“Try cross-referencing Jory with Horizon Logistics again,” Emerson says, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“I did,” Ronan mutters. “Came back clean.” His jaw flexes. “Too clean.”
“Which means dirty,” Berk murmurs, refusing to look away from her screen.
“Exactly,” I say, jotting notes on a scrap of paper. “Nobody scrubs that well unless they’re hiding something.”
The air tastes of frustration, sharp and stale on my tongue. My eyes burn, gritty from exhaustion. None of us have slept since the day before, and even then, it was only for a few miserable hours.
Berk gives a sharp sigh and leans back—too far. Her chair shrieks across the floor as it tips, and she yelps, flailing for balance.
I’m moving before she can hit the ground.
“Easy,” I catch her by the waist, pulling the chair upright with one hand and her with the other. She ends up half sitting on my lap, breath stuttering, eyes wide.
“Damn it,” she mutters sheepishly.
I shake my head, more fond than annoyed. “That’s it.”
“That’s what?” she asks, still catching her breath, clutching onto me.
I slide an arm under her legs and another behind her back and lift her straight out of the chair. She lets out a startled squeak, hands gripping my shoulders.
“Rowan,” she protests, breathless. “Put me—”
“Nope,” I adjust her easily, settling her against my chest. “That’s enough for tonight, princess.”
“I’m not—” she tries again.
“You are literally falling out of chairs,” Ronan says, dragging a hand down his face. “Let him play hero, Pix.”
Emerson nods, pushing away from the desk. “We’re all running on fumes. You especially.”
Berk scowls at the three of us, but it’s soft, exhausted, with no fire behind it. “I can still work.”
“Sure, you can,” I say, kissing her lips as she squirms weakly. “But you’re not.”
She swats at my chest in slow motion, her wrist limp with fatigue. “I hate all of you.”
Emerson snorts. “No, you don’t.”
“I do,” she insists. “Right now, I absolutely do.”
Ronan raises a brow. “Mm-hmm. And how much will you hate us once you’re horizontal, warming our cocks?”
Emerson and I bark out laughs, and she scoffs with a mock-offended huff, playing up the fake shock even though she knows we’re right. “Fine,” she says, lips twitching. “Maybe… slightly less.”
We trade a look over her head—the kind that admits she’s fraying and we’re keeping her intact with whatever thread remains.
As I carry her down the hall, her fingers curl weakly into my shirt. She presses her cheek to my jaw, breathing me in like she’s finally letting herself be safe. Behind us, Ronan puts the computers to sleep and gathers the loose papers, Emerson closeat his shoulder. The war room falls quiet, leaving only the weight of our exhaustion.
“You’re warm,” she murmurs sleepily.
I smile into her hair. “Convenient, since you’re freezing.”
When we reach the bedroom, she tugs lightly at the collar of my shirt. “Rowan?”
“Yeah, baby?”