“Liar,” I whisper into her hair. “You always make those little sounds when you’re waking up.”
“Do not,” she argues, which only proves my point.
Ronan traces a slow line down her spine with the backs of his fingers, and her breath hitches—barely, but enough.
“Good morning, kitten,” he says, lips brushing her shoulder. “Time to open those pretty eyes.”
She tightens her arm around my waist instead, refusing.
I slide my hand up her back, fingers threading gently into her hair. “Come on, princess,” I coax softly. “Let us see you.”
She peeks up finally, her eyes heavy and warm, cheeks still flushed from sleep. She blinks at us, pouty and perfect.
“There you are,” Ronan says, his smile going soft around the edges just for her.
She groans again, embarrassed, and hides her face in my chest.
I chuckle and tilt her face with a gentle hand.
“No hiding,” I whisper. “Not from us.”
She’s ours in a way that feels sacred.
Ronan leans in, brushing her hair off her shoulder with a tenderness that doesn’t match the devilish glint in his eyes. “Let us wake you up the right way,” he whispers against her skin.
She hums a sound that catches low in her throat, warm and wanting, and for a heartbeat I think she’s going to melt right back into us. She shifts again, burrowing between Ronan and me like she’s trying to hide. Her breath fans across my chest, rough and uneven, and the morning light cuts soft lines across her face.
“You know I love you guys, right?”
Her words land like a whisper and a punch at the same time. Ronan and I answer instantly, overlapping without thought.
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
She nods, a tiny motion that looks like it’s holding her together. “Good. Then you know that if I turn you down, it’s coming from a place of love.” She tries to smile, and it comes out a shaky little giggle. For a second she looks like the girl she used to be years ago before everything went to hell. Before our fathers stripped our lives bare. Before they took Reign. Before they broke Berkley in ways we’re still uncovering, one wound at a time.
She tries to slip away, but we both grab her because losing her warmth is something neither of us tolerates easily. She laughs again, breathless, as our hands slide over her hips, trying to pull her back into bed. But she’s determined, wiggling out from our hold like a sneaky little fox.
“As much as I want to stay in this bed all day,” she says, brushing hair from her eyes, “and as much as I want to let you three do every filthy thing I’ve imagined for years… I can’t. My mind keeps drifting…” She trails off, voice thinning like it can’t carry the weight of the truth.
She doesn’t need to finish.
Kimber.
The room shifts with her words. Heavy. Quiet. Real. The kind of silence that makes your ribs ache.
I swallow hard and sit up, meeting her eyes. “Then let us take care of you in another way.”
Ronan moves beside me, stretching like a cat with violence simmering under his skin. He gives me a look that says he’s two minutes from breaking something if he doesn’t channel that fury into something useful.
We get dressed with a familiar, quiet efficiency. She pulls on one of our hoodies, sleeves swallowing her hands. I grab her fingers as we move toward the hallway, and she grabs Ronan’s, creating a chain that feels like a promise.
When we enter the war room, Emerson’s already there, looking like he hasn’t moved in hours. The glow from the monitors paints his face in cold blue light, making the exhaustion beneath his eyes even darker. His shoulders slump as if the world is pressing its full weight on him, and hell, maybe it is. Kimber is his blood. His responsibility. His heart.
Berkley doesn’t hesitate. She crawls into his lap, settling in like that’s where she belongs. Emerson breathes her in, hand rising to cradle the back of her head as she kisses him gently. It isn’t hunger. It is survival.
“Morning, baby,” he whispers, voice rough and frayed.