My heart hammers against my ribs, like it’s trying to dislodge the ache lodged there.
Outside the war room door, their presence is a heartbeat.
They aren’t speaking—not anymore.
They’re barely moving.
I can hear the soft thud of someone’s pacing stop when I push my chair back.
A quiet sigh.
The creak of weight shifting from one foot to another.
They’re waiting for me.
Hurting because of me.
And pretending they’re fine so I don’t feel guilty.
Except I do feel guilty.
They saw the video.
They saw what happened to me.
To Reign.
They’re terrified of the past swallowing me whole again and terrified of losing Kimber in the same breath.
My throat feels tight. I don’t like that feeling. I don’t like that vulnerability comes easier with them than with anyone else.
But that’s the price of loving three men who carry my scars like they’re their own.
I push up from the chair and head for the door. Each step carries more weight than it should—laden with rage, resolve, and a love that unsettles me more than any enemy I’ve ever chased.
I reach for the handle and stop.
Just for a second.
Long enough to steady my breath and burn the anger down into something sharper.
Then I open the door.
All three of them straighten at once, like they’ve been caught in the middle of a crime.
Emerson stands closest, broad shoulders tense, jaw flexing as he drags his eyes over me like he’s checking for damage. The hardness in his face cracks when our gazes meet—relief flickering bright before he tries to hide it.
Rowan is right behind him, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the move not casual so much as containing. Holding in fear. Holding in guilt. His eyes are glassy with unshed emotions he’d never admit to having.
Ronan leans against the wall across from them, arms crossed. Ink shifts over his biceps as he tenses. His stare locks on me—sharp, worried, possessive, edged with irritation and stripped of every guard.
For a moment, none of us speak. The silence hangs thick with everything already said—and everything left untouched.
Emerson steps forward first, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal he refuses to scare off. His hand lifts toward my face but stops just shy of touching me. His voice is low, roughened with guilt he didn’t bother burying this time.
“Berk… baby… we’re so damn sorry.”
My throat tightens at the crack in his voice. Emerson never cracks. He’s the steady one. The anchor. Seeing him unsteady jolts something in me I don’t want to examine.