Chapter One #2
Before he can collapse under it, the sharp crack of a slap cuts through the air.
Emerson’s hand connects with his cheek, snapping Rowan’s head to the side.
The sound echoes, shocking us all into silence.
Emerson, the calm one. The rational one.
The one who never loses it. And yet there he is, shaking, tears spilling down his face.
“My dad…” His voice fractures, breaking apart on the words. He can’t finish, can’t force the rest out, but he doesn’t have to. Guilt is written on every line of his face. He’s trying to take it on himself, to shoulder the sins of the man who raised him.
Rowan and I lock eyes for a brief second, and for once, we agree. “That’s not yours to carry,” I rasp, my throat raw.
Rowan nods, his own voice soft but certain. “He’s guilty, Em. Not you. Our fathers are just as rotten as each other, but their sins don’t belong to us. We don’t wear them.”
The words hang heavy, but they feel like truth. Broken, jagged truth—but truth all the same. And for the first time in too long, the three of us are standing in it together.
We need to finish this. There’s no going back now—the gloves are off, and the blood on our hands doesn’t wash away.
The silence is razor sharp, thick enough to choke on, until Emerson finally cuts through it.
His voice isn’t loud, but it’s deliberate, every word weighted with a precision that makes you stop and listen.
“They don’t know,” he says, his eyes fixed on both of us, hard and unflinching.
“Not yet. Bryce. Dean. Any of them. They don’t know we’ve seen the video.
They don’t know what Reign left behind. That ignorance is the only advantage we’ve got left.
” He pauses, dragging a hand down his face, the tremor in his fingers betraying the calm mask he’s trying to hold.
“If we tip our hand too soon, they’ll lock everything down.
We’ll lose whatever chance we’ve got at ripping this out by the roots. ”
His gaze sharpens, flicking between me and Rowan.
“That means we play it smart. Smarter than we ever have. No reckless moves. No outbursts. We wait until the exact right moment and then we hit them where it hurts most—money, allies, their fucking reputation. All of it.” His lip curls, his mask slipping enough for his disgust to bleed through.
“We can’t undo what they did. We can’t bring Reign back.
And we sure as hell can’t protect Berk the way we should have.
” His voice falters, rough at the edges, and he clears his throat before pressing on.
“But what we can do—the only thing left—is make sure every one of them pays for what they’ve done to us, for brutalizing Berk, and for killing Reign. Every single one.”
His words sink deep, pressing down on the room until the air feels charged and thin.
Emerson has always been the calm in our chaos, the mind that reins us in before instinct takes over.
But now his voice carries something else—sharp, merciless, and just deranged enough to finish what we’re about to start.
The only thing keeping us alive is their ignorance.
They don’t know what we know. Not yet. And by the time they do, there will be no one left to save them.
I lean forward, chest locked tight, the fire still raging from the video, from the lies, from all we’ve lost. “Bryce’s second,” I grind out, voice low, guttural.
“He’s the one who tried to take me out. That wasn’t a random hit.
That was an order.” My jaw locks so tight I hear it crack, the rage vibrating under my skin like a live current.
“They’re trying to eliminate us—or at least Bryce is.
One by one. And if we wait, if we stall, they’ll try again.
We need to dismantle this sooner, not later. Before they get another chance.”
The room hangs heavy with sweat, blood, and regret, every breath tasting of iron. Rowan clears his throat; the sound is raw and grating, shattering the silence that’s been suffocating us. And then he says her name—“Berkley.” Soft. Careful. Like it’s still his to speak. Like he has the right.
A growl rips out of me before I can stop it, rumbling from deep in my chest. My head snaps toward him, eyes narrowed, teeth bared.
“You’ve got a long fucking way to go before you even think about speaking her name to me.
” My voice cracks with venom, every word a warning.
His shoulders slump instantly, the defiance in him folding, and he nods, mournful and silent, knowing I’m right.
Knowing that for all his guilt, for all his apologies, it’s nowhere near enough.
I turn my glare on Emerson, the rage in me simmering down into something harder, sharper.
A blade instead of fire. “Both of you,” I say, each syllable carved with steel.
“You’ve got a lot of making up to do to her.
More than you can imagine. And if you’re lucky—lucky—she might find it in her heart to forgive you. ”
Neither of them argues. They don’t dare. Because forgiveness isn’t mine to give. It never was. It’s hers. And God help them both if she never decides they’ve earned it.