Chapter Twenty-One #2
Emerson never had the stability Ronan and I did.
Not really. His family life was chaos before he even had a chance to understand what it meant to feel safe.
His mom drank to forget, and his dad made sure there were things worth forgetting.
The three of us—we found each other because no one else would’ve kept us from falling apart.
We’ve always acted as if we had all the answers, as if we could outsmart the mess we were born into.
But sitting here, watching Ronan’s chest rise and fall like a countdown I can’t control, it’s obvious.
None of us are okay.
Not me, Ronan, or Emerson. Not the broken pieces of this family we’ve been trying to tape together with silence and blood.
God help us… if Ronan doesn’t wake up soon, we won’t make it through the fallout. Not as the men we were trying to be.
The thought barely has time to settle—dark and heavy in the back of my mind—when something shifts. A flicker in the corner of my vision. My eyes dart to Ronan’s hand, where his fingers twitch once, barely noticeable, but enough to knock the wind out of my lungs.
“Em,” I whisper, my voice tight with disbelief. “Look.”
Emerson’s head snaps up immediately, following my gaze just as Ronan’s fingers twitch again. Then, slowly—so fucking slowly—his head turns on the pillow, just a fraction, and a low, guttural groan escapes his throat.
The sound is raw, strained, but it’s the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve heard in days.
“Ronan…” I breathe, standing so fast the chair nearly topples behind me. “Hey, fuck, thank God. Come on, man, open your eyes. You’re good. You’re safe. Just wake up.”
My heart’s pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to shake free from my chest. I hover near the bed, eyes locked on his face, willing him to do it—to push through, to come back.
The silence between his breaths stretches just long enough to hurt before he groans again, this time more annoyed than pained.
Then, with a squint and a muttered curse, he blinks.
“Shut the fuck up,” he rasps, his voice gravelly, dry from disuse. “Quit whining like a little bitch.”
Relief crashes into me so hard I laugh—half hysteria, half exhaustion.
It’s such a Ronan response, so completely him, that it cuts right through the fear that’s been strangling me for days.
His eyes squint tighter as he winces. The light from the overhead fixture is clearly too bright, and he groans again like the very act of waking is giving him a migraine.
But he’s here.
He’s alive.
Ronan blinks a few more times, his face twisting like he’s trying to remember how to move the muscles he hasn’t used in days. The second his eyes fully open and adjust to the light, his features shift into something familiar—annoyance.
“Fuck,” he groans, trying to lift a hand to shield his face from the glare. “Can you two back up? Jesus, it’s not like it’s the first time I’ve been shot.”
Emerson snorts and leans back in his chair, the tension leaving his shoulders in a wave of silent relief.
Ronan’s tone should insult me, but it’s so him—so cocky, so casually irritated—it makes the corners of my mouth twitch.
The bastard’s barely conscious and already acting like we’re the inconvenience.
He’s grumbling under his breath about the scratchy sheets, the buzzing from the machine, and the goddamn hospital smell he’ll never get out of his room, as if he hasn’t been unconscious for days and almost bled out in our arms.
“You two hovering like anxious mothers,” he mutters, voice hoarse but gaining strength with every breath. “What, were you holding hands by the bed and whispering prayers? Should’ve known better. I don’t die that easily.”
For a second, we all breathe easier. The familiar rhythm between us settles back into place—sarcasm, insults, normalcy. Or something close to it. It almost feels safe.
Then he freezes.
It’s subtle at first. His mouth stops mid-rant. The hand he had half-raised, lowers slowly to the blanket. His eyes, which moments ago were squinting from the light, go wide—sharp with realization, as all the color drains from his face.
“Ronan?” I ask cautiously, my voice barely above a whisper.
But he isn’t listening. He’s staring at me like I’ve just put another bullet in him. Then the shock drains away, and something harder takes its place. His jaw tightens. Nostrils flare. His gaze locks onto mine and holds me there, sharp and unyielding.
It’s a glare.
Not the casual kind.
The kind that cuts through skin and sinks straight into bone.
And I know—before he says a single word.
He remembers.
And whatever memory just slammed into him, it’s tied to what I did.
To her.
It’s a look that tells me forgiveness isn’t a given, not even between brothers. It’s the kind of look I’ll see every time I close my eyes for the rest of my life.
Ronan’s stare cuts through me like a blade, but it’s his voice—guttural, rough, like it’s clawing its way out of him—that freezes me in place.
“Where is she?” he growls, the words low and dangerous, vibrating beneath the hum of the machines like a warning shot.
There’s no mistaking who he means. No nickname. No confusion. Just the girl. The girl. The one we’ve kept locked away like a secret we didn’t want to admit we had.
Emerson shifts beside me, tension radiating off him like heat. He looks at me, waiting to see which version of the truth I’m going to offer.
“She’s been… taken care of,” I say carefully, deliberately.
The moment those words leave my mouth, Ronan’s entire body tenses. His fingers twitch against the blanket, fists forming beneath the thin fabric. His eyes don’t waver from mine, but something sharp—terrifying—flickers through them.
Emerson speaks up softly, like lowering his voice might soften the truth. “She didn’t give us anything. Not one word. No name. Not even a lie. We kept her isolated. Thought she’d crack eventually, but—”
“But she didn’t,” I finish, my jaw locking tight.
Ronan doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. I can feel the exact moment the air leaves his lungs like a punch to the ribs.
His eyes widen, not from surprise, but from comprehension—like puzzle pieces snapping into place at lightning speed.
A new horror spreads across his face, washing out the color, draining him of anything but fury.
“You fucking didn’t…” he says, voice low, too quiet now.
“I—” I step forward, trying to explain, trying to justify, but Ronan cuts me off before I can take another breath.
“What the fuck did you do?” he snarls, and this time his voice is pure fire, a match dropped into gasoline.
His monitor flares, the once-steady rhythm now a rapid-fire alarm. Emerson lurches toward it instinctively, like he can calm him down just by being close, but Ronan throws off the blanket like he might rise from the bed himself. His body protests, muscles still weak, but the rage holds him upright.
“You better mean ‘taken care of’ as in safe, or so help me—” he hisses, trying to sit up again. “You think she’s a fucking threat? That girl bled trying to protect me! She fought the guy who actually shot me!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I snap, my voice raw as my heart slams against my ribs. “We found her with you, and she—”
“She didn’t shoot me!” he shouts again, pointing a shaking finger in my direction. “Bryce’s guy Trent did. I saw the flash of his watch. I was conscious long enough to see her dive between us. She tried to stop it!”
The replay hits me.
A memory I dismissed—just a second’s hesitation when I saw her in that basement. The way she didn’t flinch when I raised my hand. The way she glared at the floor—like she expected it. Like she welcomed it. Not because she was guilty… but because she already knew we wouldn’t believe her.
“We thought—” Emerson starts, but Ronan shakes his head, biting down hard on the pain.
“You thought wrong,” he snaps. “You tortured the one person who actually gave a damn about us. About me. You left her alone down there. Hurt. Humiliated. And you did it without even asking her name.”
“We know who she is,” I add quickly, like it might calm him. “She’s the fighter. Cupcake. We’ve been calling her that since the warehouse. We—”
Ronan barks out a laugh that has no humor in it, just venom. He tilts his head toward me, eyes flashing with disbelief.
“Sure she is,” he scoffs, then points a shaky finger between me and Emerson. “But you never recognized her. Not really.” He cackles then, low and bitter, the sound curling through the room like smoke choking the air. “She was right in front of you. Right fucking there. And neither of you saw her.”
My stomach knots. “Ronan—”
“I was right not to tell you when I figured it out,” he cuts me off, his voice thick with rage. “Neither of you deserved to know. You still don’t. Not after what you did to her.”
I look at Emerson, but he’s just as lost as I am, his brow pulled tight, lips parted like he wants to ask—but can’t quite believe he doesn’t already know.
“She gave you her name?” Em finally asks, tension tightening his voice.
Ronan shakes his head slowly, a cruel, knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “She didn’t have to,” he says. “Because I recognized her. I knew. The second I looked at her, I knew exactly who she was. My soulmate. The one thing in this world that was mine. Just like you should’ve known.”
His voice cracks at the end, and something breaks loose inside me. A memory. A voice. A flash of blue eyes and shy laughter. A storm of blood and smoke and betrayal—and her face at the center of it all.
My heart drops like a stone in my chest, the air vanishing from the room as every piece slams into place.
My mouth goes dry, features slack.
Ronan sees it.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice quieter now but no less lethal. “You’re getting it now, aren’t you? Finally, putting it together.”
He looks between us, his glare cutting sharper than any blade. “I told you,” he breathes. “This entire fucking time. I said it again and again, and neither of you believed me. Wouldn’t even listen.”
Emerson curses under his breath, fists clenched at his sides. “Just spit it out already, Ronan. Enough of the goddamn riddles.”
“Oh, right,” Ronan says with a wicked grin, pain and fury dancing behind his eyes.
“Guess you’re too dense to figure it out on your own after all.
Let me enlighten you, since clearly, I’m the only one paying attention.
” He leans in, voice low and sharp, and speaks two syllables that hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. “Berkley.”