Chapter Eleven #2
Ronan knocks him out with a single punch, clean and merciless, and before the bastard can slump forward, Rowan’s cutting his throat in one practiced sweep.
Emerson crouches beside the body, calm as ever, pulling the keys from his pocket and pocketing the phone we’ll need later.
No words. No hesitation. Just the four of us working in the quiet rhythm we’ve bled together.
We haul the dead weight out of the van, each of us taking an arm or leg, dragging him toward the water. The moon hangs low, turning the river into a sheet of black glass, glossy and cold enough to swallow secrets whole. The current churns dark and hungry, waiting.
Ronan counts under his breath, more a growl than a number, and together we heave. The body sails for a heartbeat, then hits the surface with a thick splash, sucked under fast as if the river wants him gone as badly as we do.
The van is next. Stripped of everything useful. Nothing left but metal and blood and the ghost of screams. Emerson and I brace our shoulders against it while Ronan and Rowan give the last shove. The frame groans, then tips, nose down, sliding over the bank. Another splash. Louder. Final.
The water closes around it. No ripple lasts long. By the time we step back, our breaths fogging in the cold air, both man and machine have already disappeared into the dark.
Gone.
Exactly where monsters belong.
I stand at the water’s edge; the wind tangling my hair against my cheeks. My heart beats hard and even. My blade is clean again. My purpose unmistakable.
We turn back toward town; toward the place I arranged for our new vehicle to be waiting. And in my chest, one truth burns bright enough to lead us forward.
Bryce is next.
Once I get my hands on that phone, I’ll be able to trace Bryce’s location. I can feel it in my bones.
By the time we round back to the house, it’s late enough that the shadows feel heavier than the air itself.
The guys try to steer me straight to bed, muttering about exhaustion, regrouping in the morning, making smart choices.
They mean well; I know they do, but the second Rowan says the words wait until tomorrow, something inside me snaps clean in half.
“Tomorrow?” I stare at them, all three of them, and the rage crawling up my spine flares so hot I swear it tastes like blood.
“You want me to sleep while Kimber is out there? While those bastards…” My voice cracks, but only for a breath.
I force it steady again. “You saw what they did to me. To Reign. You watched the video. And you want me to wait?”
Ronan tries first. “Pix, we’re not saying stop. We’re saying breathe. You need to—”
“Don’t tell me what I need.” The words come out sharp, precise, the same way my knives talk for me when I let them. “I survived six years on my own. Six years planning to kill your fathers. And yes, you too. Do not stand here and pretend you know what I can handle.”
Emerson steps forward, both hands out like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Berk, we get it. We do. But if you crash, if you burn out, it could cost us time we don’t have.”
“I ran on two hours of sleep a night while planning to end your bloodline,” I snap back. “Do not lecture me about stamina.”
Rowan flinches as if I slapped him. I hate it. I hate hurting him. Hurting any of them. But anger is a living thing in my chest now, and Kimber’s terrified face keeps flashing behind my eyes, and there is no room left in me for gentleness.
“If you can’t handle the way I work,” I continue, voice low and trembling with everything I can’t say, “then maybe you should leave me the hell alone for a while. Think about the person who was actually assaulted. Think about the girl who has the biggest say in all this. This is my revenge. My plan. You’re in my war, not the other way around. ”
Ronan’s jaw ticks. Emerson looks gutted. Rowan tries to speak, reaching for me like his voice is a lifeline. “Berk, please. Just slow down. We’re on your side.”
“I don’t need you to be on my side.” My throat tightens. “I need you to stop getting in my way.”
Silence floods the hallway, thick and suffocating.
I turn before any of them can try again. My hand shakes only a fraction as I grab the war room door. Maybe they see it, maybe they don’t. I don’t look long enough to find out.
“Do not try to stop me again,” I warn, softer but sharper. “I will never let Kimber live through what we did.”
They call my name—three voices layered in pain and worry—but I slam the door shut between us. Hard enough that the monitors on the far desk rattle.
The second the latch clicks, guilt slams into me just as violently.
I press my palms to the cool wood of the door, forehead bowed, breath uneven. I never meant to hurl those truths at them like blades. I didn’t want to watch them flinch under memories they already carry every day.
But they need to grasp the stakes. They need to remember what I endured. And they need to understand that time is unforgiving. Hours matter. Minutes matter.
Kimber doesn’t have time for me to be soft.
I swallow hard, sit at the desk, crack my knuckles, and pull the monitors awake.
Luckily, Emerson shoved Riker’s phone into my hands before I climbed out of the van, like he already knew I would barricade myself in here the second we got home.
The moment the war room door clicks shut behind me, the rest of the world drops out. The guys’ voices dull into muffled movement and indistinct murmurs beyond the door—wolves pacing a boundary they want to cross but won’t. Good. I need silence. I need focus. I need control.
I sink into my chair, roll my neck once, and pull Riker’s digital life up across my screens.
There isn’t much worth monitoring live—he was too careful about that—but phones never hide everything. Not from me.
The data clones load, one encrypted folder after another, cracking open with a hiss of code. First thing I hunt down is Vanna White’s number. I still shake my head, half-laughing at the sheer stupidity of it as I drop it into my tracker.
“Cute,” I mutter. “Real fucking subtle.”
The trace kicks off with a satisfying hum. Metadata pours across my screen. Tower hits, routing timestamps, SIM shifts, packet trails. Even burner numbers shed skin if you peel it right.
Bryce’s shedding is showing.
Everything traces back to a single primary location. A cluster of ping coordinates near the industrial waterfront—quiet, lightly patrolled, almost absent from city logs. He stays there for most of the day. Minimal movement. Few outgoing calls.
Someone hiding.
Someone confident.
Someone wrong.
I dig deeper.
With a little coaxing, I slip into the signal’s routing chain. It’s sloppier than it should be. Bryce was never especially sharp, but desperation has pushed him into just enough paranoia to wrap his traffic in a mid-level scrambling loop.
Child’s play.
Once I crack it, the messages spill into view. Sentences are sharp-edged and ugly.
Drop complete.
No leaks.
Package stable.
Package will need calming.
Keep sedated if required.
Move if schedule changes.
My jaw goes rigid. My fingers flex over the mouse, nails biting into my palm. They never say Kimber’s name. Never say girl, daughter, hostage. Always package. Cold. Detached. Like she isn’t a human being.
“They did the same to me,” I whisper to the empty room. “We’ll find you.”
Another message blinks in. Time-stamped from an hour before we grabbed Riker.
Schedule unchanged. Package is compliant.
I grip the edge of the desk so tightly the metal groans under my hands.
Behind me, beyond the door, feet shift again. Ronan’s heavy, deliberate stride. Rowan’s restless pacing. Emerson’s quieter presence—probably braced against the wall, holding himself together through sheer will.
They don’t knock.
They don’t push.
They don’t say my name.
They’re giving me space.
Letting me work.
Letting me breathe.
Despite that, guilt digs its claws in.
The fight in the hallway flashes through my mind—my voice sharp, theirs stunned, all of us bleeding old wounds. I meant every word, but that doesn’t stop the ache settling in my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper under my breath, even though none of them can hear.
I love them too much to pretend our disagreement didn’t cut us all.
Still… I can’t back down.
Another layer of encryption unfolds, revealing GPS trails from the last few weeks. Bryce has been careful. He hops towers, buries his trails, uses dead zones. But people always slip somewhere. A pattern forms along the waterline, repeating every couple of days.
A possible holding site.
I zero in on the coordinates, using satellite view to scan the structures. Warehouses. Storage units. Abandoned shipping yards. Places cops don’t care about and criminals love.
“You’re there,” I whisper, heart pounding.
One more line decrypts.
Need confirmation on relocation. Unknown threat in play.
My throat tightens.
Threat.
Us.
They know we’re coming.
I run my hands through my hair, grounding myself as adrenaline surges through my veins like an electrical current. The fear is still there—sharp, suffocating—but underneath it burns hotter.
Determination.
Fury.
Purpose.
“They think they can hide her,” I murmur, voice steadying. “They think we’ll break.”
The guys shift again outside the door—trying not to hover, trying not to barge in, trying to give me space. I can feel the guilt press harder, wrapping tight around my ribs.
I love them.
God, I love them.
I can’t stay mad at them any longer.
Not really.
Angry, sure. Furious at their timing, their protective instincts, their insistence on slowing down when Kimber is out there with monsters. But the deeper anger—the kind that sticks to bone—I can’t hold that, not with them.
Because we’ve only just found each other again.
After years of silence.
After surviving separate hells, then crashing into a new one together.