Chapter Thirteen #2
We watch as the smoke billows, thick and heavy, swallowing the screens that are left in shifting shades of gray.
Sparks crawl hungrily up the metal framework, skittering like angry insects before the entire structure folds in on itself—slow, deliberate, and devastatingly final.
The silence that follows feels deafening, the kind that hums in your bones long after the sound dies.
Something in my chest shifts with it, a sharp twist that isn’t victory and isn’t quite relief.
It’s something cleaner, colder—the quiet that follows when justice finally breathes.
The rot has been dragged into the light, burned down to ash.
Now comes the hard part. Standing ready for what’s left to rise from the smoke.
Rowan’s fingers find mine and squeeze—firm, grounding, like he’s anchoring me to the only solid thing left in the room.
He sounds steadier than he looks when he answers, voice low and certain.
“We’ll be careful,” he says. “We’ll make them pay.
If it’s the last thing I do.” Emerson’s head bobs once in agreement, his eyes already moving ahead a dozen steps, cataloguing contingencies even while his jaw works through the shock.
The air tastes like hot copper and singed wiring; the monitors still glow with the last embers as the buildings die in the feeds.
I let their promises roll over me, let the image sink in and etch itself behind my ribs: fire taking the structures that sheltered their crimes, light swallowing lie after lie.
There’s a hard clarity in the aftermath, a cold satisfaction that comes from finally exposing rot to light.
It has nothing to do with joy and everything to do with righting our injustice.
The feeling steadies me—a quiet, fierce resolve that will carry us through whatever rises out of the smoke.
Something’s alive beneath my skin—an ache, a pull toward the three men who have lived in my blood since before I understood what love really was.
I glance at them one by one, the exhaustion etched into their faces, the shadows under their eyes proof of how hard we’ve been fighting.
Ronan’s still running on adrenaline, that familiar edge crackling under his skin.
Rowan sits tense, his hands clasped like he’s trying to hold himself together.
And Emerson—he’s the quiet storm, the one whose calm hides the cracks beneath.
The connection between Ronan and me hums, steady and fierce, but with Rowan and Em it’s still fragile, a bridge half-built and trembling.
I can feel the distance between us like static.
We’ve let too much fear keep us apart, too much guilt, too many ghosts whispering that we can’t have something good again.
I don’t want to listen to those voices anymore.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I move.
One small step, then another, until I stop in front of Emerson.
His pen scratches across a page, his focus locked on strategy and logistics, like he’s holding the world together by sheer will.
Without thinking, I slide onto his lap. The motion startles him; the pen clatters from his fingers and rolls across the table.
His body goes rigid for a beat before his breath stutters out in one long exhale, and his arms wrap around me like instinct.
“Fuck, Berk,” he whispers against my neck, his voice breaking around the words. His breath is warm where it hits my skin, and the tremor in it says more than he ever could. He buries his face in my hair, the tension bleeding out of him one breath at a time.
I run my fingers through his hair, soft and slow, the way I used to when we were younger, and the world was less cruel. “You’re tired,” I murmur. “We all are.”
He nods against my shoulder but doesn’t let go. “Yeah,” he says, voice muffled. “But this… this helps.”
I smile, small and sad. “Good,” I whisper. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
The truth of it lands heavily between us. The past still stretches long and jagged behind us, but right now, in this small pocket of quiet, all I want is them. All of them. A bed. Warm skin. The sound of their hearts steadying against mine.
For the first time in forever, I let myself imagine that peace—our bodies tangled together, the past burned away, the night holding us like a promise instead of a punishment. Past be damned. Tonight, I want us whole.
Ronan must read my thoughts because his voice cuts through the heavy quiet of the room, warm but commanding. “Alright, time for bed. We’re all running on fumes. Better grab what sleep we can before the shitstorm starts again.”
The exhaustion in his tone matches the ache in my bones.
It’s been days of planning, of fighting, of building this fragile new alliance between blood and love and vengeance.
He stretches, joints popping, then gives me that half-grin that promises both trouble and comfort.
I can’t help but smile back, the tension easing a little from my chest.
Emerson pats my thigh and pushes to his feet, the fatigue clear in the slump of his shoulders as he sets me down. “He’s right,” he says, his voice low and worn thin. “We’re dead on our feet. Come on, let’s get our girl to bed before one of us passes out standing.”
I huff a soft laugh at the phrasing, but when his fingers find mine, I don’t hesitate.
His palm is warm, solid, a tether I didn’t know I still needed.
We follow Ronan down the hallway, and I let Em lead me, his thumb tracing lazy circles against my skin.
Every touch feels like an unspoken promise—protection, belonging, something dangerously close to peace.
We’re halfway to what’s apparently now “our” bedroom when I realize one set of footsteps is missing.
I glance back and find Rowan still standing by the table, staring at the monitors gone dark.
The firelight from the last feed flickers faintly across his face, painting him in gold and shadow.
He looks like a man lost between penance and hope, and it makes my heart ache.
I stop walking. Emerson pauses beside me, following my gaze, and says nothing. He knows as well as I do that Rowan’s ghosts are the loudest of all. I slip my hand free from Em’s and take a few steps back toward him.
“Rowan,” I whisper, my voice gentler than I mean it to be. The sound makes him blink, pulling his focus from the dark screen to me. “You coming to bed?”
His eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering there like he wasn’t expecting the invitation.
For a moment, he just stares at me, throat working, emotion tightening his features.
Then he swallows hard and nods once, slow and deliberate.
“I’ll be there, baby,” he says, his voice rough around the edges. “Just give me a minute, yeah?”
I can see the war raging inside him—the guilt, the disbelief that he still has a place here, that I could still want him after what’s been done.
In another life, maybe he’d be right to doubt it.
But this isn’t that kind of life. This one’s carved out of scars and chaos and blood.
In this world, he’s a piece of our jagged puzzle—and I won’t let him drift away.
“Okay,” I whisper, closing the distance just enough to press a kiss to his cheek. “Don’t be too long, alright?”
He nods again, but the words won’t come. They don’t have to. I see the truth in his eyes, the same fragile gratitude and guilt that live inside me.
Em’s hand finds mine again, tugging gently. I let him draw me back, my body fitting against his chest as he walks us the rest of the way down the hall. His chin comes to rest on my shoulder, the scrape of his stubble brushing my skin.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs against my ear, his breath hot and soft. “Taking care of our brother like that.”
A shiver runs through me, starting low in my spine and racing upward until it makes me tremble. His words are quiet, but they settle deep, sparking something fierce and tender all at once.
I tilt my head just enough to meet his eyes, my voice barely a whisper. “We take care of each other, Em. That’s what we do now.”
He hums low in agreement, presses a kiss just below my jaw, and keeps walking, his hand firm around mine as the darkness of the hall folds us in. For the first time in years, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—we’ll survive together.
~~~~~
Apparently, we all slept like the dead. The last thing I remember is warmth—bodies tangled with mine, murmured reassurances melting into the dark. The world had finally gone quiet, my heart steady for the first time in what seems like years.
Now, morning creeps in soft and golden through the curtains, brushing against my skin.
The air smells faintly of smoke, soap, and something earthy that clings to the sheets.
I blink lazily, unwilling to let the day start just yet.
There’s heat behind me, the unmistakable weight of one of my guys still in bed.
His arm is slung loosely over my waist, breathing steadily against the back of my neck.
I stretch like a cat, the motion slow and indulgent, muscles unfurling.
My hips roll before I even think about it, pressing back into the solid length nestled against me.
The purr that escapes my throat surprises me—a soft, instinctive mewl that feels more animal than human.
The body behind me stiffens in response, a deep grunt rumbling through the mattress as strong fingers tighten on my hip.
A nose brushes the curve of my neck, warm breath ghosts over my skin. Then a voice, gravelly and thick with sleep, murmurs close to my ear. “Good morning to you too, baby.”
Rowan.
The recognition thrums through me. For a heartbeat, I freeze. Of all of them, he’s the last one I expected to still be here. We’ve shared a thousand things—pain, secrets, blood—but the space between us has always felt the most fragile. We have the most to mend, and the deepest cuts to close.
Still, his hand on my hip feels right. Familiar. The tension in my chest loosens with every breath he takes. I can sense his uncertainty radiating from him like heat, that quiet self-doubt that’s followed him since the night things fell apart.
So, I move again—slow, deliberate, pressing back until the air between us disappears. My body answers his before my mind does. His grip tightens, a rough exhale catching against my neck, and I smile into the pillow.
He’s doubting himself too much. Doubting me. Doubting us.
I won’t let him.
I tilt my head just enough to catch his breath on my cheek and whisper, my voice still raspy from sleep, “You stayed.”
His lips brush my shoulder in response, the faintest touch of a smile ghosting there. “Didn’t plan to,” he admits, the confession a low rumble against my skin. “Couldn’t make myself leave.”
“Good,” I whisper back, pressing against him again until another quiet sound slips from both of us. “Because I didn’t want you to.”
He stills, the weight of my words sinking in, and then I feel it—the shift, the slow surrender.
His forehead rests against the back of my head, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my stomach.
For the first time in too long, there’s no hesitation between us.
Just warmth, quiet, and the unspoken promise that maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning of something whole again.