A hidden vein.
A map to the men who still have Kimber.
“We’re going to tear it apart,” I say.
“Starting now.” Ronan says it like a death sentence, low and rough, his tone carrying the weight of a man who intends to make good on every syllable. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders, and mutters, “If this little shit thinks he can hide, he’s about to learn what a real purge looks like.”
Then he dives in.
His fingers blur over the keys, each tap slicing another thread from Jory’s digital life. I watch the screens shift and stutter as he forces every firewall, every encryption layer, every attempt at anonymity to kneel. Emerson hovers behind him, jaw tight, the muscle ticking in his cheek the only sign he is seconds from breaking something. Rowan stands by the window, arms folded, eyes locked on the door like he’s imagining Jory walking through it so he can tear his throat out.
The tension in the room is a living thing.
I drift behind Ronan, leaning over his shoulder as windows pop open and data cascades across the monitors. “Pull everything,” I say, voice low, steady, controlled. The opposite of how I feel inside. “Bank logs. Travel history. Any device he’s synced to.”
Ronan snorts softly but keeps typing. “Baby, I’m pulling his fucking soul out through the screen.” A savage grin cuts across his face. “And I’m not stopping until I find where he pisses, sleeps, and breathes.”
Part of me wants to snap, wants to push us into the street and toward Jory’s front door, but I don’t. Not yet. Because if we go in blind, Kimber may pay the price. We may pay the price. And I refuse to let that happen. Not again.
Hours pass. They slip by in long, slow drags, but Ronan doesn’t relent. He drags Jory’s life into the open and nails it to the wall for us to study.
Old addresses. Work history. The burner accounts tied to the shell company. Venmo payments that never should haveexisted. A hidden stash of encrypted messages that Ronan cracks with a growl of triumph.
“Got you, you sneaky little asshole,” he mutters. “Thought you were smart. Should’ve wished for a brain instead.”
The last piece drops into place just as the sky outside turns bruised and dark. Jory’s routines fall into a neat pattern. His hiding spots line up like dominoes. His weaknesses glow like fresh targets.
Ronan leans back, wiping a hand over his face, then flicks his eyes up to mine. They gleam like a predator seeing movement in the brush. “Nightfall,” he says, voice vicious. “That’s when we go.” He lifts his chin, a feral grin spreading, “…we won’t be leaving empty-handed.”
My pulse spikes.
Because night is our domain.
Night is when monsters like Jory learn what real fear tastes like.
And tonight, we are coming for him.
Chapter Seven
Emerson
Berk moves through the room with a quiet purpose that makes my pulse hitch. The shadows stretch long across the walls, and everything about her shifts with the falling light. She isn’t frantic, not overwhelmed. She’s sharpening.
Night is when we hunt. And she’s already slipping into that part of herself that terrifies the men who made her this way.
She finishes arranging the call for our next vehicle swap, her voice low and clipped—one burner to another, one shadow handing off to the next. Watching her work is like watching a master thief crack a safe without ever glancing at her hands.
Ronan scrolls through Jory’s criminal history on the center monitor. Nothing impressive. Petty theft. Vandalism. Minor cybercrimes that probably made him feel important for five seconds until someone bigger stole his spine and handed him a job cleaning digital footprints for monsters.
My jaw flexes.
People like that—cowards—are sometimes worse than the ones pulling the trigger. They enable horror. They help hide it.
But when I look toward Berk again, that thought dissolves.
She’s opening the drawer beneath the desk, brushing her fingers against the familiar leather case inside. She lifts it out with slow reverence, like she’s holding a holy relic instead of a collection of weapons.
Her throwing knives.