We’re coming for you, little sister.
~~~~~
The warehouse sits hunched in the dark like a rusty animal, long dead but still dangerous. We kill the headlights a block away, coasting to a stop behind a row of shipping containers large enough to hide a hundred bodies. The engine coughs once when Rowan shuts it off, then the whole van goes silent, leaving only the distant groan of the water hitting the docks.
Ronan cracks his knuckles. “We’re ditching the van after this.”
Before I can answer, Berk stretches her neck until it pops and says, “Already arranged. There’s another one on standby, a mile out. We’ll ditch this one in the water, like the last one. Stop worrying about the fucking van.” Her grin is pure mischief. Wicked. Sharp. It cuts through my nerves like she always does.
We slip out into the cold. The air is salty with ocean stink and the faint chemical tang of diesel drifting around the pier. The warehouse looks abandoned from the outside—windows shattered, metal siding warped—but we know better. Monsters love places that are already rotting. They feel at home in them.
We take cover behind the building next door, shadows crawling across our boots as shipping cranes creak somewhere in the distance.
Rowan outlines the entry points, and the argument sparks almost immediately. “We pair up,” he says. “Two and two. No exceptions.”
I agree. “Berk, you stay with one of us.”
She pivots toward us—slow, intentional, a controlled movement predators make right before they bite. A strand of hair slips aside, revealing the glint of her hidden comm like a warning flare. “What part of I am not a porcelain doll are you three not processing?” Her voice is a lethal whisper. “There are four entry points. We split. We hit them simultaneously. That’s how this works.”
I step toward her, jaw tight. “You’re not going in alone.”
She smiles at me like she’s deciding which artery she’ll cut first. “Emerson Blackthorne, if you keep trying to bubble-wrap me, I will stab you in the throat and write I told you so in your blood.”
Ronan whistles low, chuckling. “She’s got a point.”
Rowan winces but also snorts. “You kind of deserve that one.”
I exhale hard, fingers pinching the bridge of my nose. “Fine. Your own window. But the comm stays open. Constant check-ins.”
“Good boy,” she murmurs, patting my cheek.
The growl that rips from my chest makes her grin harder.
We fan out.
I climb the drainage ladder first, metal ice beneath my palms. The entire building vibrates faintly—the wind humming like an animal breathing in its sleep. The second-story ledge is narrow and coated in dust, but I crawl across it with practiced ease, keeping my footsteps soundless.
“Nothing here. Anyone got eyes?” I whisper.
Rowan reports right away. “Bryce is in the far room, sitting at a table. Looks half awake. Nervous.”
My teeth grind so hard that the pressure shoots into my skull. My father. The man who destroyed Berk. Reign. And so much more. The man who stole my sister. Hisdaughter. Sitting ten yards away, breathing air he doesn’t deserve.
“Ronan?” Berk’s voice crackles softly in my ear. “Anything?”
“South side clear,” Ronan answers. “No visuals.”
“My side too,” she says. “Quiet.” Her whisper curls through the comm like smoke—steady, controlled, lethal. “Hold positions,” she adds. “Five minutes. Eyes open. Look for movement, shadows, anything that feels wrong.”
The order settles over us like a net. We obey.
My pulse beats like a drum behind my ribs as I lean closer to the window. Bryce shifts in his chair, rubbing his temples. His phone casts a sickly glow over his face, sharpening every grotesque angle.
He checks the staircase twice. Maybe he’s waiting for someone. Maybe it’s paranoia. Maybe he can feel death moving closer to his door.
Rowan’s whisper is thin. “He looks… different.”
“Scared?” I inject.