Emerson lets out a breath like someone finally cut the cord choking him.
Then Ronan wraps an arm around my waist and mutters into my hair, “Good. Because we’ve got work to do. And I swear to fuck, if you slam another door in our faces, I’m picking the lock and dragging your stubborn ass out by your ankles.”
A laugh breaks out of me—unexpected, needed, healing.
They all smile then. Small. Soft. Real.
Ronan nudges me back into the war room with a palm to my lower back, then punctuates it with a sharp slap to my ass that echoes off the walls. I jump, glare, and he just grins like the cocky bastard he is.
“Alright, Pix,” he murmurs, herding me forward like I’m his favorite misbehaving pet, “tell us what that gorgeous mind dug up while you were barricaded in here.”
I drop into my chair, fingers already moving to wake the screens back up. Code scrolls like waterfalls. Data maps. Scraped conversations. Cell tower pings. All of it humming under my skin.
“I’m almost through everything,” I say, breath steadying as the work pulls me into its rhythm. “But I think I’ve pinned down Bryce’s location.”
Three shadows close in behind me. Their breathing syncs, anticipation sharpening the air like static before a storm.
Emerson’s hand lands on my shoulder, grounding and warm. “Show us.”
I pull up the digital map and tap the blinking red dot pulsing along the water’s edge.
“He’s been bouncing between this spot near Pier Twenty and a warehouse farther up the docks,” I explain, zooming in. “Same cluster of pings for the last week. Barely moves outside this radius.”
Ronan whistles low. “So, the bastard’s been nesting.”
“He’s messaging someone about moving soon,” I continue, clicking open a hacked thread marked with timestamps. “He’s nervous. Says there’s heat on them.”
“Which is adorable,” I add. “Because that’s us. We’re the heat.”
Rowan leans over me, bracing a hand on my chair. His voice is low, threaded with controlled fury. “Does he know something happened to Jory and Riker?”
“Possibly,” I reply. “He also mentioned enemies, so he doesn’t know if it’s us or someone else. But the timing is too tight. He’s rattled.”
Emerson squeezes my shoulder. “Then what’s our next move? When do we strike?”
I swivel in my chair to face them fully. The three of them look carved from violence and devotion. My family. My wolves.
“Soon,” I answer. “The sooner the better. If he’s thinking about moving, we have a narrow window before he changes locations again. We can’t let that happen.”
Rowan nods once, teeth grinding. “Then we hit him before he hits the road.”
“There’s more,” I add, turning back to the screen as I zoom in on the area around Pier Twenty. “The drop location from earlier? It’s only a few blocks from where Bryce keeps pinging. If those drops aren’t meant for Jory… they’re likely meant for Bryce himself.”
Ronan is already sliding into the seat beside me, cracking his knuckles before pulling up a second monitor. “Then let’s confirm it.”
He starts hammering at the keyboard, pulling up business cameras, traffic feeds, reflected windows, delivery logs—anything with a lens and a timestamp. His focus sharpens the room.
Minutes stretch. We cross-reference angles, scrub footage, stack frames.
Ronan growls under his breath every time a clip comes up useless. “Come on, you slippery fuck. Give me something.”
He tries another feed from a seafood distributor facing the pier. Then a liquor store cam catching the alley. Nothing.
He shifts to the next. Then the next.
Then he slams the enter key and lets out a sharp bark of triumph. “Bingo.”
All of us whip toward him.