I swallow. “Any alerts on Jory’s phone?”
Ronan snorts. “Nothing important. Emerson checked it right before they started breakfast. Just social media… and a depressing number of disgusting porn tabs.”
“Of course.” I rub my eyes. “Classy.”
Ronan sits up, pulling me with him. “You look rested.”
“I am,” I admit quietly, honestly. “Because you guys let me sleep. You… knew I needed it.”
He studies me for long enough that I shift under the weight of it, then he brushes his thumb down my jaw.
“You were burning yourself out,” he says. “We saw it. You needed to shut down for the night. Remind yourself you’re not a robot.”
I want to argue. I want to say rest is pointless when Kimber is still out there. But the truth is my body feels lighter. My head clearer. My emotions… not quite steady, but steadier.
Then reality surges back in, cold and sharp. Kimber. Her terrified eyes in that video. What Dean and Bryce are capable of. What I’ve already lived through.
Ronan must see the shift in my face because he cups my chin and tilts my gaze up to his. “Baby,” he says softly. “I don’t want you anywhere near this.”
I open my mouth—ready to tear into him—but he presses two fingers to my lips.
“Let me finish.”
I glare but remain silent.
“We know you’re not sitting this out,” he says. “We know you’d rather set yourself on fire than let this go. And you deserve the revenge that’s coming. You deserve that closure.” His voice deepens. “But we can’t lose you again.”
His eyes are raw when he says it. Raw in a way he never lets himself be.
“We thought you were dead,” he goes on. “Just like Reign. And when we found out what they did to you, what they took… baby, we still haven’t processed it. Losing you again? We wouldn’t survive that. None of us.”
My heart cracks wide open.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper. “Not unless it leads me straight to Kimber.”
He nods, pulling me onto his chest, pressing his forehead against me. “We’re going to find her,” he murmurs. “We will. And then we’ll put those bastards in the ground where they belong.”
A crash comes from the kitchen—something that sounds suspiciously like a skillet hitting the floor. Emerson swears. Rowan mutters something sharp.
Ronan groans and drops his head back to the pillow. “Breakfast is going to kill us before Dean and Bryce ever get the chance.”
I laugh. Really laugh. “Come on,” I say, sliding off him and offering my hand. “If they burn the house down, where will we murder-plan?”
He threads his fingers through mine and tugs me close for one more kiss, slow and warm.
“Let’s go save breakfast,” he murmurs.
“Or bury it,” I whisper back.
Together, Ronan and I head toward what should be a kitchen but currently looks like a crime scene. My muscles feel loose and warm; my brain is sharper than it has in days, but nothing prepares me for what waits outside that doorway.
Chaos.
Absolute domestic war zone chaos.
Flour covers every inch of the counter like someone tried to summon a demon with a baking spell and messed up halfway through. Batter drips from the cabinet handles in congealed little stalactites. A mixing bowl is upside down on the floor, as if it’s given up on life. Smoke curls from the toaster—why the toaster?—and the smell is nauseatingly sweet and burned, like someone set fire to a bakery.
Ronan and I stop in tandem.