Chapter Fourteen #2
My face finds its way to her neck without thought.
The scent wraps around me—something sweet and faintly smoky, like fire clinging to honey.
I breathe her in, slow and deep, until the air itself feels thick enough to choke me.
The sound that rumbles from my throat surprises us both.
It’s low, guttural, nothing civilized. I try to swallow it back, but it breaks free anyway, a quiet growl that vibrates against her skin.
She stirs at the sound, shifting until she can face me. Her eyes open, still heavy with sleep but brighter than I’ve seen in years. The sight of her like this—unguarded, soft, dangerous in her quiet—undoes me completely.
Her hand lifts, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing my jaw before she slides them around the back of my neck.
She holds me there for a second, studying me with those steady eyes.
I can see the hesitation flicker across her face, the war between caution and want.
Maybe she’s afraid of being rejected. Maybe she’s afraid of breaking me.
I’m not sure which of us she’s protecting.
Then she pulls me down.
The first brush of her lips is tentative, like she’s testing the ground before taking a step.
My heart stumbles. I can’t stop my hand from tightening at her waist, my thumb tracing lazy circles into her skin as I kiss her back.
Her mouth parts against mine, soft and slow, and the world tilts with it.
There’s no rush, no desperation. Just warmth building between us, a steady rise of something that feels older than our mistakes.
Her fingers slide into my hair, tugging just enough to drag a groan out of me. I press closer, deepening the kiss, gliding my tongue gently with hers—every touch a promise not to run, not to hurt, not this time.
She tastes of sleep and redemption, like forgiveness I don’t deserve but crave. When she sighs into my mouth, the sound slips straight into my chest and roots itself in my heart.
We move together, unhurried touches. My hand finds the small of her back; hers traces the lines of my shoulder. Every point of contact hums. The tension between us—years of silence, pain, wanting—bleeds into the space until it feels alive, electric.
When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests against mine. We stay like that, breathing each other in, the quiet stretching and softening around us.
Neither of us speaks. We don’t need to. The kiss said everything words can’t.
For the first time, it feels like we’ve stopped fighting ghosts. For the first time, it’s just us—alive, awake, and holding on.
Until her stomach growls loud enough to break the quiet between us. For a beat, we both freeze—foreheads still pressed together—and then laughter spills out of us, soft and unexpected. It shakes something loose inside my chest, a knot I didn’t know I’d been holding.
“Guess that’s my cue,” I murmur, brushing a thumb over her cheek before pressing one last kiss to her lips. “Let’s get you some breakfast, baby.”
She hums in agreement, still smiling, and I can’t stop myself from smiling back.
The sound of her laughter is still lingering as we untangle from the sheets and pull on the first clothes we can find.
There’s something domestic about the way she slides on one of my shirts—it hangs off her shoulder, swallowing her whole—and I feel a dangerous possessive warmth bloom in my chest.
The hallway is quiet except for the faint clatter of dishes and the low hum of conversation. As soon as we step into the kitchen, the smell of bacon and coffee hits, thick and perfect.
And then we see them. Our family.
Ronan stands at the stove, spatula in hand, wearing nothing but his black boxer briefs, his inked skin shifting with every move he makes.
The only thing keeping him from being indecent is an apron that reads Kiss the Chef—except the word Kiss has been crossed out and replaced with Fuck in thick black marker. The bastard even looks proud of it.
Emerson is beside him, setting plates on the table, shirtless, though at least he’s wearing shorts. The two of them look like they walked out of a damn calendar shoot for poor decisions.
Berkley stops dead in the doorway, blinking once, twice. Her mouth falls open a little, and I swear she forgets how to breathe for a second. I don’t mean to laugh, but it breaks free before I can contain it.
“Don’t stare too long,” I tease, swatting her on the ass as I nudge her forward. “You might start drooling.”
She yelps and shoots me a glare over her shoulder, one hand flying to her backside, rubbing the sting away. The sound alerts the idiots in the kitchen.
Both Ronan and Emerson glance over at us, identical smirks forming. Ronan flips a strip of bacon, grinning like the devil. “Morning, lovebirds,” he drawls. “Sleep well, Pix?”
Emerson chuckles low, leaning against the counter. “Judging by those smiles, I’d say very well.”
I roll my eyes but can’t stop my grin. “You two are ridiculous.”
Berkley’s cheeks flush pink, but she doesn’t hide behind me. Not this time. She squares her shoulders and fires right back, “We slept great, actually. How about you two? Enjoying your matching nudist chef aesthetic?”
Ronan laughs, full and rich, tossing his head back. “You know you like the view, baby.”
“I’ve seen better,” she shoots back, lips twitching.
Emerson groans as he sets the last plate on the table. “Please, for the love of everything holy, keep your flirting away from the food. I’m starving.”
I slip an arm around Berkley’s waist and guide her toward the table, unable to keep the lightness out of my step. The tension that’s been hanging between all of us feels thinner now, stretched but not breaking. There’s something new here—a fragile peace, but it’s peace, nonetheless.
As Ronan plates breakfast and Emerson pours coffee, I glance at them, at her, at all of us gathered in this small space that somehow feels like the center of the world again.
The sound of small, sleepy footsteps drifts down the hall before we even finish plating the food. A few seconds later, Kimber appears in the doorway, hair sticking up in wild little tufts, her oversized T-shirt hanging halfway to her knees. She blinks at us, nose scrunching as she rubs her eyes.
“Smells yummy,” she mumbles, her voice rough with sleep.
Berkley’s face brightens instantly, the fatigue from the night before melting away. She steps away from her chair and opens her arms with a soft smile. “Hey there! Good morning, trouble. Come here, kiddo.”
Kimber runs straight into her arms without hesitation, instinctive trust that twists something in my chest. It’s been so long since that little girl had anyone to run to.
Seeing her wrap her arms around Berk’s neck, her small fingers fisting in the fabric of her borrowed shirt—it feels like something right has finally found its way back home.
Ronan grins from the stove, flipping the last of the pancakes onto a plate. “The princess awakens,” he says, his voice teasing but gentle in a way I rarely hear. “You’re just in time. Grab a seat before your brothers eat everything.”
Kimber laughs, wrinkling her nose as she climbs onto the chair. “You made pancakes? Real ones?”
“Real ones,” Emerson says, sliding a plate in front of her and ruffling her hair. “None of that boxed nonsense. Ronan insisted on showing off.”
“Hey,” Ronan shoots back, “I’m a man of many talents.”
“Yeah,” Berkley mutters under her breath as she takes her seat beside Kimber, “most of them involve fire and trouble.”
Ronan catches the jab and winks. “You love it.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it, and the small, serene smile that curves her lips is one I’m starting to crave.
I take the chair next to her, watching the way Kimber chatters between bites—about how soft the bed was, about the dream she had where Reign turned into a dragon and chased all the bad guys away, about how she thought Berkley’s hair looked like “cotton candy but dangerous.” The way she speaks makes the air lighter, filling every crack that’s fractured this house.
Berkley listens to every word, her eyes soft and shining. She passes Kimber a glass of milk and lets her talk without interruption, like nothing else in the world matters more than hearing her voice.
Emerson leans back in his chair, his elbows propped lazily on the table. “You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “we’ve got a good thing going here.”
Ronan grins. “You getting sentimental on us?”
“Shut up,” Emerson replies, though there’s no bite to it. “I’m just saying—it’s been a long time since we’ve felt like a home.”
Berkley looks up at that, her fork stalling halfway to her mouth.
For a heartbeat, she just watches us—her gaze moving slowly, deliberately.
Ronan first, all bare skin and muscle beneath that stupidly tiny apron, looking like trouble incarnate.
Then Emerson, quiet and steady, his attention fixed on Kimber with a reverence that softens his entire frame, like the world narrows when she’s in it.
And then there’s me—too close, close enough to feel the warmth of Berk’s shoulder brushing mine, close enough to be painfully aware of every inch of space we’re not quite touching.
Her eyes linger there a second longer, something unreadable flickering across her face before she finally lowers her fork.
Her smile is soft, steady—rooted in understanding rather than hope. “Then maybe it’s time it feels like home again,” she says, like the idea isn’t a risk but a decision she’s already made.
Something in the air shifts. It’s not loud or dramatic.
Just quiet understanding, a shared breath.
We’ve all lost too much to pretend that what we have isn’t fragile.
But at that moment—with the smell of pancakes and coffee, Kimber giggling with syrup on her chin, and sunlight slanting through the window—it feels like the start of something new.
I let my gaze drift around the table—taking in the faces that make up my entire world now, each of us scarred, reshaped, held together by shared damage and stubborn loyalty.
We’re imperfect and fractured, stitched together by loss and survival, but for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel something settle in my chest. Something solid that isn’t about bracing for impact.
Family.
Ours—messy, hard-won, forged in chaos and ruin. And somehow… it’s enough.