Chapter Eight
Emerson
The phone buzzes in my hand, sharp and insistent, and before I even look, I know it isn’t good.
My lawyer’s number flashes on the screen.
I answer on the second ring, jaw tight, shoulders braced for whatever shape the news will take.
His voice is steady—too steady—which makes the bottom fall out of my stomach before he finishes his first sentence.
“Emerson,” he says, clipped. “Police removed Kimber from the house tonight. She’s in protective custody at the station.
They’ll hold her until you can pick her up—bring ID.
We already have the guardianship papers ready. Get there fast.”
The words land like a punch. Kimber. My little sister.
The name hits a nerve so deep I taste metal at the back of my throat.
For a split second, everything turns loud—blood rushing in my ears as the house tightens around the low whir of the air conditioning.
Relief rips through me because she’s out of that place, and terror crashes right behind it—what if Bryce’s crew tries to intercept?
What if they’ve got men positioned by the station?
I force my breath slow, count to five, focus.
Then the other voice in my head pipes up: How the hell did that actually happen?
We’ve been fighting for custody for a year.
The lawyer must hear my thoughts because he answers before I ask, “I don’t have an explanation, Em.
I checked the file this morning—nothing new.
Somebody pushed it through. The station said paperwork was served, and they acted on a welfare concern.
It’s odd, I agree, but we’ll take the win. ”
That small, pragmatic admission twists my relief into something complicated.
Whoever moved the paper did us a favor—intentional or not—and for once luck or leverage or whatever shadowy thing finally tilted our way.
I don’t have time to parse whether it’s a setup or a miracle.
The only thing that matters is the girl in state custody and getting her to safety.
“Don’t hesitate,” the lawyer repeats, and then he’s gone, the line dead and the hum of the phone loud in the sudden quiet.
I look up, and Rowan’s already watching me from across the room, reading my face like he always has. He doesn’t ask; he just waits. My voice comes out flat, sharper than I intend. “Kimber’s out. Police pulled her from the house tonight. She’s at the station, waiting for me to pick her up.”
Rowan’s chair screeches as he bolts upright, his whole body snapping into focus.
For a second, there’s hope on his face—then it shifts, hardening.
“It’s a trap,” he says. His tone isn’t panicked, it’s practical.
“Or it could be. If one of our fathers wants Ronan dead, we have to assume we’re all on the list.”
He’s right. The thought sinks into me like ice. It’s clear now—every move they’ve made has been about control. About cutting us down. Kimber isn’t just my sister; she’s leverage. A pawn. And tonight, we’re pulling her out of the game.
“We go together,” Rowan says, stepping closer, steady as stone.
I nod because I don’t have the strength to argue.
Truth is, I don’t want to. My throat feels raw as I speak.
“We get her, and then we go underground. No more lingering, no more leaving ourselves exposed. We cut ties, burn what we have to, and hit them hard from the shadows. It’s time to bring the walls down. ”
Rowan’s gaze holds mine, fierce and certain. “Then that’s what we do.”
We can’t lead anyone back to the fallout house. No one knows where it is—Ronan made sure of that. He scrubbed our phones, burned every trace, turned us into ghosts in a world that thought it owned us. If they’re hunting, they’ll find nothing but shadows.
The drive to the station is a blur of red lights and clenched fists.
My chest is tight, my knuckles white around the steering wheel, but the second I see her—my little sister, sitting in the waiting area with her knees tucked up, clutching a paper cup of water too big for her small hands—I nearly lose it.
She looks up and her face lights like the sun, and I’m gone. Done for.
“Emmy!” she says, voice high, full of relief, like she was holding her breath until I showed up.
I kneel in front of her, my throat thick. “Yeah, Bug. It’s me. And guess what?” I hold up the papers the officer just handed me, guardianship sealed and stamped like a miracle. “You’re coming home with me. Just us. No more mom. No more dad.”
Her smile wobbles, eyes watering, and she whispers, “Really?”
“Really,” I promise, scooping her up like I used to when she was little, settling her against my chest. She tucks her face into my shoulder, and I know right then I’ll burn the world to keep her safe.
The officer gives me one last rundown—papers, signatures, all legal—and I don’t wait around to test fate. I carry Kimber out into the night, buckle her into the backseat of the ditch car, and we’re moving.
A few miles into downtown, I pull outside a candy shop, neon lights buzzing overhead. Kimber blinks at me, confused, until I grin. “Detour. Can’t go to a safe house without supplies.”
She giggles, the sound cutting through every ounce of fear still riding me.
Inside, she grabs a bag and fills it with gummy bears and chocolate, her little hands moving fast like she’s afraid it’ll vanish.
When we step out the back door, Rowan’s already there, leaning against the car, eyes scanning the street.
“Nice choice,” he says when he spots the candy bag, his voice low but carrying the faintest smile.
Kimber beams, holding it up like a trophy before I usher her into the backseat.
We’re rolling again a moment later, the city lights fading behind us. No shadows tailing us, no headlights sticking too close. Bryce hasn’t called, hasn’t sent his dogs barking. Maybe he doesn’t know yet. Maybe chaos elsewhere is keeping him busy. Either way, Kimber’s safe for tonight.
She leans forward between the seats, chewing on a gummy bear, and asks softly, “Are we really okay now?”
I glance at Rowan before answering, my voice steady. “We will be, Bug. I promise. As long as we stick together.”
As the road stretches out in front of us, I swear I’ll make good on that promise—no matter who I have to bury along the way.
Once we’re back at the fallout house, Kimber is bouncing like she’s got springs in her feet, riding the sugar rush from the bag of candy she tore through on the drive.
She darts from room to room, laughing, chattering about the gummies and chocolate like we just gave her the keys to Disneyland.
I can’t help but smile, even though exhaustion weighs heavily on me. She’s safe. That’s all that matters.
An hour later, though, she crashes hard.
She’s sprawled out on the bed in her room, blanket twisted around her legs, snoring like a bear cub hibernating for winter.
I stand there for a long moment just watching her chest rise and fall, the peace in her little face undoing me in ways I can’t put into words.
Then, I close the door softly and head back into the living room.
Rowan’s already there, stretched out on the couch. He chuckles when he sees me. “Still a handful, I see.” His grin is faint, but there’s relief written all over his face, the same bone-deep relief burning through me. We did it. She’s out of that house. Away from them. Safe—for now.
I slump down into the chair with the stack of paperwork the cops handed me.
Might as well make sure the paperwork’s clean before I finally let myself breathe.
I start flipping through the pages, scanning the legal jargon, the custody terms, the stamps and seals.
It all looks right. Then my eyes land on the signature line, and I freeze.
It’s my name written there, scrawled in ink. My signature. Only…it’s not.
A chill slides down my spine. There are only two people in the world who could forge my signature that perfectly. Reign. And Berkley. Reign’s gone. Which leaves only Berk.
My throat locks up, the words choking me before I can get them out. Rowan notices immediately and sits up, concern flashing in his eyes. “What is it?” he asks, leaning forward.
For a moment, I can’t answer. I just lean back, the papers trembling in my hands, and then a laugh escapes me—half disbelief, half awe. “Do you remember that summer?” I ask him. “The one where the girls spent weeks forging our names? They got them almost perfect.”
Rowan’s brow furrows, then his eyes narrow like he’s trying to follow me.
“Almost perfect,” I repeat, holding up the page so he can see.
My finger traces the little flourish at the end of the name.
“Except Berk. She used to flip out the N’s at the end of each of our names.
Nobody else would notice. But us? We’d know.
We teased her about adding her girly curve to each of us.
” My chest tightens with something I don’t dare call hope.
“This—this was signed by her.” My voice drops to a whisper, reverent.
“She’s the one who got Kimber out of that house. ”
The silence that follows is heavy, electric. Rowan stares at the page, then at me, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing: Berkley’s not just alive. She’s moving pieces. She’s been here. And she’s watching over us.
Rowan sits in silence for a long while, his eyes fixed on the forged signature like it’s a lifeline. When he finally speaks, it’s barely a whisper, cracked and raw. “We need to find her, Em. We need to help her.” The weight in his tone punches me square in the chest.