We become human, breakable, and willing to kneel if she asked.
We would burn the world for her.
And with one gentle press of her lips, she reminds us why.
Once she finishes looking between us—measuring, weighing, testing us the way only Berk can—she nods to herself. It’s a tiny movement, barely a shift of her chin, but it feels like a battle flag being raised. Approval. Readiness. Resolve. For a moment, the room pauses around her, like even the walls know she’s the one who decides when the hunt begins.
Then her mouth tilts, wicked and bright, a spark catching dry tinder. “Let’s get this party started, yeah?”
She says it lightly, but there’s nothing light about her anymore. She isn’t the girl we knew growing up—and we’re not the boys we used to be. We’re older, harder, cut open by grief and honed by violence. Whatever we are now, whatever we’re becoming, we’re becoming it together.
We lock the house down tight, triple-checking windows and alarms, then load into the van. It groans under us like a dying animal. Rusted. Rattling. Smelling faintly of oil and burned rubber. I buckle in beside Berk, and the damn seatbelt sticks halfway. I have to punch the latch to make it click.
The ridiculousness of it all hits me, and I laugh under my breath. A laugh that’s created from exhaustion and adrenaline twisting together.
It grabs their attention instantly—three heads snapping toward me like wolves catching a scent.
I shake my head. “Relax. No danger. Just…” I gesture around us. “Berk. Where the hell do you find these shitty ass vans? And why are they always vans?”
The twin’s snort. Ronan mutters something crude about tetanus. Rowan shoots me a long-suffering glare in the rearview, but even he can’t hide the faint smirk tugging his mouth.
Berk sits beside me as if she’s perched on a throne instead of a decaying scrap heap. She crosses one leg over the other, her boots squeaking against the torn vinyl. “I’ll have you know,” she says, prim as a duchess, “these beauties are prized finds from the best junkyards around. Salvaged. Untraceable. Ugly as hell, but perfect.”
Her pride over these disasters warms my blackened heart.
I squeeze her knee, thumb brushing her thigh holster. “Fair. But seriously, when are you going to introduce us to these secret contacts of yours? Because whoever’s handing you keys to this apocalypse fleet deserves a medal.”
Her eyes flare, sharp and serious in a heartbeat. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
The twins laugh—loud and barking—but I feel the truth beneath the joke. Berk protects her people the way we protect her. Fiercely. Ruthlessly. Without apology.
She softens enough to add, “You’ll meet them one day. But not before Bryce and Dean are dead. I won’t risk anyone being connected to us while those two are still out there hunting.”
I lift both hands. “Got it. No pressure. You keep your secrets, baby.” But an idea has been rooting in my mind for days and now feels like as good a time as any to say it out loud. “Just thinking… when this is over, and we take a breather, maybe we start something official. A security firm. Investigations. Protection. Whatever the hell we want to call it.” I gesture around the van. “We already have the network. The contacts. The skill sets. Your tech brain. Ronan’s hacker shit. Rowan’srecon and tactics. My business background. And all of us have the muscle.”
The air shifts.
Rowan’s knuckles tighten on the wheel, jaw ticking as he imagines the possibilities. Ronan leans back, grinning like I just handed him a new toy he can break people with. Berk’s eyes flash bright—a spark of interest, calculating and hungry and curious.
The idea roots itself in all of us at once. I can feel it.
A future.
A real one.
Not the kind dictated by blood or legacy. Not the path carved by the beasts who raised us, but one we build ourselves. For us. Sharp. Powerful. Ours. And maybe—if we survive what’s coming—we walk out of the fire with a life worth claiming.
Berk squeezes my hand, as if she’s imprinting into my skin. “Em,” she says, her voice low and warm, “you’re so damn smart. I think you’re onto something.” The wink she gives me is quick, but it sparks with a promise that tethers me to her—even now, with everything burning down around us.
Normally, we’d spend weeks combing through every inch of a target’s world before going in. We’d learn their patterns: what time they left for work, how they held their keys, which foot they stepped with first when they got out of their car. We’d know the names of their neighbors’ dogs, the cars they drove, the daily rhythms that made them predictable.
Predictable means controllable.
Tonight is neither.
Tonight is a brutal gamble—tight with urgency and stitched through with fear.
We have hours. That’s it. Hours and scraps of intel Ronan barely dragged together by ripping into half the neighborhood’s Ring cameras. It’s impressive—but it’s messy, fractured footagestitched into a picture that’s only just holding together. My jaw tightens.