Chapter One
Berkley
The silence swallows the drive home. Not the kind that soothes, but the kind that crawls beneath your skin and settles deep, heavy, and unrelenting. The hum of the van’s engine is the only sound, a low, strained growl that matches the weight pressing down on all of us. An acrid stench of smoke clings to my clothes, burning the back of my throat, mingling with the faint copper tang of blood that still lingers in my senses. The fire’s glow fades in the distance behind us, but its reflection still flickers in the rearview mirror like a ghost that refuses to let go.
Emerson’s hands are locked on the steering wheel, knuckles white, veins drawn tight beneath his skin. His jaw flexes over and over, a silent mantra of fury and guilt. Every so often, his foot slams harder on the gas, pushing the van faster, as if he could outrun what we just left behind. The old engine groans under the strain, but he doesn’t care. I can tell by the set of his shoulders that he’s replaying Kimber’s face in his mind—the tears, the fear, the helplessness. Her small voice echoing through the phone, asking for help that came too late.
The twins are in the back, shadows of themselves. Rowan stares out the side window, his reflection fractured by the glass, eyes unfocused but burning with restrained violence. He’s too still, too quiet, the kind of quiet that builds before a storm. Ronan sits beside him, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair over and over. Every once in a while, his lips move like he’s talking to himself, praying, cursing, hell maybe both.
I sit between them, the weight of their grief pressing in on me from every side. The air feels too thick to breathe, heavy with smoke, sweat, and the metallic tang of everything we lost tonight. Dahlia’s last breath replays behind my eyes, her fall, the sound her body made when it hit the floor—it won’t stop echoing. And Kimber’s terrified face burns just as bright, etched into my mind in cruel, perfect detail.
I wipe at my face, not realizing I’ve been crying until the wet streaks smear across my hands. My throat burns, not from tears, but from all the screaming—rage, grief, the helplessness clawing at my chest. Bryce’s sneer flashes behind my eyes, the way he pressed that detonator without hesitation, proud of his own destruction. Then Dean’s face replaces his—calm, smiling, cold. The promise in his voice wasn’t an idle threat; I could hear the truth in it. He meant every word.
That’s what chills me the most, because I know better than any of them what kind of danger Kimber is in. I’ve lived it. Felt the fear of being trapped, the helplessness of waiting for someone who never comes. I know the things men like them are capable of. What they enjoy. The thought of Kimber—young, terrified, alone—with them makes bile rise in my throat. I press a hand against my chest, trying to steady my breathing, but the air feels too thin, and all I can think of is that we’re running out of time.
Outside, the roads are empty, the world eerily quiet except for the distant hum of sirens behind us. The sky is bruised black and orange, clouds of smoke still drifting like a storm that hasn’t passed. Ash has fallen lightly across the windshield, a false snow that doesn’t melt. The flames are now miles behind us, but I swear I can still feel their heat, licking at my skin, whispering reminders of what’s been taken.
When the van finally crests the last hill before home, I can’t shake the dread coiling in my gut. Kimber’s not at thehouse—we saw that in the video. Dean has her. And Bryce… God only knows where he’s gone.
The headlights cut through the dark as Emerson slows, the old tires crunching over gravel. No one speaks. There’s nothing left to say. Silence is a living thing, wrapping itself around us until all I can hear is the pounding of my heartbeat.
We left the warehouse in flames, Dahlia’s body burning, and we left Kimber in the hands of monsters.
Home isn’t safe anymore. It’s just the next battlefield waiting to ignite. And burn it will. Everything they’ve touched deserves to. But first, we have to face the wreckage they left behind.
The van slows as we approach the house. My chest tightens until I can hardly breathe, expecting the worst—that familiar orange glow, the sky lit like the end of the world. But there’s nothing. No fire. No smoke. Just the eerie stillness that comes after violence.
We pull into the driveway and step out one by one; the gravel crunching under our boots sounds too loud in the quiet. The house looms dark against the backdrop of night, the windows black holes where warmth used to live. We all just stand there for a beat, staring. The silence between us is loaded, a shared understanding that whatever waits inside isn’t going to be good. There could be traps, motion sensors, or someone watching from the shadows. But we can’t afford to hesitate either.
The war room is our backbone—the center of every move we’ve made. If they found it, we’re blind. And if they’ve compromised it, everything we’ve built could crumble.
I start forward, but a hand wraps around my wrist, halting me. Emerson’s voice is low and steady, though I can hear the edge of fear underneath. “Wait. This could be a trap. Let us lead.”
I meet his eyes; the glare rises sharper than I intend, but I can’t help it. After everything, the idea that I need protecting grates on every raw nerve I have left. He reads it instantly. Without a word, he releases my wrist.
We move together, but I take point anyway.
The front door creaks open on damaged hinges, the air inside thick and stale. The living room is pure chaos. Furniture overturned, cushions gutted, shards of broken glass glittering like ice on the floor. An off scent lingers beneath something coppery and wrong. My stomach twists.
Rowan sweeps left, Ronan right, their movements precise, controlled. Emerson follows me deeper into the house. We move in silence, only the sound of our boots shifting through debris and the faint crackle of the comms as we check the rooms. The kitchen’s worse. Cabinet doors hang crooked, drawers spill open, every inch of space violated.
The war room.
When we reach it, I brace for the worst, expecting it to be gutted like the rest of the house. But when we check the bedroom, the wall’s sealed. The door slides open; the hum of the equipment greets us like a heartbeat. Everything is still in place. The screens flicker with static, but they’re intact. Untouched. Relief hits me so hard my knees almost buckle.
Then we check the rest of the house.
In Kimber’s room, a chair lies toppled near the entrance, one leg splintered. The corner of the desk bears a smear of blood, faint but unmistakable. Her panic button sits a few feet away, perfectly visible, untouched—like she saw it and didn’t get the chance to use it. My heart plummets. She fought. Hard. But she never stood a chance.
Rowan curses under his breath, fury shaking through his frame. Emerson runs a hand through his hair, eyes closing for a moment as if he can will the images away.
Ronan sweeps into the room moments after us with an update. “I think I found the reason they didn’t burn the house. They tried to tap us,” he mutters, voice grim. “I found three listening devices—kitchen, living room, bedroom. They didn’t get to the war room, though. It’s clean.”
I nod, forcing myself to focus. There’s no time for grief, no space for anger, not yet. “Pack everything,” I tell them. “We’re moving out.”
Emerson straightens. “To where?”
I don’t answer. Not yet. The less they know, the better—for now. I turn back toward the hall, eyes scanning for movement, for traps, for anything that might still be here.