Chapter Nine
Rowan
I place a hand on Em’s shoulder, the weight of it meant to steady him, though the irony isn’t lost on me. Imagine that—me, of all people, being the one to comfort instead of collapse. My chest is a furnace, my throat raw, but I try anyway. Because he needs it. We both do.
“Hey,” I murmur, though my voice is anything but soft. “She’s with us. Got our backs. She always has.” The words scrape out like gravel, heavy with memory.
The image that follows makes me want to tear my skin off.
The state she was in when I dragged her to that basement—already battered, already raw—I see it now in a way I didn’t allow myself to then.
The meaning is sharp, piercing through every wall I built to keep the truth at bay.
She put herself in the line of fire to shield Ronan. And then what did I do?
I took her downstairs. Added my own hands to the pile of hurt already crushing her.
The thought never fails to rip me open, a jagged wound that refuses to close.
It splits my ribs apart, leaves my heart exposed, bloody and beating with regret.
No matter how many times I replay it, how many times I wish I could rewrite the memory, the truth doesn’t change.
I betrayed her. I hurt her when she was already bleeding for us.
Em doesn’t flinch at my words. Doesn’t look away.
He never has, not when it matters most. Instead, he shifts beneath my hand, steadying himself, and then steadying me, the way we’ve always done.
We’re jagged edges, broken in different places, but when pressed together just right, we somehow hold each other up.
“Ro,” he says quietly, my name thick with warning and something softer beneath it. His eyes pin mine, grounding me. “You can’t keep ripping yourself apart. Not like this.”
I bark out a laugh, sharp and humorless.
“What the fuck else am I supposed to do? Pretend it didn’t happen?
Pretend I wasn’t the one who dragged her down there when she was already half-dead from trying to save us?
” The words are knives, each one twisting deeper.
“She fought Trent, Em. For Ronan. She put herself in harm’s way—again—and then I…
” My throat closes, the rest strangled on its way out.
Em’s grip tightens on my shoulder, firm enough to stop the freefall.
“You did what you thought you had to. You did what they trained us to do. And yeah, it was wrong. We both know it. But don’t you dare forget that you’re not our fathers.
You’re not them.” His voice is sharp, steady, but his jaw works, the cracks showing in him just as much as in me.
“You’ve got guilt because you care. Because you love her.
That’s the difference, Ro. That’s what makes us different. ”
I stare at him, chest heaving, every part of me wanting to argue—but I can’t.
Because he’s right. Because as much as I want to sink into the pit of my own mistakes, he won’t let me.
Just like I won’t let him when it’s his turn to spiral.
We’re brothers, but more than that—we’re each other’s ballast. When one of us sinks, the other drags him back to the surface.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The silence stretches, heavy but not suffocating this time. My heart still pounds, still bleeds, but it doesn’t feel like it’s tearing me apart anymore. Em’s steady gaze holds me together, stitching me up where words alone can’t.
Finally, I nod, rough and reluctant. “She deserves better.”
“Yes, she does,” Em says, no hesitation. “So, we give it to her. From here on out, we give her better. Whatever it takes.”
And just like that, the balance tips back into place. Not whole, not healed—but enough. Enough to keep moving forward. Enough to keep us fighting for her.
I nod, the weight of the vow already anchoring deep in my chest. “Whatever it takes,” I echo, the words tasting like blood and truth on my tongue.
I glance at Em, and he gives me the same hard stare, the one that brooks no room for retreat.
We both know what we’ve promised isn’t light—it’s a line drawn in the sand.
From this moment on, there’s no failing her again. Not one inch. Not one breath.
Em exhales, long and steady, then shakes his head as though shaking off the ghosts clinging to us.
“Alright,” he mutters, pushing himself upright.
“That’s enough drowning for one night. You want to help her?
Start by not breaking yourself down before she even gets here.
” His eyes soften, but only a little. “Blow off some steam. Cook us something. You know it always works. And when Kimber wakes up hungry, she’ll need something decent in her stomach.
Plus…” His mouth quirks, the closest thing to a smile he’s had all night.
“Sounds like Ronan and Berk are heading back. We’re gonna need a full table, not scraps. ”
For a second, I just stare at him, almost ready to argue, almost ready to tell him food doesn’t fix what’s broken. But he’s right. He’s always fucking right.
“Fine,” I mutter, dragging myself up, but there’s a flicker of warmth in my chest that wasn’t there a minute ago. I head into the kitchen and open the fridge, scanning shelves until something comes together in my mind. Something simple, but good. Hearty. Filling.
Chicken thighs, paprika, garlic—smoke and comfort blooming in the air. It’s nothing fancy, not like the feasts Mom used to whip up, but it’s real food. Comfort food. By the time I slide the whole pan into the oven, the kitchen smells alive—warm, safe, like the home we’ve been starved of for years.
I wipe my hands on a towel, glance at Em leaning in the doorway, arms crossed but eyes softer than before. He nods once, approving, and I feel some of the weight in my chest ease. Not gone, never gone. But lighter. Manageable.
“Better?” he asks.
I shrug, but the corner of my mouth twitches. “Yeah. Better.”
And for the first time in too damn long, I almost believe it.
The oven hums low, filling the air with the scent of roasted chicken and broth-soaked rice, the kind of smell that makes a place feel like home again.
Em and I sit in silence, the weight of everything pressing in from all sides, but for once it doesn’t suffocate.
More like a pause. A breath before the next storm.
The front door opens, hinges groaning. Every muscle in me locks tight. Em straightens where he sits, and I push to my feet, wiping my palms against my thighs even though they’re not damp.
Then he’s there. Ronan. My twin. Our anchor and our chaos. His face is flushed from the cold, hair mussed like he’s been running fingers through it, and in his arms—no, behind him, clinging like she’s not sure she belongs—is Berk.
For a heartbeat, I think my mind is playing tricks. She’s smaller than I remember, sharper, shadows clinging to her edges like scars you can’t see but can feel. Yet, it’s her. Every piece of her I’ve been missing.
My chest squeezes, a sound catching in my throat, but I choke it back.
Em’s eyes are shining in the low light, but he stays still too, as if moving too quickly might scare her away.
We both feel the urge to close the distance, to pull her close and prove she’s real—but we don’t.
Not now. We know better. After what we did, and what we failed to stop, the pace has to be hers.
She tucks herself tighter behind Ronan, like a shield.
The sight guts me more than if she’d screamed. Berk, my Berk, hiding from me.
Ronan doesn’t let her stay there, though. He glances back at her, murmurs something low I can’t hear, and then gently tugs her forward, wrapping her in his arms under his chin like she belongs there. He kisses the side of her head, easy and natural, like it’s the most familiar thing in the world.
Our faces are mirrors, but Ronan’s is open in a way mine hasn’t been in years—free, full of relief, even joy. He’s happy. He’s worried, yeah, but happy. And I can’t remember the last time I saw that on him.
I want to step forward. I want to say something. But my voice doesn’t work, and my body doesn’t move. I just stand there, taking her in, praying she’ll look up. Praying she’ll see I’m not the same monster who once stood over her.
Ronan nudges her like he’s proud of some ridiculous prank she just pulled, laughing as if he can’t believe her audacity.
“You were supposed to take us to your place to grab your things,” he says, voice thick with amusement.
“Imagine my surprise when you bring me straight here.” He tightens his arm around her waist, a possessive press that makes my skin prickle, and he leans his mouth close enough to her ear that I can see his jaw work.
He growls, low and intimate, not bothering to hide the way he’s rubbing himself against the curve of her ass.
The sound is equal parts warning and worship.
For a breathless second, she doesn’t move.
Then she looks up, and the world tilts. Her eyes cut across the room and land on us—me and Em—and the way she stares down at us is lethal.
She doesn’t look like the girl from the photos or the memory I’ve been clutching like a talisman.
The good-girl sheen is gone. In its place is something cold and deliberate.
A viper smile that slices through whatever soft corner I had left for her.
She slays me with one look, then smirks, like she knows exactly what she’s just done to our hearts.
“Relax,” she says, voice smooth and dangerous. “No one else knows about this place.” She glances around the living room with the casual familiarity of someone who’s walked these halls a thousand times, which makes my chest tighten with an odd mixture of relief and betrayal.
Em blinks, then asks, puzzled, “Where?” as if searching the house again will make sense of this—will make the invisible visible. We’d combed this place when we arrived; how could she have been here and we not know?