Chapter Ten #3
“So where are you headed?” Riker asks, tone sliding greasy and warm. “Got someone waiting on you?”
I damn near see red.
Berk lets out a quiet, embarrassed laugh. “Not really. Just… trying to get home. I didn’t expect to be stuck this late.”
He closes the door behind her. That sound echoes in my skull like a threat.
We creep closer, slipping behind the hedges, staying out of sight. The living room window glows faintly, just enough to frame two figures moving inside. Berk stands near the end of the couch, posture small, shoulders tucked. Riker leans in too close as he hands her a phone.
She pretends not to notice. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” he says, already looking her up and down like she’s on a menu. “It’s dangerous for a girl like you to be out here alone.” His tone warps the words into filth.
Ronan’s breath hisses. “I’m going to cut his goddamn hands off.”
Emerson adds, “Start with the tongue. I can’t hear that voice anymore. The innuendos.”
I don’t answer. I’m too focused on the telltale shift in Berk’s tone—light, airy, clueless. Her scampering-lost-girl persona. She’s luring him deeper into her trap.
“How long have you lived here?” she asks sweetly.
“A few years,” he says, moving closer. “Quiet neighborhood. Good for keeping to myself.”
Yeah. Predators love quiet.
From our distance, I can see just enough to confirm she’s guiding him exactly where she wants him—deeper into the house, far away from the front windows, where any neighbors might notice.
Just a few more steps.
Her voice dips half an octave, still soft but deliberate. “You’re being so nice. When I struck out at the first house, I was scared no one would answer.”
He chuckles, the sound rough and ugly. “I always answer for a pretty girl.”
That’s it.
Ronan inhales sharply. “Rowan—”
“I’m ready,” I growl under my breath, muscles coiling.
Berk’s voice whispers through the comm, feather-soft but firm.
“Three… two… one…”
Our cue.
We surge forward.
Riker thinks he dragged a helpless girl into his den.
He has no idea she wasn’t alone—that three wolves followed her scent straight to his doorstep.
Rage rakes through my chest, demanding a fast, brutal answer.
Kick the door. Shatter the hinges. End the threat.
But we need silence more than blood. Precision over noise.
I force one steady breath, then test the knob.
Locked.
Ronan’s growl vibrates the wood. “Motherfucker locked it after letting her in.”
We all understand exactly what that means. He wanted her sealed in. Wanted privacy. Power.
My pulse spikes so sharply that I see flashes at the edge of my vision.
Emerson, the only one of us keeping his brain above rage-level right now, steps forward and slips a thin black swiper from his pocket. He works it into the seam of the frame with the calm of someone who’s broken into far too many places.
A soft click.
The world tilts.
The door swings open without a sound.
We move inside like predators slipping beneath an unguarded fence—silent, fast, lethal.
Berk is already facing the doorway when we enter. Her eyes snapping to ours. She sees everything in half a second. The murderous fury, the protective instinct, the blood-deep promise that Riker will not leave this house breathing if he touches her.
But before we can get to her, before we can drag the bastard off his feet, she moves.
She steps into him.
She touches him.
Her hand lifts and presses flat to his chest, right over his heartbeat. Her lashes dip, feigning shyness. Her voice turns soft and unsteady, a flawless imitation of helpless sweetness. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you for letting me in and using your phone.”
Riker’s expression twists into hunger. Foul and possessive. He looks at her the way men like him always do—like she’s already been claimed. My stomach knots, my jaw locking so hard it aches.
The three of us growl. No words. No warnings. Instinct. Territorial and deadly.
He hears the sound and stiffens, finally sensing the danger he invited into his home.
Berk just smiles—slowly, wickedly—like a cat drawing its claws.
“Thanks, boys.”
She rises onto her toes in one smooth, fluid motion and drives a needle into his neck before he can even register the threat. His eyes blow wide. His mouth opens on a sound that never forms. His knees give out.
He drops like dead weight, hitting the carpet in a tangled sprawl. A framed photo rattles on the wall. Dust sifts loose from the windowsill.
Berk stands over him, breathing steady and eyes bright, a soft bounce in her step like she just finished baking cookies instead of drugging a man twice her size.
“Alright,” she says cheerfully, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Let’s get him packaged up and take him somewhere quiet and undisclosed so we can teach him how to use his words.” She shakes her head, clicking her tongue. “You’d think these guys would put up more of a challenge.”
Christ. She makes my blood run hot and my knees weak at the same time. I’m already half-hard just watching her stand over him like the beautiful, chaotic little executioner she is. My body reacts before I can embarrass myself by moaning.
I adjust myself with a grunt.
She flicks a glance at me. Smirks. The damn woman knows.
“Em,” I grind out, voice rougher than intended, “get the van.”
Emerson is already moving, gone in a heartbeat.
Ronan crouches beside Berk, checking the bastard’s pulse and lifting his arms like he’s measuring how easy it’ll be to drag him.
I stay where I am for a beat, watching her. Little frame. Big presence. A sparkle of pride in her eyes, a glint of bloodlust under it. My woman. Our woman.
This? This is the part right before the storm hits.
And we’re about to drag this son of a bitch straight into it.