Everywhere I look is chaos—the mattress half off the frame, blankets ripped and twisted, nightstand splintered and toppled, her lamp shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. Clothing litters the floor like shed skin, some of it tangled with shards of broken glass. This room used to be her reflection—warm, lived in, alive—but now it’s just carnage, the kind that mirrors what was done to her. It feels wrong to be in here, like I’m intruding on her pain all over again.
Still, the questions burn, eating at me like acid. How could I not see it? How could I not recognize the truth when it was right in front of me? Every hollow smile, every laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes, every moment she pulled away from us just a little too quickly—they were warnings. Signs. And I ignored them. Or worse, we chose not to face them, because admitting the truth would’ve cracked my world open. So, I clung to the lie. I let myself believe she was fine.
Now here I am, on my knees in the ruins of her room, surrounded by evidence of all the things I failed to protect. I was supposed to shield her, to be the one constant in her life she could rely on. Instead, I let myself be blinded, manipulated into silence, while the monsters we called family tore her apart piece by piece. This wreckage? It’s not just the remains of her room. It’s the remains of my failure. A physical reminder that I was too fucking blind to save her. To save both of them.
My soul feels cracked wide open, fissures running so deep it feels like there’s nothing solid left inside me to hold together. Every breath scrapes raw against the edges of those breaks, bleeding me out in ways I can’t stop, no matter how hard I fight. It’s a slow, steady hemorrhage, the kind that doesn’t kill you fast but drains you piece by piece until there’s nothing left but an empty husk. Reign. Berk. The two women who anchored me to this world, the two people I was supposed to protect more than anyone, ripped away in different ways that both feel like death. One buried under lies and blood, the other slipping through my fingers, choosing distance overthe wreckage I’ve become. And me? I’m left hollow, a shell carrying the weight of all I failed to do.
The grief doesn’t settle—it hammers. A relentless pulse in my chest that shakes my bones and marks every beat with what I’ve lost. It isn’t just sadness; it’s despair sharpened by heat, tearing at me from the inside, demanding surrender. It drowns out the world until all that remains is loss—and their faces, burned into my vision. Reign, with her laugh that used to fill this house before it became a tomb. Berk, with her defiance and fire, even when it was me standing in front of her, dealing the blows. My ghosts. My punishments. My reminders.
For a moment, I almost let go. Almost let myself sink beneath it, let the current of grief and shame drag me down where it wants me—into the dark, into silence, into a place where I don’t have to keep pretending I can carry this weight. It would be easier there, easier to stop fighting, easier to stop trying. But the thought terrifies me as much as it tempts me. Because if I let myself sink, if I disappear under it, then they win—my father, my uncle, the monsters who set all of this in motion. And maybe that’s what I deserve, but it’s not what Reign deserved. It’s not what Berk deserves. Still, the pull is strong, and for a heartbeat too long, I teeter on the edge of surrender.
Then Ronan bursts through the doorway like a storm breaking apart the suffocating silence. The air shifts with him, charged, alive with the raw energy he always carries, even battered and broken. He’s in clean clothes now—jeans and a shirt that cling awkwardly to the stiffness of his frame, the fabric tugging where hestill favors his side. No amount of laundering or fresh cotton can hide the truth: he’s hurting. His body is screaming, but my twin has never let pain keep him down. Not once.
His pupils are blown wide, dark and bottomless, a sure sign Emerson’s pumped him full of something heavy to keep him upright. Yet, he looks more alive than I’ve seen him since the night we shattered. There’s a feral gleam in his eyes, a dangerous edge that tells me he’s running on more than medication—he’s running on fury, vengeance, and the bone-deep refusal to stay down.
Ronan isn’t subtle, never has been. Subtlety doesn’t exist in his vocabulary. He doesn’t pause in the doorway, doesn’t waste time with words or hesitation. His steps aren’t clean—there’s a hitch to them, a guarded stiffness, like every stride pulls at fresh stitches. He crosses the room in a few strides, his presence a storm front bearing down on me, and then his fist slams into my chest. The impact is brutal, a sharp crack of knuckles against bone that knocks the air out of my lungs and forces me back on my ass. The ache reverberates deep, rattling ribs and heart alike, and for a second, I can’t even breathe. It’s not just a hit—it’s a message. A demand. A jolt meant to snap me out of the spiral I’ve been drowning in.
The sting lingers, but it’s the intensity in his eyes, the fire behind the punch that lands harder than the strike itself.
He sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, hand hovering near his side for a split second before he shoves it back down. “Get your shit together,” Ronan snarls, his voice sharp enough to cut, the weight of his fury slamming into me harder than his fist did. His eyes are blazing, dark fire burning behind them, and for a moment Ifeel like I’m staring at a reflection of my rage—only his isn’t buried under guilt, it’s forged into steel. There’s no sympathy in him right now, not even a flicker. He doesn’t leave room for weakness, doesn’t give me the luxury of collapsing under the pressure bearing down on me.
“This isn’t the time for a fucking pity party,” he continues, voice rising, each word punctuated like a hammer against my skull. “You dug the hole, Ro. Now you either lie in it and rot, or start filling it back in.” His glare doesn’t waver, doesn’t blink, and the truth in his words hits harder than the insult. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
The words are brutal, jagged, ripping through me with the same mercilessness as a blade carving flesh, but I know my twin. I know the fury is a mask, a shield he wields because he doesn’t know how else to reach me. They’re meant to shake me, to jolt me back before the spiral drags me so far down, I can’t crawl out. And buried under the growl, under the brutal honesty, I hear it—the break in his voice, the crack he can’t quite disguise.
His tone shifts, still sharp but edged with a harder truth, heavier, a kind of honesty that can’t be wrapped in anger. “It’s Berk you need to be making it up to.” The name lands like a stone in my chest, reverberating through every crack already there. He doesn’t flinch when he says it. He doesn’t soften. But I can see it in the flicker of his gaze, the way his voice fractures just slightly—that he means it more than anything. This isn’t about me. Not anymore. It’s about her. It’s always been about her.
Before I can respond, before I can drag in another breath past the ache Ronan left in my chest, Emerson steps in behind him. His presence is unique—measured where Ronan is explosive, deliberate where my twin is reckless—but no less imposing. Every movement he makes feels intentional, like each step forward is its own quiet strike.
Ronan keeps us locked beneath his glare, unblinking, as if he’s daring either of us to breathe wrong. The silence stretches, heavy enough to crush, until he finally speaks again. His voice is low, controlled, but there’s venom coiled in every syllable, a venom I’ve only heard from him when blood is about to spill. “Both of you better work your asses off to help her.” There’s no room for misinterpretation—no softness, no space for hesitation. It isn’t advice, and it isn’t a demand. It’s a verdict handed down with the weight of absolute conviction. His stare doesn’t waver, a razor-sharp slash of fury that feels less like a look and more like a blade pressed to our throats. It doesn’t just cut—it brands, sears itself into bone, leaving a scar neither of us will ever escape. “Whatever she needs us to be…” The words trail, but the silence after them is louder than anything else in the room. I hear the weight of it, feel the blade of it pressing against the back of my throat, a threat and a vow tangled together so tightly they’re indistinguishable. “…that’s what we’ll fucking be.”
When Ronan finishes speaking, it’s like a switch flips inside me. One moment I’m drowning in guilt, the next I’m clawing my way out of it, rage and resolve slamming into me so hard it feels like a second heartbeat. Just like that, I’m onboard. I’ll bleed for her. Ripmy soul out piece by piece if that’s what it takes. I’ll burn the whole fucking empire to ash and put every bastard in the ground for what they did to her—for what they did to Reign—for what they turned me into.
Ronan’s eyes flash, that unmistakable fire sparking alive, and I see it—the reflection of my madness burning back at me. It’s the moment we’ve always shared, that bond twins can’t break, when the violence in our veins aligns and the air between us thrums with the same hunger. He catches it instantly, that second where I’m no longer just broken—I’m synced. His lips curl into a wicked smirk, the kind that promises blood, and he says, low and sharp, “There you are.”
My chest tightens, not from fear, but from the recognition of what I’ve buried for too long. He tilts his head, grin cutting, and cruel across his bruised face. “This is the version of you she needs, brother. Let him out to play. She doesn’t just want it—she deserves it.”
For half a heartbeat, doubt flickers, the ghost of guilt still clawing to be heard. But Ronan sees it—he always does. He clamps a firm hand on my arm, grounding me, forcing me to meet the feral certainty in his gaze. “You stepped over a line,” he admits, his tone blunt but not condemning. “But she’s a fighter, Ro. Stronger than either of us ever gave her credit for. She’ll see it. She’ll know you’re fighting for her. For Reign.” His words hit deep, and when his attention flickers to Emerson, I follow. Em’s eyes are shadowed, haunted by nightmares that don’t fade even in daylight. Ronan doesn’t hesitate; his voice is rough but sure. “Both of you.”
Then the shift happens. That dangerous gleam returns full force to his face, his grin stretching into something unhinged, almost cartoonish in its promise of chaos. He rubs his hands together like a man about to unwrap a gift, his voice a low growl of anticipation. “Now… let’s start with a present.”
Chapter Six
Ronan
“Now… let’s start with a present.”
The words leave my mouth with that feral edge I can’t quite hide, but none of them know the storm already brewing in me before I walked into this room.
Because just moments ago, I was stretched out on Emerson’s table, his hands steady as he threaded me back together. The sting of the needle tugging my skin closed was nothing compared to the tearing inside my chest. He didn’t speak much—Em never does when the weight’s too heavy—but his jaw was locked, eyes narrowed like if he let a single word slip, all of it would come crashing down on us. When he was done, he didn’t bother with questions. Just pushed a syringe into me, something strong enough to blunt the edges, and tossed a small pile of pills into my hand like it was routine. I downed them all without hesitation. Pain doesn’t matter. Not when Berk is still out there.
The chemicals dulled my body, left me floating—but my head stayed razor-sharp. And every clear thought had one name carved into it. Berk.
For thirty minutes, I sat there and let my mind do what it does best—calculate, predict, track. I sorted through every move, every thread of her rage I could tug at until I found the pattern. She wouldn’t hide. She wouldn’t take the time to heal. She’d hunt. She’dgo for blood and carve her pain into the flesh of the people who deserved it. A message that would scream louder than words ever could.
And if I’m right—and I know I am—she doesn’t see how perfectly her choices are lining up. Like fate’s been setting the board for her, and she’s about to sweep the pieces clean. She’s got a head start, sure, but I’ll cut straight to her ending. Because I know her. I know the way her body will tremble once the adrenaline spikes and then burns out. It’s the only thing that quiets the roar inside.
But I can’t slip free of my brothers yet. They’re watching me, waiting for me to bolt, and I can’t afford the distraction. So, before I go after her, before I chase down the trail I can sense, we’ll start here. With our own strike. Our own message. Something brutal enough to echo back to the bastards who built this empire, a promise they can’t ignore.