Kimber doesn’t have time for us to fall apart.
She needs us sharp.
She needs us relentless.
She needs us whole.
So, I set the auto-dump.
I track the incoming pings. I prepare for whatever the next four hours will bring. And when I finally return to them, letting their warmth wrap around me, one thought pulses in the back of my mind, fierce and unshakable.
I will burn my entire past to the ground before I let another sister die.
Once that’s done and before any of us even think about bed, we all know what comes next. The smell of smoke, sweat, and blood clings to us like a second skin—heavy, metallic, suffocating. It’s a reminder of what we just did, what we’ve become, and what we’ll keep doing until Kimber is home. But I refuse to let Bryce linger on me. Not on my body. Not on my soul. His death might have been deserved, but I won’t carry the stench of him into the one place that still feels sacred.
Our shower is massive—another intentional choice from a life built to survive—and the second the bathroom door closes behind us, the atmosphere shifts. The air is warm, thick with steam already curling around the vents, and my guys move me with a kind of unspoken choreography that settles low and warm in my chest.
Ronan pulls towels from the cabinet, stacking them neatly like he’s preparing for some ritual.
Emerson leans into the shower, testing the water, adjusting the knobs with meticulous care that makes my throat tighten.
Rowan steps behind me, brushing my hair off my neck before kissing the exposed skin—first one kiss, then another, each softer than the last, grounding me.
None of them speak. They don’t need to.
Their hands find me one at a time, fingertips skimming the hem of my shirt, the waistband of my pants, peeling away the layers that feel heavier with every passing second. They move slowly—not because I’m fragile, never that—but because they respect the weight of tonight, the kind of violence that leaves aftershocks in the bones even when the adrenaline fades.
When I’m bare, Emerson mutters, “Come on, baby,” and guides me under the spray.
The heat hits me like a release—washing over my shoulders, my spine, down my legs, pulling the tension from muscles I didn’t realize were locked tight. Steam fills my lungs when I breathe, hot and clean, and the last of the night’s chaos slips away.
The guys join me, surrounding me in a loose circle.
Rowan steps behind me again, gathering my hair carefully, running warm water through it before working shampoo into my scalp with slow, hypnotic movements that make my limbs go soft.
Ronan faces me, cupping my cheeks, brushing his lips over mine. A kiss meant to anchor. A kiss meant to remind me I’m still here, still theirs.
Emerson traces gentle lines down my back with soapy fingers, turning me toward him so he can wash away the streaks of dried blood clinging to my ribs and stomach. His hands are firm, sure, but never rough—not tonight.
I let out a sound that’s half sigh, half moan, because the combination of heat and hands and tenderness is too much. It undoes me in a way the violence never could.
They take their time. They clean me like they’re washing away everything that hurt. Everything that threatened to break me. Everything that tried to take me from them once already.
Only when I’m rinsed clean do they start on themselves, one by one stepping under the spray in front of me, letting mesee the cuts and bruises that mark their skin from the night. They don’t hide from me. They never have.
When we’re finished, Ronan wraps me in a towel with the care reserved for a treasured relic. Rowan kneels to dry my legs, lingering over my calves and thighs, his touch gentle—almost reverent—as if he’s making sure every inch of me is warm before he rises. Emerson lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing at all.
By the time they carry me to bed, the exhaustion finally hits all at once. But beneath it—woven through every breath—is a steadiness. A fierceness. A certainty that feels right.
They ease me between the fresh sheets, tucking me in with a tenderness that shouldn’t belong to men like them. They’re weapons, blades and fists and fury, but for me they soften. It never stops knocking the breath out of my chest, seeing these men—my men—shift the entire structure of themselves just to hold me gentler. The contrast is intoxicating. Dangerous in its own right.
Ronan’s fingers trail down my spine as if mapping every ridge and curve, memorizing me all over again. His touch starts light, almost teasing, before settling warm against my lower back. Emerson moves in behind me, a low hum slipping from his throat as he presses his body to mine, solid heat aligning with every inch of me. Rowan stands in front of me, one hand cupping my jaw, thumb brushing slow, reverent strokes across my cheekbone.
I melt between them without meaning to. Without trying. The exhaustion, the rush of surviving another night, the heady reminder that they’re here—alive, whole, mine—pulls deep inside me.
Rowan leans down, his forehead touching mine, breath warm as he whispers, “You’re shaking, baby.”
I am. Not from fear. Not from the cold. From the way they look at me like I’m sacred. From the way they touch me like I might vanish if they linger too long.