Berk will see it. She’ll recognize how far the line runs, spot the patterns beneath the polish.
I glance towards the hallway. The shower has stopped. The muted hush of voices inside the bathroom drifts into the quiet of the house. Emerson’s low murmur. Berk’s softer tone. They’re clinging to each other, trying to stay upright, and it hammers into me again how much we all stand to lose.
I tap the screen and nudge Ronan. “We should show her this the second they’re done.”
He nods once, jaw clenched, the muscle ticking. “It’s not enough,” he says.
“No,” I agree, “but it’s more than we had an hour ago.”
It’s a crack in the wall. A sliver of light breaking through in the dark, and right now, a sliver is the only thing that keeps us from falling apart.
The bathroom door cracks open, spilling steam into the hallway before Berkley and Emerson step out. They look… steadier. Not rested, not healed, but scrubbed clean enough to breathe again. Her damp hair clings in streaks of purple and blonde along her neck, droplets tracing slow lines down her collarbone. Emerson’s shirt is wrinkled and half-damp, sticking to him where he holds her close, one arm locked around her as if letting go isn’t an option he’s willing to entertain.
Berk leans into him without thinking, head brushing his shoulder, her eyes heavy but clearer than they were an hour ago. Emerson presses a soft kiss to her temple—careful, lingering—and I can see the way her body melts into him for that heartbeat of contact.
He lifts a tied-off trash bag in his free hand. “I’m going to toss this outside and burn it.”
Before he takes a single step, Ronan lunges in and snatches the bag from him with a disgusted grunt. “Absolutelynot. This scent is going to haunt me forever. You stay. We found something you need to hear.”
Emerson’s hand twitches, ready to swing, but Ronan dips in first and kisses Berk—quick, warm, a spark of connection they both needed—then leans in and plants a fast kiss on Emerson’s cheek just to piss him off. Emerson swears, half growl, half laugh, and takes a swipe at him. Ronan dodges with a smug grin and jogs down the hall, the trash bag swinging wildly behind him.
A breathy sound leaves Berk—something between a laugh and a sigh. When she walks into the war room, she doesn’t hesitate; she slides into the chair beside me like she belongs in its orbit. The glow from the monitors washes over her face, catching the tiny flecks of exhaustion beneath her eyes and the steel blooming underneath.
Her hand rests against my thigh as she leans forward—not intentionally, just grounding herself—and a pulse of heat flickers through me.
“What did you find?” she asks, voice low, steady, focused.
I drag the salvaged data closer. “Not a lot survived. But this did.” I tap the only viable entry, zooming in on the transfer record. “A wire transfer from a shell company. Horizon Logistics. Ever heard of it?”
Berk’s brows draw together, her lips pressing into a thin line. She leans in, studying the name with a frown like she’s trying to force recognition that refuses to come.
“No,” she says after a long moment. “I’ve never seen it.”
Her fingers hover over the keyboard, tapping once, twice, before she sits back and folds her arms, thinking. Emerson moves behind her, placing both hands on her shoulders, his thumbs rubbing slow circles into her muscles. She exhales, leaning back into him instinctively, and he bends down to kiss the top of her head again.
Ronan returns just then, shaking off the ghost of the trash bag smell and sliding in beside us. His eyes lock instantly onto the screen.
Berk’s fingers start tapping again, faster this time. “If it didn’t run through their usual channels, then it’s new. Something… hidden.” She turns her head slightly, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion weighing her down. “Which means it matters.”
I nod. “Yeah. It does.”
She shifts closer to the monitor, studying the faint remnants of the file with a narrowing focus, as if she’s trying to peel back the residue of secrets she hasn’t figured out yet. Her jaw tightens. Her breath draws slowly. She hates the feeling of something slipping past her, even when the information’s buried deep enough that no one could have caught it.
“This isn’t familiar,” she says. “But the way it’s structured… that’s deliberate. Someone spent a lot of time burying this. Which means it’s important enough to keep invisible.”
Ronan leans back, arms crossed, watching her with a hunter’s stillness. “A threat or another secret.”
Emerson squeezes her shoulders. “Either way, we follow it.”
Berk nods once, a spark catching behind her tired eyes. “We will.”
She may not recognize the shell company, but she knows what to do with a crack in their armor. Whatever Horizon Logistics is hiding, it won’t stay hidden for long. Not from her. Not from us.
We keep working long after the sun sets and the sky turns the color of bruised steel. The war room hums around us, every monitor flickering with lines of code, half-finished searches, dead leads we refuse to abandon. Emerson sits forward withhis elbows braced on his knees, muttering possibilities under his breath. Ronan curses softly every time a trace collapses into nothing. Berk, stubborn as hell, is tapping so fast it sounds like she’s fighting the keyboard.
We are all strung tight, nerves scraped raw.
Hours pass like that, us pressed shoulder to shoulder, swapping theories and snapping them together into a jagged and desperate puzzle.