I’m surrounded. Anchored on all sides. Contained, protected—exactly where I belong.
Their warmth closes in around me. Their breathing anchors me. Their presence presses back the darkness waiting on the other side of sleep—the battles we’ll face when morning comes.
My eyes drift shut, heavy and sore but settled, the world shrinking down to the brush of fingers along my cheek and the quiet imprint of a kiss against my shoulder.
“Sleep, Pix,” Ronan murmurs against my neck.
I let myself sink, floating down into a darkness that feels safe for once. A rare gift. One of the best ways to fall asleep when chaos is clawing at every corner of our lives.
~~~~~
A quiet beep cuts through the darkness, threading itself into my dream like meaningless background noise. It takes a few seconds for awareness to catch, to click into place and drag me fully awake. The moment I recognize the sound, my body goes rigid, every muscle locking tight. The auto-dump on Bryce’s phone only pings when something important hits the line.
My eyes open to the dim room. The guys are still dead asleep, sprawled in a tangle of limbs and blankets, their breathing heavy and even. When I glance at my phone, the time explains everything. We haven’t even hit the halfway mark of the four hours I promised them. Two hours. Maybe a little less.
I should go back to sleep. I should honor the deal.
But the alert keeps pulsing at the back of my skull like a heartbeat.
If it’s nothing, I’ll slide right back in without any of them waking.
I peel myself out of their hold, slow and careful. Emerson’s arm drops away first, heavy with sleep. Ronan’s hand loosens on my hip. Rowan instinctively reaches for whateverwarmth moved away from him and ends up curling into his brother instead. A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it, because for a heartbeat, they look like the boys they were. The boys who used to fall asleep in a dog pile after movies or summer games. Except now they’re bigger, harder, stronger. Men carved from muscle and vengeance… but still the same in ways that count.
Mine in every single way that matters.
Once I’m free, I slip out of the room and pad down the hallway, shutting the war room door behind me with barely a whisper. The glow of the screens welcomes me like an old friend. I slide into my chair, fingers already flying as the latest dump loads on the main monitor.
Lines of text. Data tables. Location updates. App logs.
And then something freezes me mid-breath.
A message. Not to Bryce. Not routed through any of the dummy accounts.
A text addressed to me.
From Dean.
My heart clenches, heat and ice surging through me at the same time. For a long moment I can’t move. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.
Then I click it open.
And the world narrows to a point sharp enough to cut as the message sits on the screen like a live wire, humming, poisonous.
Good morning, Berkley. Bryce is gone—I assume the warehouse fire explains that. You’re much more resourceful than you were in your youth. Hopefully, the boys haven’t loosened you up too much. I’d love to play again. You were such a tight number before. If you want Kimber back, I propose a swap. You for her. You have one hour to respond.
My stomach lurches, but my mind… my mind goes quiet. Too quiet. A numb, frozen stillness spreads through me as each sentence burns itself into my brain.
Play again.
Tight number.
Swap.
The bile rises hot and sharp, but I swallow it down.
I sit back; fingers slack in my lap. My thoughts are blank for a long beat, like someone kicked the plug out of the wall and every circuit shorted.
Then it settles inside me.