Chapter Seventeen
Ronan
When Em and I sent Rowan to bed with Berk, the plan was simple—give them space to heal what was broken.
I didn’t expect to walk in later and find them tangled together like that, moving with hunger that said forgiveness had turned into something far more primal.
Especially after the noises coming from the shower earlier.
Our girl has a hunger for us—one we’re more than willing to satisfy.
For a second, I can’t breathe. Her leg is hooked high over his shoulder, his hands gripping her hips like he’s anchoring himself, and the sound she makes—soft and wrecked—shoots straight to my dick.
He’s always loved her. My pulse slams against my ribs, and my body reacts instantly, no thought, no control.
Behind me, Em lets out a low grunt, barely contained.
I glance sideways and see the tension in his jaw, his fists flexing at his sides.
He’s fighting the same war I am—instinct versus restraint—even though he just had her several times hours ago.
Neither of us moves. We stand frozen, watching, letting the moment burn into us like a scar.
The room feels too small, too charged, the air thick with heat and need.
When they finally slow, when Rowan’s body bows against hers and the sounds turn into soft whispers, I can’t take it anymore. I let a smirk crawl across my lips, that familiar devil-may-care grin that always gets me in trouble. If I don’t say something now, I’ll explode.
“Damn, brother,” I drawl, stepping forward, voice dripping with amusement and challenge.
“I thought you’d have better stamina than that.
” I push off the doorframe, taking my time crossing the floor, every step measured, deliberate, my gaze locked on Berk.
“Should I show you how it’s done?” I tilt my head, raising one brow in invitation, the smirk never leaving my lips.
Her cheeks flush instantly, but there’s no fear there—just heat.
She looks between the three of us, pulse fluttering in her throat, lips parting like she wants to speak but can’t quite find the words.
Rowan tenses, his body going taut beside her, but there’s no jealousy in his eyes when he looks at me. Only fire.
Emerson finally comments, his voice quiet but steady, cutting through the haze that’s filled the room. “Careful, Ro. You start something, you better be ready to finish it.”
My grin widens, slow and sinful, a smile that says I’m already past the point of caring.
The air between us hums, thick and electric, full of tension and history and everything we’ve kept buried for too damn long.
I can feel it—the shift happening right here in this room—where forgiveness bleeds into desire, and all our broken edges finally fit together again.
In more ways than one.
Once I rise over them, the mattress dipping under my weight, I hook my fingers into the hem of my shirt and peel it off in one smooth, practiced motion.
It’s effortless—deliberate—and the instant Berk’s eyes widen, her breath catching, a slow heat coils through me.
Her gaze tracks down my chest, lingering on every scar, every line of muscle, every mark of ink, and I let a knowing smirk settle in, because I recognize that look all too well.
“Oh, I plan on finishing it,” I say, voice low enough to vibrate through the space between us.
“But this is your only chance to back out, Pix.” I reach down, catching her chin with my fingertips, tilting her face up so she can’t look anywhere but at me.
“We’re going to wreck you tonight, baby. You good with that?”
Her lips part, her eyes wide and glassy, her body trembling between need and disbelief. She nods so fast it’s almost desperate, but that’s not enough. I want to hear it.
“I’m going to need words, baby.”
“Yes,” she breathes, the sound catching halfway out of her throat. Her voice shakes, the words tumbling over themselves like she can’t get them out fast enough. “Yes. Please. Claim me. All of you.”
The air shifts, thickening, grounding us all in that one moment.
Three deep growls roll through the room—mine, Rowan’s, and Em’s—low and primal, the sound vibrating in our chests like predators on the hunt for our mate.
It’s the sound of possession, of belonging, of something older than any of us can name.
After tonight, there’s no retreat. Who we were—fractured, distant, barely holding together—ended the instant her plea left her mouth. What rises in its place is new, unbreakable, forged in heat and choice, and not even the shadows of our past can tear it apart.
My fingers trace the line of her face, barely grazing her skin, careful and reverent, the way a man touches what he knows he could lose.
Warmth blooms beneath my fingertips—smooth, solid, undeniably real—and despite all we’ve endured, it still feels impossible that she’s here.
Holding her feels sacred, like proof made flesh, and I linger as if staying close will anchor her to this moment—and to me.
Her lashes flutter, eyes searching mine, and I swear I can feel my pulse in my throat. Every scar, every sin, every ounce of darkness in me quiets when I look at her. There’s nothing else in the world—no revenge, no noise, no ghosts—just her. My center. My gravity.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” I whisper, the words rough as gravel. My thumb traces the curve of her lower lip, and her breath catches on contact. “We love you, baby. All of us. Now let us show you, because words…” I pause, swallowing hard, “words aren’t enough to tell you what you mean to us.”
Her eyes shimmer, wide and wet, and then she nods. It’s frantic, desperate even, as if she’s afraid that hesitating for a second might break the spell. Her hands clutch at me, nails pressing faint crescents into my skin, and I can feel the tremor in her chest when she exhales.
That’s all I need. That one look, that one nod, and I know she understands—this isn’t just about wanting her. It’s about proving to her, and maybe to ourselves, that she’s the pulse holding us together, the heart that beats inside each of us.
“Good girl,” I murmur, my hand sliding up the curve of her neck until my fingers rest lightly against her throat. Her pulse thrums beneath my palm, fast and unsteady, and the sound of her quick breathing makes my chest tighten. “You going to do what I tell you?”
Her answer comes as a frantic nod, her eyes wide and trusting, her lips parted as if the air between us isn’t enough. The sight hits me like a blow—this mix of fire and submission, of power she gives freely and completely.
“Good,” I say again, voice low and steady, the word vibrating against her skin. “Now get on your hands and knees, baby. Let us see your pretty pink pussy glistening for us.”
She moves so fast it pulls a laugh out of me, soft and rough at once. “Someone’s eager,” I tease, watching the way she positions herself, the way she breathes through the anticipation. Her body is all trembling lines and soft curves, the picture of surrender and strength at the same time.
Rowan props himself up beside her, a cocky grin tugging at his mouth. “She’s probably soaked.” Pride flashes through his eyes as all of us look—evidence glistening between her thighs, marked by my twin’s release.
Behind us, I hear the rustle of fabric, the sound of Emerson pulling his shirt over his head. The motion catches Berk’s attention, and she shivers visibly, eyes darting between us. The air grows heavier, thick with heat and expectation, like a storm building in the distance.
I trail my hand down her spine, slow enough for her to feel every inch of the touch.
Her skin ripples under my palm as I follow the slope of her back, tracing down until my hand settles over the curve of her ass.
My thumb strokes lazily against the wetness dripping from her lips, a silent promise of what’s coming next.
“Perfect,” I whisper, my tone turning softer even as desire roughens it. “You don’t even know what you do to us, Pix.”
Both Em and Rowan grunt their agreement, indistinct sounds that vibrate through the air like the start of a storm.
The energy in the room changes—sharp and electric—thrumming under my skin.
Neither of them says a word, but they don’t have to.
We’ve always moved like this—instinct, unspoken understanding, a language built through years of fighting beside each other.
Emerson moves to her side, brushing the hair off her shoulder, his fingers lingering there, tracing the line of her neck. Rowan stays close to her on the other side, his expression quiet but intent, eyes dark with focus that could burn through steel.
Berk breathes in deep, her back arching slightly as if her body knows where they are before she looks. Her hands grip the sheets, knuckles white, but her face—god, her face—is all calm surrender, trust threaded through every line of her.
I stay behind her, one hand resting on her hip, feeling the tremors ripple through her muscles as they position themselves. My pulse matches hers, fast and heavy, every heartbeat a countdown to when words stop mattering and touch takes over.
We move together, silent but perfectly in sync, the three of us closing in around her like the walls of a heartbeat, steady and inevitable.
My hand meets her ass with a sharp, echoing slap that pulls a startled gasp from her lips.
The sound sends a shock through me, low and primal, something raw and old waking beneath my skin—the instinct of a beast recognizing what’s his.
She freezes for half a heartbeat, then exhales a quiet moan that trembles through the air, melting into the space between us.
I drag my hand slowly over the spot, tracing the warmth that blooms there, letting her feel my touch settle after the spark.