Chapter Six
Berkley
As much as I want my men glued to me every minute of the day, it’s not fair to use sex as a distraction from the absolute nightmare we are living in.
That’s the only reason I turned the twins down earlier.
Honestly, it felt like ripping out a vital organ with a plastic spoon.
Denying them might qualify as a war crime.
The thought alone makes a wicked little smile curl my lips. The twins are walking sin. They ruin me in stereo. The things they can do when they team up on me should be illegal.
Naturally, Emerson notices the exact expression the second it forms. “I know that smirk,” he says, sliding closer until he’s in my space. “Did you get a good dicking this morning, baby?”
He sounds like he’s about to pin a gold star on his own chest for a job well done.
I snort. “No, actually. I did not.”
He blinks. Then blinks again. His eyes sweep over me like he’s checking for stab wounds or possession. His voice drops into full overprotective-boyfriend concern, the kind that means he’s two seconds away from checking my pulse.
“You okay? Because you turning us down is… concerning.” He looks startled, like he expects the apocalypse to crack open the ceiling because I said no to sex. And honestly? Fair. It should shock him. My libido is basically a caffeinated feral cat.
God, these men. They’re turning me soft. I used to wake up ready to sharpen knives and end dynasties. I used to fantasize about slaughtering entire trafficking rings before breakfast. Now I wake up wanting to cuddle. Cuddle. The universe should smite me for weakness.
I mean, sure, I think about killing Bryce and Dean every single day, and also anyone who has ever emailed them, or stood next to them, or breathed in their direction. But before all this domesticity, I used to think bigger. Whole criminal networks. Elaborate revenge fantasies. Calling cards.
My calling card specifically being hot dog octopuses. The perfect balance of absurdity and psychological warfare. I could have been a legend.
Berkley Monroe, professional wiener slayer.
By the time that mental image hits, my smile is downright feral.
Emerson inches closer, staring like I just sprouted horns.
“Baby,” he says slowly, “you’re muttering about octopus supremacy. Do you need water? A nap? A foursome? Because I’m picking up… something.”
I turn my head and give him a long stare. He studies my eyes, tracking the dangerous little spark between them. When he sees it, something wicked flickers over his face too.
“There she is,” he breathes with a grin. “My bright-haired, beautifully unhinged pixie. Thought we lost you there for a bit.”
Muted.
He’s not wrong. I have been. Too quiet. Too numb.
The smile fades from my lips, but not my eyes. “Yeah,” I breathe, my shoulders locked tight. “I’m still here.” My voice comes out rough—graveled, edged with violence—the sound of someone broken and reforged in rage.
Emerson’s grin turns sharp. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because we’re going to need your particular brand of crazy before this is over.”
He isn’t joking. Neither am I.
Because the part of me that went quiet during the fear is waking up again.
And she is hungry.
The warrior inside me settles into a crouch the second my fingers hit the keys, perching on my ribcage waiting for the next throat to tear out.
I crack my knuckles once, twice, letting the familiar sting fire through my hands as I dive back into the screens glowing in front of me.
The world narrows to shifting code, failed trails, scraped data.
Every dead end ratchets my pulse tighter, a grinding pressure behind my sternum.
Emerson leans in and kisses my cheek, light and warm in a way that feels foreign after the filth of the last days. It slides across my skin like a promise I didn’t know I needed.
“I’m going to check on the guys and breakfast,” he murmurs.
I grunt something that’s meant to pass for agreement, though it probably lands closer to a threat. I’m already back in the digital maze, hunting—cutting through lines of data like bone. But even submerged, I’m never so far gone that I can’t hear the people I love.
Em’s voice drifts from the hallway, low and worried. “She’s growling again,” he says, like I’m some mythical creature he’s trying to diagnose. “And she mentioned octopus hot dogs. Is that… normal?”
There’s a beat of silence, then Ronan’s bark of laughter hits like a gunshot. “Pixie,” he calls down the hall, “Em thinks you lost it. Says you’re muttering about octopuses.”
I do not look away from the screen, do not stop typing, but my mouth twitches in a dark, delighted grin. Emerson must glare at him because the next sound is a hushed, frantic whisper telling Ronan to shut up because he’s actually concerned.
“Please explain to them,” I yell back, amused.
He groans like I’ve ruined his morning, and I can hear him begrudgingly retell my brilliant idea for a calling card. A masterpiece, if you ask me.
Rowan’s voice follows, flat with disbelief. “Fuck.”
Emerson adds a weary “Damn,” but now they’re laughing too.
A moment later Em reappears, carrying a plate of food, and tries to hand it to me without interrupting my workflow. I force myself to pause, take it, and set it down. Then I reach over and fist the front of his shirt, stopping his retreat.
His body goes still, not from fear but from recognition. He knows this version of me. The one hanging off the edge, barely balanced between brilliance and bloodlust.
I tug him closer until the heat of his breath brushes my lips.
“Em,” I say quietly, “are you scared for me or of me?”
The question is sharper than I mean it to be.
It slips out of the wounded part of me; the part stitched together badly after years of clawing my way out of the hell our fathers built.
The part afraid that my darkness is growing teeth again.
The part terrified that Emerson, whose heart is too good for this world, might back away once he sees too clearly what I’m capable of.
His hand covers mine where it grips his shirt. Warm. Steady. He leans down until his forehead presses against mine, a gentle touch that hits harder than any blow.
“Baby,” he whispers, breath mixing with mine, “I am scared because of what they did to you. Not of you.”
A fault line splits inside me. What’s left sets hard.
He cups my cheek with his free hand, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he’s wiping away a bruise only he can see.
“You are the strongest person I have ever met,” he says, voice low and fierce. “And nothing about you scares me.”
I swallow once, the warrior in my chest lifting her head, stretching her claws because she loves him too.
“Good,” I whisper back, “because I’m done being muted. And I need to know you can handle that.”
His thumb drags along my jaw until his hand settles at my throat, the grip firm and grounding, like he’s holding the reins.
“I can handle all of you.” Heat pulses through me—slow, dangerous.
Emerson doesn’t look away. His eyes stay locked on mine, unflinching.
Not afraid of the damage, of the rage. Not afraid of the storm he knows lives under my skin.
And for the first time since Kimber vanished, certainty settles deep in my bones.
Focus. Fuel. Fury sharpened enough to kill gods.
The darkness inside me is awake again.
And everyone who took something from us is about to learn exactly what that means.
Our foreheads stay pressed together, the rest of the room blurring at the edges.
Emerson’s breath fans across my lips, warm and familiar, something that feels like home even though nothing around us resembles it.
His fingers slide along my jaw, steady and gentle in a way that splinters a brittle place in my chest.
He kisses me again, soft but deliberate, a tether pulling me back from the storm roaring inside me.
“Stop letting me distract you,” he whispers, the words brushing against my mouth. “I’m in my head about Kimber. And I’m worried about you. About all of us. But I love you. Forever.” Another kiss, followed by a quiet, tired laugh. “Just try to get rid of me. Can’t be done.”
He says it like a joke, but I feel the truth of it sinking into my bones. It wraps around my heart like armor. For a moment I let myself lean into him, let myself feel the safety I refuse to ask for. The world outside is a battlefield. Emerson’s touch is the eye of the storm.
When we pull apart, the air feels fresh. Thicker. Charged.
Ronan and Rowan slip into the room, quiet as ghosts.
They don’t comment—there’s no need. Their silence is deliberate, respectful, a rare restraint from two men who usually meet emotion with snark or hunger or both.
It tells me they heard everything. It also tells me they’re giving me space to breathe before we dive back into blood and chaos.
A second is all I need.
A switch flips inside my skull—one I know far too well.
The grief, the fear, the guilt still churns under the surface, but they’re no longer driving the wheel.
Purpose takes its place. Focus. The version of me that survived things no one should survive stretches awake like a creature shaking off sleep.
My fingers hover above the keys again, itching to move. Every circuit in my brain sparks alive. The world narrows until all I can see is the hunt. Kimber’s terrified face flickers in my mind. Bryce’s smirk. Dean’s voice slithering through that call.
A low growl hums in my chest.
I sit up straight, crack my knuckles, and let a slow, dangerous smile spread across my face.
“All right, boys,” I say, letting my voice drip with venom and promise. “Let’s find someone to kill tonight.”
Ronan’s grin stretches slow and feral, a smile that flashes teeth and trouble. The dim light catches on the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, turning them predatory. The tattoos on his forearm flex with the twitch of muscle beneath them, the ink seeming to snarl right along with him.