Ronan cracks his knuckles. Emerson pulls his hood up. I check the edge on my knife, feeling the weight of the night settle into my bones. Berk slides the van door open and the cool dusk air rushes in, carrying with it the scent of cut grass and the faint hum of distant traffic.
We step out as one.
No hesitation. No fear. No mercy.
The moment our boots hit the pavement, the van behind us becomes a shadow. The street becomes a hunting ground.
We move toward Riker’s house, silent and focused, every step a promise.
Tonight, someone is going to tell us where she is, and if they don’t…well, Berk did bring her knives.
Berk moves first, slipping into character like she’s shrugging on a second skin. From our place in the shadows halfway down the block, she might as well be a stranger. Shoulders rounded. Steps light and hesitant. Hair partially shielding her face. A damsel wrapped in vulnerability instead of the lethal, razor-edged woman she actually is.
I hate it.
But she’s good—too good—and that’s why she’s the one knocking on Matthew Riker’s door while we stay out of sight.
Her knuckles rap against the wood. Soft. Uncertain. Perfectly docile.
The porch light flickers overhead, buzzing faintly. The street is quiet enough to hear the tick of a sprinkler down the block. My brothers and I hold our breath without realizing it. Emerson is coiled beside me, tight as a sprung trap. Ronan’s fists flex at his sides, both of them humming with the same tension wired through my body.
The door opens.
Riker fills the frame, a thick slab of ex-military bulk, jaw lined with old stubble, eyes sharp but dulled at the edges from too many lonely nights and too much cheap whiskey. He looks like a man who takes orders for money and pretends he doesn’t notice the blood on them. A functional monster.
“Yeah?” His voice is gravel and impatient.
Berk blinks up at him, breathy and frail. “Hi.” She gives a shaky laugh, hugging her arms to her chest like she’s cold. “I’m so sorry, I… my car broke down and then my phone died and I tried knocking next door and—” she gestures vaguely toward a house where no one is home “—I’m just stuck, and I don’t know what to do…”
Riker’s expression changes instantly. Not kindness. Hunger. An opportunity for a lurking predator.
It’s the look men like him get when the universe hands them exactly what their sick little minds crave.
“Sure,” he says, smoothing his voice like he’s trying to sound gentlemanly. “Sure. Come on in. I’ve got a phone you can use. And if that doesn’t work out, I can drive you. No trouble at all.”
She sniffles, nodding, her lower lip trembling just enough to sell the role. “That would be amazing. Thank you so much.”
She steps into the house.
My vision tunnels.
Emerson mutters, jaw tight. “If he touches her, I swear—”
“He won’t,” Ronan cuts in, though the way his fingers twitch says he’s seconds from charging the door.
I stay silent because the rage sits too high in my throat. I don’t trust my voice not to shake. Berk’s breathing filters through the comm, light, careful—her way of telling us she’s fine. She knows exactly how on edge we are.
Inside, the conversation continues.
“So where are you headed?” Riker asks, tone sliding greasy and warm. “Got someone waiting on you?”
I damn near see red.
Berk lets out a quiet, embarrassed laugh. “Not really. Just… trying to get home. I didn’t expect to be stuck this late.”
He closes the door behind her. That sound echoes in my skull like a threat.
We creep closer, slipping behind the hedges, staying out of sight. The living room window glows faintly, just enough to frame two figures moving inside. Berk stands near the end of the couch, posture small, shoulders tucked. Riker leans in too close as he hands her a phone.