I end up draped across Emerson’s chest, my ear pressed to his heartbeat—steady, heavy, grounding. His arm curls around me, big hand spanning my ribs as if he’s holding all the broken, jagged pieces of me in place. Rowan slides in behind me, his breath warm against the back of my shoulder, his arm looping over my waist protectively. Ronan’s legs tangle with mine at the bottom of the bed, anchoring me from another angle.
I’m wrapped in them, caged in the safest way possible.
Their voices drift above me, low and intimate—too quiet to catch every word, but the cadence settles deep in my bones. Rowan’s dry murmuring. Ronan’s rumbling amusement. Emerson’s softer concern threaded through it all. They aren’t talking strategy anymore. They aren’t talking about the hunt, or Kimber, or blood.
They’re talking about me.
About us.
I let my eyes fall shut, exhaustion sweeping in now that adrenaline isn’t holding my body upright. My breathing syncswith Emerson’s instinctively; the rise and fall of his chest guiding mine. Rowan shifts closer behind me, his nose brushing the back of my neck. Ronan’s fingers graze my thigh before settling there, heavy and warm.
Their voices fade into a hum, like a lullaby threaded with curses and affection.
Safe.
Loved.
Wanted.
Mine.
I drift off with that feeling wrapped tight around me. The last thing I hear is Emerson whispering something against my hair—words too soft to decipher but tender enough to make my heart ache.
Then sleep drags me under, and for the first time in days, my dreams don’t start with blood.
Waking up feels like clawing my way out of warm fog. My limbs are heavy, pleasantly sore, and my head floats somewhere between sleep and reality until the soft drag of a thumb across my hip yanks me fully back.
I’m not alone.
Of course I’m not.
Ronan’s wrapped around me like he’s warding off the entire fucking world. One arm slung around my belly, leg hooked over mine, his chest pressed against my back, his breath warm and steady on my neck. The scent of him—clean skin, faint cedar, heat—wraps around me the same way his body does.
The bed feels empty on the other side, and it takes a second to register why. Emerson and Rowan aren’t here. Their absence is strangely loud.
Then I hear it.
Sizzling from the kitchen. A scrape. Something metallic clattering. A muttered curse that sounds suspiciously like Emerson threatening a frying pan.
They’re cooking.
God help us all.
I shift, and Ronan tightens his arm without waking fully. His lashes flutter, and he buries his face into my shoulder with a groan that sounds like a man fighting consciousness.
“Five more minutes, Pix,” he mumbles, voice thick and sleep-rough. “You feel too damn good.”
A laugh bubbles out of me—soft, involuntary. My body aches in all the best ways, heat curling at the memory of last night. My cheeks flush as the flashbacks roll through me, every touch, every sound, every breathless kiss.
Ronan cracks one eye open at my blush, and the lazy smile he gives me is better than caffeine. “Yeah,” he says in a deep rumble. “Keep thinking about it.”
I swat his shoulder. “Shut up.”
He catches my wrist and pulls me into a kiss that wipes out the rest of the world. Slow at first, then deeper, until I’m breathless against him. When he finally lets me come up for air, his forehead rests against mine.
“You’re our heart,” he whispers. “Don’t forget that.”
My heart flutters painfully in my chest. I push my fingers through his hair, but there’s a heaviness pressing in behind my ribs—the kind sleep can’t fix.