is she alive?”
There’s a harsh laugh from Bryce, and it sounds like bile. “You think I’d let her live after bugging me?” he spits. “You don’t know what we’ve lost—what we could’ve built if you hadn’t interfered!” His voice cracks halfway through the sentence, the fury slipping into something raw and uncertain. He tries to recover, talking faster, grasping at whatever control he thinks he still has. Herants about their partners pulling out, the money being frozen, the warehouses blowing up. Each word chips away at his confidence until he doesn’t sound powerful anymore; he just sounds desperate.
The anger in me stops building and becomes action. I am done with hiding. I am done with letting them think they’ve won. If he thinks he can yell like that and hide behind other men, he’s wrong. I stand, letting the shadow throw itself off my face, and step toward the doorway like a person stepping onto a stage. The sudden scrape of the broken door under my foot feels loud and perfect.
When I step into the light, the room shifts. I catch them all by surprise—Bryce stands in his expensive but rumpled suit; the fabric wrinkled and his tie hanging loose, like the polish he once wore has finally cracked. The surrounding walls are grimy and stained, years of neglect seeping through the metal and concrete. Dahlia is slumped in a metal chair nearby, her head bowed, dark streaks of blood on her temple and clothes. The sight gut punches me, but it steels the rest. I lift my chin and let my breath out slowly as they see me.
Bryce’s mouth drops open. For a heartbeat, he looks less like a monster and more like a man who followed the wrong map. He blinks, trying to make the numbers align. Then an absurd, terrible smile creeps across his mouth.
“Well, well, well,” he drawls, the words as slick as the oil on this dock. “Back from the dead.”
It’s exactly the reaction I wanted. It fits. All the missing pieces snap together for him in the wrong order, and suddenly that confusion is my advantage. I don’t answer in words. I let the silencespeak, let my eyes tell him what comes next. He doesn’t know half of what I can do. He doesn’t know that bringing someone like Dahlia into his chaos was a mistake that will echo.
He’s shocked, yes, but he should be terrified. I step forward, and the warehouse seems to narrow until it’s just me and him and the history between our families. I smile, small and calculating, and for the first time tonight I feel like I’m finally standing on the edge of revenge that belongs to me to finish.
Until the air in the shed shifts before words even come—one of those instinctive warnings that slithers through your veins before your mind can catch up. Bryce’s expression twists, his mouth curling into that ugly, satisfied smirk that makes my stomach turn. The lights flicker, casting his shadow long and crooked across the filthy floor, and I know something’s changed. The balance we had, the quiet control in the room—it’s gone.
He’s talking before I can breathe. “You know,” he drawls, voice thick with arrogance, “I’m actually glad you’re here to witness it. Their downfall.” His finger sweeps across my men, his grin widening. “And yours.”
He laughs—a sharp, grating sound that doesn’t belong to someone sane. The noise ricochets off the concrete walls. Then he reaches into his slacks, hand emerging with a small black device. It looks harmless at first glance, but the way he waves it makes my pulse spike. “I thought it was you three,” he says, gesturing toward Rowan, Ronan, and Emerson, “but now…” His gaze slides to me, deliberate and taunting. “Now, I’m thinking your girlfriend had a hand in this too. She always was the smart one, wasn’t she?”
The insult rolls off me. I smile instead, letting him see it. “You’d be correct,” I tell him, voice calm and amused. I take a step forward, quiet, measured. “I’m the one who cut through your network. The one who gutted your accounts, one by one. And those pretty little warehouses you thought were untouchable? I enjoyed watching them burn.”
The smirk slips away. His jaw tightens, anger warping his features until there’s nothing left but something hollow and vicious. Then, right on cue, he reaches for the last weapon he has—cruelty.
He starts talking about me and Reign, the words vile and slick. He uses her name like a curse, painting pictures meant to hurt. Then he turns it sharper, his grin wide and mean. He asks if I’m still as tight as he remembers or if my guys have loosened me up.
The sound that leaves Ronan is more animal than human. Rowan steps forward, every inch of him wired tight, and Emerson’s hand drops to his weapon with a slow, surgical precision that makes me certain Bryce is seconds away from dying.
But Bryce lifts the device, and they freeze. “I wouldn’t,” he says, voice trembling with adrenaline and ego. “I’ve got this whole place rigged to blow. Figured you’d come eventually.”
My mind snaps back to the second section of the warehouse—the poorly concealed device I’d found on the beam. He wasn’t bluffing. That one was his. He planted it as insurance.
He opens his mouth to keep talking, but the sound of a ringtone cuts him off. The device in his pocket buzzes, and he juggles both—the detonator and the phone, his hands shaking as he tries not to drop either. He answers.
“Do you have them?” Dean’s voice slithers through the speaker, the connection just clear enough to make my skin crawl.
Bryce’s grin slides back into place, slick with triumph. “I’ve got something better,” he says, angling the phone like he’s unveiling a prize. He means to parade me in front of Dean—but the balance shifts before he realizes it has.
The camera flips.
For a single, brutal heartbeat, my lungs forget how to work.
Kimber.
She’s tied to a chair, her little face streaked with tears and grime, her eyes wide and terrified. Her wrists are bound so tight I can see the red marks even through the shaky video.
“Give her back,” Emerson snarls, his voice breaking the quiet like a blade.