Ronan tries first. “Pix, we’re not saying stop. We’re saying breathe. You need to—”
“Don’t tell me what I need.” The words come out sharp, precise, the same way my knives talk for me when I let them. “I survived six years on my own. Six years planning to kill your fathers. And yes, you too. Do not stand here and pretend you know what I can handle.”
Emerson steps forward, both hands out like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Berk, we get it. We do. But if you crash, if you burn out, it could cost us time we don’t have.”
“I ran on two hours of sleep a night while planning to end your bloodline,” I snap back. “Do not lecture me about stamina.”
Rowan flinches as if I slapped him. I hate it. I hate hurting him. Hurting any of them. But anger is a living thing in my chest now, and Kimber’s terrified face keeps flashing behind my eyes, and there is no room left in me for gentleness.
“If you can’t handle the way I work,” I continue, voice low and trembling with everything I can’t say, “then maybe you should leave me the hell alone for a while. Think about the person who was actually assaulted. Think about the girl who has the biggest say in all this. This is my revenge. My plan. You’re inmywar, not the other way around.”
Ronan’s jaw ticks. Emerson looks gutted. Rowan tries to speak, reaching for me like his voice is a lifeline. “Berk, please. Just slow down. We’re on your side.”
“I don’t need you to be on my side.” My throat tightens. “I need you to stop getting in my way.”
Silence floods the hallway, thick and suffocating.
I turn before any of them can try again. My hand shakes only a fraction as I grab the war room door. Maybe they see it, maybe they don’t. I don’t look long enough to find out.
“Do not try to stop me again,” I warn, softer but sharper. “I willneverlet Kimber live through what we did.”
They call my name—three voices layered in pain and worry—but I slam the door shut between us. Hard enough that the monitors on the far desk rattle.
The second the latch clicks, guilt slams into me just as violently.
I press my palms to the cool wood of the door, forehead bowed, breath uneven. I never meant to hurl those truths at them like blades. I didn’t want to watch them flinch under memories they already carry every day.
But they need to grasp the stakes. They need to remember what I endured. And they need to understand that time is unforgiving. Hours matter. Minutes matter.
Kimber doesn’t have time for me to be soft.
I swallow hard, sit at the desk, crack my knuckles, and pull the monitors awake.
Luckily, Emerson shoved Riker’s phone into my hands before I climbed out of the van, like he already knew I would barricade myself in here the second we got home.
The moment the war room door clicks shut behind me, the rest of the world drops out. The guys’ voices dull into muffled movement and indistinct murmurs beyond the door—wolves pacing a boundary they want to cross but won’t. Good. I need silence. I need focus. I need control.
I sink into my chair, roll my neck once, and pull Riker’s digital life up across my screens.
There isn’t much worth monitoring live—he was too careful about that—but phones never hide everything. Not from me.
The data clones load, one encrypted folder after another, cracking open with a hiss of code. First thing I hunt down is Vanna White’s number. I still shake my head, half-laughing at the sheer stupidity of it as I drop it into my tracker.
“Cute,” I mutter. “Real fucking subtle.”
The trace kicks off with a satisfying hum. Metadata pours across my screen. Tower hits, routing timestamps, SIM shifts, packet trails. Even burner numbers shed skin if you peel it right.
Bryce’s shedding is showing.
Everything traces back to a single primary location. A cluster of ping coordinates near the industrial waterfront—quiet, lightly patrolled, almost absent from city logs. He stays there for most of the day. Minimal movement. Few outgoing calls.
Someone hiding.
Someone confident.
Someone wrong.
I dig deeper.