Chapter Nine
Berkley
As much as I want to keep tearing into code, hunting down every scrap of information that might lead us to Kimber, Ronan’s right. The crash is coming. I feel it stalking the edges of my mind, waiting for the moment I slip, waiting for the moment exhaustion steals a detail I cannot afford to lose.
The other night proved it. I slept—actually slept—with all three of them wrapped around me like a living barricade. And I woke up steadier… because of them.
So, I close the last program, lace my fingers with Ronan’s, and let him lead me down the hall. My body feels heavy, bones humming with fatigue, but his touch is warm and grounding. When we step into the bedroom, something inside me loosens.
Rowan and Emerson are already in bed.
They look nothing like the devils we become when the world forces our hand.
Rowan is half-sitting against the headboard, arms folded, pretending he wasn’t waiting for us.
Emerson’s long frame is sprawled across the mattress in a way that makes him look younger than he ever lets himself be.
There’s a tenderness hanging in the air, something quiet and rare, and it grips my chest unexpectedly.
“Aww,” I murmur, unable to stop the small smile tugging at my lips. “How cute.”
Two sets of eyes snap open—hunger, obsession, and painfully adorable.
Rowan scrubs a hand over his face with a low groan.
Emerson squints at me like I’ve just insulted his entire bloodline.
But the snark dies instantly when they see my expression.
Whatever smartass comments they had lock behind their teeth.
I take a breath, slow and careful, feeling the weight of everything we’ve survived balancing on my tongue. “I love you guys,” I whisper. “And I probably don’t say it enough.”
It’s like dropping a stone in still water. Ripples move through all three of them.
Emerson’s features soften first, a muscle ticking in his jaw—the only sign of how hard he’s holding himself together. “Love you too, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough.
Rowan tips his head toward me, eyes steady in the way only he can manage. “Love you. Always,” he says. No flourish, no tease. Just truth.
Behind me, Ronan slides an arm around my waist and pulls me into his chest for a second before brushing his lips across my temple. “Pix,” he whispers, “you’re my whole damn world.”
My throat tightens. I try to swallow it down, but it lingers, warm and sharp.
Still holding Ronan’s hand, I climb onto the bed. Rowan shifts without hesitation, scooting into the center, opening the space for me like he’s done it a thousand times. When I crawl over him, his hands rise to my hips—gentle at first, then firmer as heat sparks between us.
His body reacts immediately, cock pressing up against me through the thin fabric of my shorts, and I feel a shiver chase up my spine. His breath brushes my throat, warm and controlled, his gaze locked on mine with an intensity that twists low in my stomach.
I settle onto him, straddling his waist, and the energy shifts.
The room draws tight around us, the air heating as Ronan climbs onto the mattress behind me, his palm gliding up my back.
Emerson shifts closer from the other side, shoulder brushing mine as if unwilling to let even an inch of space separate us.
Their presence is overwhelming in the best way—three shadows, three anchors, three hearts beating in the same bruised rhythm as mine. After everything we’ve lost, after everything that’s been ripped away, this—this impossible, dangerous, beautiful thing—we still have it.
Rowan’s thumbs stroke my hips. Ronan’s lips graze the back of my shoulder. Emerson’s fingers curl around my wrist, grounding me as I breathe them in, one by one.
“I need you guys tonight.”
It comes out quieter than I mean for it to—hoarse, pulled from the part of my chest that still feels bruised and hollow. For a heartbeat, none of them move. Then all three react at once, like predators catching the same scent, like protectors answering the same call.
Rowan’s grip on my hips tightens, his gaze snapping up to mine, storm-dark and hungry.
I can feel the tremor he tries to hide in the way his fingers flex against my skin.
Emerson shifts in closer, brushing his knuckles along my cheek with a tenderness that nearly unravels me on the spot.
Ronan’s palm finds the small of my back, heat bleeding through his touch in a slow, claiming sweep.
“Pix,” Ronan murmurs against my shoulder, his breath a warm shiver across my skin. “Say it again.”
I swallow hard, the need thick in my throat. “I need you.”
That’s all it takes.
Rowan’s hands slide up my sides, firm and certain, drawing me closer until our foreheads almost touch. His voice is low, a velvet rasp that sinks straight into my spine. “Then you have us.”
Emerson’s fingers trail down my jaw, slow enough to coax another breathless ache out of me. He tilts my face toward him, his eyes searching mine, soft and fierce all at once. “You don’t get us in pieces,” he says. “You get all of us. Every damn time.”
The bed shifts as Ronan pulls me back against him, his arm circling my waist, his chest solid heat against my spine.
The tattoos on his forearm brush my skin—inked lines that curl and flex with each controlled breath he takes.
“Let us take the weight for a while,” he growls softly.
“Let us make you forget everything but us.”
I close my eyes as their mouths find me—slow, deliberate kisses along my throat, my shoulder, the edge of my jaw. Each one different. Rowan is fire and restraint. Emerson is warmth and reverence. Ronan is hunger held barely in check.
Their hands map over me with purpose, fingers sliding, palms smoothing, pulling me into them until my breath shatters in my chest. My knees weaken, my pulse climbs, and a soft sound slips from me—something between a gasp and a plea.
Because their touch is grounding.
Their closeness is salvation.
And their need for me… it’s a storm I don’t ever want shelter from.
My hands find their shoulders, their hair, their chests—needing something to anchor myself to as their lips and hands work over my body.
Every point of contact sends another wave of heat rolling through me, another reminder that I’m not alone in this war, not alone in this pain, not alone in this moment.
“I waited years for you,” I whisper, the words trembling but true, “and I’m not waiting anymore.”
Rowan’s breath stutters against my neck. Emerson’s fingers press into my hips. Ronan’s grip tightens, pulling me fully back against his chest.
“Good,” Ronan growls, voice rough with emotion and want. “Because we’re done waiting, too.”
My clothes are gone before my next blink, one of the positives about having three men to worship you.
Rowan doesn’t wait. He doesn’t ask how I want them—how I want him—the way he usually does. Tonight, he simply takes, driven by the same maelstrom churning inside me.
One moment I’m gasping against his mouth, and the next he’s pulling me onto his cock with a rough, desperate certainty that knocks the breath from my lungs.
The connection between us snaps tight, a shock of heat ripping straight through my spine as our bodies lock together in a single, claiming thrust.
A cry tears out of me, matched by a low, feral sound from deep in Rowan’s chest. His forehead presses to mine, sweat damp and trembling with restraint he’s rapidly losing.
“Fuck…” His voice drops into a rough growl, equal parts reverence and hunger. “Baby—every single time—you wreck me.”
“Yes.” The word scrapes out like a plea, raw and desperate for more.
His hands grip my hips, fingers digging in, pulling me against him with each sharp, hungry movement. I cling to his shoulders, nails scraping across warm skin as heat coils tight and consuming inside me.
“You have no idea,” he rasps against my throat, breath hot and uneven. “The way your pussy tightens around me… how you flutter…” His next thrust steals the rest of his words, forcing them out in a broken groan. “Christ, you’re unreal.”
A warm hand glides down my spine, the familiar weight of Ronan’s touch telling me he’s joining us.
He palms my lower back, guiding me down against Rowan’s chest as he pulls out just long enough for Ronan’s fingers to slip between my thighs.
He strokes through the slickness Rowan left behind, tracing upward with deliberate intent.
I push back into his touch without thinking, my breath catching when his other hand presses firmly against my spine, steadying me, positioning me exactly where he wants me.
“You going to let me in easy, baby?” Ronan’s voice roughens against my ear.
His fingers tease lower, circling and pressing with slow, coaxing pressure.
He slides one inside, gentle but claiming, my body yielding instinctively.
A second follows, stretching me with a burn that makes my hips tremble, easing me open for him, preparing me in a way that feels both wicked and intimate.
He slides into my dripping entrance slowly, savoring every inch of connection, his breath warm against my shoulder.
He lingers there, buried deep, before easing back out so Rowan can take his place again.
Rowan pulls me tight against him, his hands gliding from my hips to my backside, holding me open for his twin with a sure, possessive confidence that sends a shiver through me.
His touch steadies me, guides me, makes room for what comes next.
Ronan’s presence is a heat at my spine. The first press of his cock is always the moment that steals my breath—the sharp stretch that flares, then melts, turning into something deep and overwhelming. I breathe through it, pushing back, letting my body remember the burn.