He cups my cheek with his free hand, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he’s wiping away a bruise only he can see.
“You are the strongest person I have ever met,” he says, voice low and fierce. “And nothing about you scares me.”
I swallow once, the warrior in my chest lifting her head, stretching her claws because she loves him too.
“Good,” I whisper back, “because I’m done being muted. And I need to know you can handle that.”
His thumb drags along my jaw until his hand settles at my throat, the grip firm and grounding, like he’s holding the reins. “I can handle all of you.” Heat pulses through me—slow, dangerous. Emerson doesn’t look away. His eyes stay locked on mine, unflinching. Not afraid of the damage, of the rage. Not afraid of the storm he knows lives under my skin. And for the first time since Kimber vanished, certainty settles deep in my bones.
Focus. Fuel. Fury sharpened enough to kill gods.
The darkness inside me is awake again.
And everyone who took something from us is about to learn exactly what that means.
Our foreheads stay pressed together, the rest of the room blurring at the edges. Emerson’s breath fans across my lips, warm and familiar, something that feels like home even though nothing around us resembles it. His fingers slide along my jaw, steady and gentle in a way that splinters a brittle place in my chest.
He kisses me again, soft but deliberate, a tether pulling me back from the storm roaring inside me.
“Stop letting me distract you,” he whispers, the words brushing against my mouth. “I’m in my head about Kimber. And I’m worried about you. About all of us. But I love you. Forever.” Another kiss, followed by a quiet, tired laugh. “Just try to get rid of me. Can’t be done.”
He says it like a joke, but I feel the truth of it sinking into my bones. It wraps around my heart like armor. For a moment I let myself lean into him, let myself feel the safety I refuse to askfor. The world outside is a battlefield. Emerson’s touch is the eye of the storm.
When we pull apart, the air feels fresh. Thicker. Charged.
Ronan and Rowan slip into the room, quiet as ghosts. They don’t comment—there’s no need. Their silence is deliberate, respectful, a rare restraint from two men who usually meet emotion with snark or hunger or both. It tells me they heard everything. It also tells me they’re giving me space to breathe before we dive back into blood and chaos.
A second is all I need.
A switch flips inside my skull—one I know far too well. The grief, the fear, the guilt still churns under the surface, but they’re no longer driving the wheel. Purpose takes its place. Focus. The version of me that survived things no one should survive stretches awake like a creature shaking off sleep.
My fingers hover above the keys again, itching to move. Every circuit in my brain sparks alive. The world narrows until all I can see is the hunt. Kimber’s terrified face flickers in my mind. Bryce’s smirk. Dean’s voice slithering through that call.
A low growl hums in my chest.
I sit up straight, crack my knuckles, and let a slow, dangerous smile spread across my face.
“All right, boys,” I say, letting my voice drip with venom and promise. “Let’s find someone to kill tonight.”
Ronan’s grin stretches slow and feral, a smile that flashes teeth and trouble. The dim light catches on the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, turning them predatory. The tattoos on his forearm flex with the twitch of muscle beneath them, the ink seeming to snarl right along with him.
Rowan’s eyes sharpen next, gold but cold as frost. That calculating violence I recognize slides into place behind them like a blade sliding home. His jaw ticks once, the tendons in his neck tightening, the faint scar near his collarbone shifting as hestraightens. He looks like a man already mapping every kill shot in the room.
Emerson doesn’t smile at all. He just exhales, slow and grounded, and nods once. The movement makes the dark stubble on his jaw drag shadows across his cheekbones. His eyes—a deep, molten brown—darken until there’s barely any light left in them. A vow settles in the set of his shoulders, in the way his tattooed bicep flexes as he reaches for the keyboard. Every inch of him screams resolve and buried fury.
Together, they look like war given flesh. Like violence tailored into three bodies, each crafted differently, all devastatingly focused. And every one of them is ready to burn the world for me, for Kimber, for our family.
How I turned the twins down this morning is beyond me. Truly. My cheese isn’t just slipping off my cracker—it’s doing cartwheels off the edge of the damn plate. And definitely not in the good way… if thereisa good way. Because looking at them now, both carved from heat and danger, tattoos peeking from collars, shoulders broad enough to block out the apocalypse… yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m drooling regret into my lap.
Ronan catches the look instantly. Because, of course he does. I swear that man has a built-in Berk radar that pings every time I have an inappropriate thought—which is always. He drags his chair right up beside mine, brushing my thigh, all warm and infuriating. Then he leans in and presses a soft kiss to the tip of my nose like I’m something precious instead of a weapon with legs.
Before I can melt into a puddle of poor decisions, he gently tilts my chair back toward the keyboard and the plate of food I’ve ignored.
“Let’s take turns eating and searching,” he murmurs, shifting the keyboard into his lap with practiced control. Hisfingers flex once, veins standing out along his forearm as he settles in. “You eat first.”
He lifts the plate and places it into my hands, steady as stone, then immediately starts tearing into code like he’s trying to break its spine. His brows knit, jaw tight, tattoos shifting along his forearm as his muscles work beneath them.
I shove a bite of food into my mouth, chewing while keeping my eyes glued to my screens. “I’m tracing back the last drop from Jory,” I mutter around a mouthful. “If we can find him on camera, we can do a reverse image search. Or pull the surrounding street feeds. Sometimes those small shops keep footage longer than the big systems.”