“Morning,” she murmurs, her thumb brushing under his eye. “You doing okay?”
He tries to nod like it’s nothing, but she holds his face still until he’s forced to meet her gaze. Something softens in his expression, and he kisses her palm. “As good as I can be. Promise.”
She studies him a beat longer, searching for cracks, then nods and slips into her seat. She pulls the keyboard toward her like she’s about to go to war with the world.
Before she can dive in, I step forward. “Ronan and I will make breakfast. You two stay.”
She looks up at me, and something warm flickers behind her exhaustion. Gratitude. Trust. A tiny sliver of peace in a sea of panic.
I bend down and kiss her forehead, lingering in her scent. Ronan kisses her after me, his fingers caressing the back of her neck before he lets her go.
Emerson watches us with glassy eyes that he would never admit are glassy.
We leave the war room, door clicking shut behind us, and move toward the tiny kitchen of this borrowed safe house. The house is old, creaking with every shift of weight, but a place no one would ever look twice at. Perfect for ghosts like us.
Ronan cracks his knuckles and runs a hand through his hair before looking at me.
“Breakfast,” he mutters.
“Breakfast,” I echo, already stepping aside.
Our mom taught us both how to cook, but Ronan took to it in a way I never did. I can handle a handful of dishes and nail them every time—but Ronan? Give him a fridge, a stove, and a challenge, and he’ll figure it out. So I let him lead, because this is his lane, and right now I trust him with it.
Feeding each other is a different kind of battlefield. Strength looks like eggs and toast this morning. If we’re going to tear the world apart and bring Kimber home, we have to keep the center of our family standing.
And Berkley is that center.
She always has been.
She always will be.
Chapter Six
Berkley
As much as I want my men glued to me every minute of the day, it’s not fair to use sex as a distraction from the absolute nightmare we are living in. That’s the only reason I turned the twins down earlier. Honestly, it felt like ripping out a vital organ with a plastic spoon. Denying them might qualify as a war crime.
The thought alone makes a wicked little smile curl my lips. The twins are walking sin. They ruin me in stereo. The things they can do when they team up on me should be illegal.
Naturally, Emerson notices the exact expression the second it forms. “I know that smirk,” he says, sliding closer until he’s in my space. “Did you get a good dicking this morning, baby?”
He sounds like he’s about to pin a gold star on his own chest for a job well done.
I snort. “No, actually. I did not.”
He blinks. Then blinks again. His eyes sweep over me like he’s checking for stab wounds or possession. His voice drops into full overprotective-boyfriend concern, the kind that means he’s two seconds away from checking my pulse.
“You okay? Because you turning us down is… concerning.” He looks startled, like he expects the apocalypse to crack open the ceiling because I said no to sex. And honestly? Fair. It should shock him. My libido is basically a caffeinated feral cat.
God, these men. They’re turning me soft. I used to wake up ready to sharpen knives and end dynasties. I used to fantasize about slaughtering entire trafficking rings before breakfast. NowI wake up wanting to cuddle.Cuddle. The universe should smite me for weakness.
I mean, sure, I think about killing Bryce and Dean every single day, and also anyone who has ever emailed them, or stood next to them, or breathed in their direction. But before all this domesticity, I used to think bigger. Whole criminal networks. Elaborate revenge fantasies. Calling cards.
My calling card specifically being hot dog octopuses. The perfect balance of absurdity and psychological warfare. I could have been a legend.
Berkley Monroe, professional wiener slayer.
By the time that mental image hits, my smile is downright feral.