Chapter Five #2
I slide an arm under her legs and another behind her back and lift her straight out of the chair. She lets out a startled squeak, hands gripping my shoulders.
“Rowan,” she protests, breathless. “Put me—”
“Nope,” I adjust her easily, settling her against my chest. “That’s enough for tonight, princess.”
“I’m not—” she tries again.
“You are literally falling out of chairs,” Ronan says, dragging a hand down his face. “Let him play hero, Pix.”
Emerson nods, pushing away from the desk. “We’re all running on fumes. You especially.”
Berk scowls at the three of us, but it’s soft, exhausted, with no fire behind it. “I can still work.”
“Sure, you can,” I say, kissing her lips as she squirms weakly. “But you’re not.”
She swats at my chest in slow motion, her wrist limp with fatigue. “I hate all of you.”
Emerson snorts. “No, you don’t.”
“I do,” she insists. “Right now, I absolutely do.”
Ronan raises a brow. “Mm-hmm. And how much will you hate us once you’re horizontal, warming our cocks?”
Emerson and I bark out laughs, and she scoffs with a mock-offended huff, playing up the fake shock even though she knows we’re right. “Fine,” she says, lips twitching. “Maybe… slightly less.”
We trade a look over her head—the kind that admits she’s fraying and we’re keeping her intact with whatever thread remains.
As I carry her down the hall, her fingers curl weakly into my shirt.
She presses her cheek to my jaw, breathing me in like she’s finally letting herself be safe.
Behind us, Ronan puts the computers to sleep and gathers the loose papers, Emerson close at his shoulder.
The war room falls quiet, leaving only the weight of our exhaustion.
“You’re warm,” she murmurs sleepily.
I smile into her hair. “Convenient, since you’re freezing.”
When we reach the bedroom, she tugs lightly at the collar of my shirt. “Rowan?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Thank you for catching me.”
I kiss the corner of her mouth—soft, lingering. “Always.”
We peel out of our clothes quietly, then help Berk out of hers with the same care, easing fabric away instead of tugging it free.
She sleeps hot, always has, and layers only make the restlessness worse—but it’s more than that.
Skin to skin grounds her, settles her breathing, keeps the nightmares at bay.
We settle in close, bare arms and chests forming a steady circle around her, sharing warmth the way we share watch.
It isn’t about sex or want; it’s about comfort, about reminding her body she’s not alone, that she’s held, protected, and allowed to rest.
She clings to my chest, reluctant to let go, so I don’t make her.
Instead, I climb in and settle her on top of me, where she can curl close like a small kitten seeking warmth.
Ronan slides in behind her, solid and steady, while Emerson stretches out on our other side, anchoring the space.
Our bodies form a quiet enclosure around her—shared heat, slow breaths, an unspoken promise of protection that finally lets her rest.
Her eyes flutter shut almost instantly as exhaustion takes her.
“We all need sleep,” I whisper to the guys. “Tomorrow, we tear the world apart again.”
Emerson nods. Ronan drapes an arm over both of us with a soft grunt. And for the first time since Kimber disappeared, the house settles into something close to peace—unsteady, temporary, but real.
Sleep finds us slowly, but it finds us together.
When the sun finally blinks its way through the blinds, the light cuts across my eyelids and pulls me toward consciousness.
I stretch slowly, muscles tight and heavy, and the first thing I register is the warm weight pressed against my chest. Berk is still draped over me exactly where she fell asleep, her cheek resting over my heartbeat as if she has always belonged there.
I tighten my arms around her instinctively, pulling her closer, breathing her in.
She hasn’t moved all night, not even when Em slipped out of bed a couple of hours ago.
I remember the shift of the mattress but was too far gone to do more than grunt and tighten my hold on our girl, so she didn’t roll away.
Ronan is on my other side, still dead to the world.
That alone tells me how worn down we all are.
My twin is usually the first one up, prowling the house like some restless wolf before any of us have even cracked an eyelid.
But now his breathing is deep and even, face slack in sleep, one arm thrown possessively over Berk’s waist as if even unconscious he refuses to let her go.
We haven’t been waking up with Berk for long, not like this, not in a bed that finally feels like it was built for all four of us rather than three lonely brothers.
But I am already addicted to every small thing she does when she surfaces from sleep.
Right now, her lashes flutter, brushing my skin lightly.
Then she makes those soft noises, the ones that sound almost like a kitten stretching in a sunbeam.
Little mewling sounds that absolutely gut me in the best way.
Her body shifts, a gentle wiggle that slides heat right through me, her hips adjusting, legs shifting across mine, her nose nudging my throat like she’s burrowing closer before being fully awake.
I swear to fuck, I could live in this moment forever.
Her fingers flex against my ribs, delicate but claiming, and she lets out another tiny sound that curls straight down my spine.
It’s ridiculous how something so small can undo me so completely.
But it’s her. It has always been her. Even half asleep, she anchors me, like we can face all the nightmares instead of drowning in them.
I lower my chin, brushing my lips against her hair, letting my voice rumble softly against her skull. “Morning, kitten.”
She stirs again at the sound, another quiet little sigh slipping from her lips. And just like that, the world is bearable again.
Ronan shifts beside me, stretching with a low groan as he wakes. He leans in without hesitation, brushing a slow kiss along the curve of Berkley’s bare back. She lets out the softest little sigh in her sleep, a sound that goes straight through both of us.
“Good morning, baby,” Ronan whispers, his lips barely leaving her skin.
She stirs, a tiny movement that presses her even closer somehow. Her breath warms my throat as she nuzzles in, a sleepy instinct she has when she’s still half in a dream. Ronan lifts his head and meets my eyes over her shoulder.
“Morning, brother,” he mumbles, voice rough from sleep.
“Morning,” I answer with a lazy grin. My arm tightens around Berk automatically, protective, greedy, unwilling to let her go for even a second.
Ronan glances around the room, taking in the faint early light leaking through the blinds. “Where’s Em?” he asks quietly.
“He got up a little while ago,” I whisper back. “Kitchen or the war room, probably.”
Ronan nods once, then turns his eyes back to Berkley. A slow, wicked smirk spreads across his lips—the one that means trouble and pleasure in equal measure.
His tone drops, soft but unmistakably suggestive. “So… how are we waking our girl up this morning?”
My grin mirrors my twins with equal enthusiasm. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Right on cue, Berkley lets out a tiny, muffled giggle against my neck. Like she’s been listening, pretending to sleep, hoping we’d keep talking.
We freeze for half a beat, then Ronan laughs quietly.
“Oh, she’s awake,” he teases.
She makes a noise—something between a groan and a laugh—and burrows deeper into me like she’s trying to hide under my skin.
“Am not,” she mumbles, her voice scratchy and soft with sleep.
“Liar,” I whisper into her hair. “You always make those little sounds when you’re waking up.”
“Do not,” she argues, which only proves my point.
Ronan traces a slow line down her spine with the backs of his fingers, and her breath hitches—barely, but enough.
“Good morning, kitten,” he says, lips brushing her shoulder. “Time to open those pretty eyes.”
She tightens her arm around my waist instead, refusing.
I slide my hand up her back, fingers threading gently into her hair. “Come on, princess,” I coax softly. “Let us see you.”
She peeks up finally, her eyes heavy and warm, cheeks still flushed from sleep. She blinks at us, pouty and perfect.
“There you are,” Ronan says, his smile going soft around the edges just for her.
She groans again, embarrassed, and hides her face in my chest.
I chuckle and tilt her face with a gentle hand.
“No hiding,” I whisper. “Not from us.”
She’s ours in a way that feels sacred.
Ronan leans in, brushing her hair off her shoulder with a tenderness that doesn’t match the devilish glint in his eyes. “Let us wake you up the right way,” he whispers against her skin.
She hums a sound that catches low in her throat, warm and wanting, and for a heartbeat I think she’s going to melt right back into us.
She shifts again, burrowing between Ronan and me like she’s trying to hide.
Her breath fans across my chest, rough and uneven, and the morning light cuts soft lines across her face.
“You know I love you guys, right?”
Her words land like a whisper and a punch at the same time. Ronan and I answer instantly, overlapping without thought.
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
She nods, a tiny motion that looks like it’s holding her together.
“Good. Then you know that if I turn you down, it’s coming from a place of love.
” She tries to smile, and it comes out a shaky little giggle.
For a second she looks like the girl she used to be years ago before everything went to hell.
Before our fathers stripped our lives bare.
Before they took Reign. Before they broke Berkley in ways we’re still uncovering, one wound at a time.
She tries to slip away, but we both grab her because losing her warmth is something neither of us tolerates easily. She laughs again, breathless, as our hands slide over her hips, trying to pull her back into bed. But she’s determined, wiggling out from our hold like a sneaky little fox.
“As much as I want to stay in this bed all day,” she says, brushing hair from her eyes, “and as much as I want to let you three do every filthy thing I’ve imagined for years… I can’t. My mind keeps drifting…” She trails off, voice thinning like it can’t carry the weight of the truth.
She doesn’t need to finish.
Kimber.
The room shifts with her words. Heavy. Quiet. Real. The kind of silence that makes your ribs ache.
I swallow hard and sit up, meeting her eyes. “Then let us take care of you in another way.”
Ronan moves beside me, stretching like a cat with violence simmering under his skin. He gives me a look that says he’s two minutes from breaking something if he doesn’t channel that fury into something useful.
We get dressed with a familiar, quiet efficiency. She pulls on one of our hoodies, sleeves swallowing her hands. I grab her fingers as we move toward the hallway, and she grabs Ronan’s, creating a chain that feels like a promise.
When we enter the war room, Emerson’s already there, looking like he hasn’t moved in hours.
The glow from the monitors paints his face in cold blue light, making the exhaustion beneath his eyes even darker.
His shoulders slump as if the world is pressing its full weight on him, and hell, maybe it is.
Kimber is his blood. His responsibility. His heart.
Berkley doesn’t hesitate. She crawls into his lap, settling in like that’s where she belongs. Emerson breathes her in, hand rising to cradle the back of her head as she kisses him gently. It isn’t hunger. It is survival.
“Morning, baby,” he whispers, voice rough and frayed.
“Morning,” she murmurs, her thumb brushing under his eye. “You doing okay?”
He tries to nod like it’s nothing, but she holds his face still until he’s forced to meet her gaze. Something softens in his expression, and he kisses her palm. “As good as I can be. Promise.”
She studies him a beat longer, searching for cracks, then nods and slips into her seat. She pulls the keyboard toward her like she’s about to go to war with the world.
Before she can dive in, I step forward. “Ronan and I will make breakfast. You two stay.”
She looks up at me, and something warm flickers behind her exhaustion. Gratitude. Trust. A tiny sliver of peace in a sea of panic.
I bend down and kiss her forehead, lingering in her scent. Ronan kisses her after me, his fingers caressing the back of her neck before he lets her go.
Emerson watches us with glassy eyes that he would never admit are glassy.
We leave the war room, door clicking shut behind us, and move toward the tiny kitchen of this borrowed safe house. The house is old, creaking with every shift of weight, but a place no one would ever look twice at. Perfect for ghosts like us.
Ronan cracks his knuckles and runs a hand through his hair before looking at me.
“Breakfast,” he mutters.
“Breakfast,” I echo, already stepping aside.
Our mom taught us both how to cook, but Ronan took to it in a way I never did. I can handle a handful of dishes and nail them every time—but Ronan? Give him a fridge, a stove, and a challenge, and he’ll figure it out. So I let him lead, because this is his lane, and right now I trust him with it.
Feeding each other is a different kind of battlefield. Strength looks like eggs and toast this morning. If we’re going to tear the world apart and bring Kimber home, we have to keep the center of our family standing.
And Berkley is that center.
She always has been.
She always will be.