Ronan snorts behind her. Rowan mutters something like “unbelievable” under his breath.
Jory clings to her words like they’re a parachute. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I swear I’ll do better. I swear.”
She pretends to think about it, tapping another blade lightly against her thigh. “I think you deserve a second chance.”
Rowan mutters again. “Bullshit.”
She ignores him. “But you have to be smart about it, Jory. So smart. No more stupid choices. No more drop-offs for men who don’t care if you live or die.”
He nods frantically. “Yeah. Yes. I’ll do better. I swear. Just don’t hurt me anymore.”
She tilts her head, tapping the tape on his hands, slicing it just enough to give him movement. “If you step out of line,” she says softly. “If you lie again. If you so much as breathe in the wrong direction. I’ll know.”
He gulps. “I won’t. I promise.”
“And if I have to come back,” she adds, leaning close enough to brush her breath across his cheek. “I won’t finish you off the way you’re hoping, sweetheart.”
He shudders. Fully terrified. Fully convinced he has a lifeline.
Idiot.
We file out of the house with matching predatory grins. All of us except Berk. Her shoulders are tense; her mouth tight.
Ronan notices first. “What’s wrong, Pix?”
She slides her knives from the sheath in her boot and studies the gleaming blades with a glare sharp enough to cut bone. “Only one got dirty,” she says. “The other four are jealous.”
Ronan barks a laugh, probably scaring the neighbors if they’re awake. He leans against her with a wicked grin. “Don’t worry. Someone’s going to bleed like a stuck pig soon.”
Her expression shifts immediately. Her smile sharpens into something feral and beautiful. “Promise?”
“Promise,” he growls, eyes flicking to mine. “We’ll make sure you get to use all your knives.”
I shake my head, amused and turned on in equal measure. “The criminals around here should send out a prayer.”
Rowan snorts and pulls onto the main road. “A prayer won’t save them.”
Berk settles between us, tucking her knife case on her lap like a child hugging a favorite toy. Ronan catches her chin and kisses her forehead. I reach over and slide my hand onto hers.
She threads her fingers through mine and whispers, “He’ll lead us somewhere.”
I squeeze her hand. “He will. And we’ll be ready.”
Chapter Eight
Ronan
We swap the old van for a new one and—of course—it’s also a van. A truly hideous specimen this time. Rust eats through the white paint in blistered patches, and angry streaks of yellow slash across the side like someone tried to erase a crime and made it worse. The thing looks like it’s one good pothole away from losing a wheel, and somehow that just makes Berk smile.
That smile of hers is subtle, sly, the kind that slides in at the corner of her mouth like a secret she’s letting only us see. This is one of her jokes—the quiet ones, not for laughs but for meaning. A van that looks like it should have been scrapped ten years ago, but underneath the grime is everything we need. Hidden panels. Reinforced flooring. A removable plate under the back seat for storing explosives.
Classic Pixie.
I whistle low as I circle around the rust bucket. “Is this the new family car?”
“Absolutely,” she says with a straight face. “Luxury model. Vintage.”
“Vintage smells like feet and sadness.”