Chapter Eleven #3
We finally clawed our way back to being us… and all we’ve been given is blood, fear, and more battles to fight before we can even breathe.
Fighting with them—truly fighting—would crack something in all of us.
And the truth I hate to admit is that I understand exactly where their fear comes from.
They want to protect me. They want to wrap themselves around me like armor. But they have to understand that I already learned how to survive without them.
I had to.
And I’m not about to step back now—not when Kimber might be reliving my nightmare.
My fingers slow on the keyboard. The screen stares back, code smearing together as my chest tightens. The anger burns down into a smaller, knottier feeling—sharp enough to sting.
I lean back.
Breathe once.
Twice.
My heart hammers against my ribs, like it’s trying to dislodge the ache lodged there.
Outside the war room door, their presence is a heartbeat.
They aren’t speaking—not anymore.
They’re barely moving.
I can hear the soft thud of someone’s pacing stop when I push my chair back.
A quiet sigh.
The creak of weight shifting from one foot to another.
They’re waiting for me.
Hurting because of me.
And pretending they’re fine so I don’t feel guilty.
Except I do feel guilty.
They saw the video.
They saw what happened to me.
To Reign.
They’re terrified of the past swallowing me whole again and terrified of losing Kimber in the same breath.
My throat feels tight. I don’t like that feeling. I don’t like that vulnerability comes easier with them than with anyone else.
But that’s the price of loving three men who carry my scars like they’re their own.
I push up from the chair and head for the door. Each step carries more weight than it should—laden with rage, resolve, and a love that unsettles me more than any enemy I’ve ever chased.
I reach for the handle and stop.
Just for a second.
Long enough to steady my breath and burn the anger down into something sharper.
Then I open the door.
All three of them straighten at once, like they’ve been caught in the middle of a crime.
Emerson stands closest, broad shoulders tense, jaw flexing as he drags his eyes over me like he’s checking for damage. The hardness in his face cracks when our gazes meet—relief flickering bright before he tries to hide it.
Rowan is right behind him, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the move not casual so much as containing. Holding in fear. Holding in guilt. His eyes are glassy with unshed emotions he’d never admit to having.
Ronan leans against the wall across from them, arms crossed. Ink shifts over his biceps as he tenses. His stare locks on me—sharp, worried, possessive, edged with irritation and stripped of every guard.
For a moment, none of us speak. The silence hangs thick with everything already said—and everything left untouched.
Emerson steps forward first, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal he refuses to scare off. His hand lifts toward my face but stops just shy of touching me. His voice is low, roughened with guilt he didn’t bother burying this time.
“Berk… baby… we’re so damn sorry.”
My throat tightens at the crack in his voice. Emerson never cracks. He’s the steady one. The anchor. Seeing him unsteady jolts something in me I don’t want to examine.
Ronan pushes off the wall and drags a hand through his hair. His jaw flexes so hard the muscle twitches. “We fucked up,” he says bluntly. “We know that. And we’re not here to argue with you about it. You have every right to be pissed.”
Rowan hasn’t moved. He stands like a statue carved from tension and regret. His voice doesn’t come right away. He just stares with those dark eyes full of emotion he never lets out. It makes my chest ache.
Before I can apologize—for the slammed door, for the hurt in his eyes—Ronan holds up a hand.
“Let us finish.”
I nod, leaning against the doorframe, bracing myself.
Ronan exhales slowly, as if forcing the truth out before it strangles him.
“We know you can handle yourself. Hell, you’ve survived shit none of us could’ve, but you have to understand where we’re coming from too.” His voice dips. “You were gone for six years, Berk. Six years. We thought you were dead. Dead. Dead.”
Emerson’s hand finally lands on my arm, warm and steady.
“And then we saw what they did to you,” Ronan continues, eyes darkening with violence. “And my brain broke. My chest broke. My sanity damn near broke. I still don’t know how you survived that.” His voice shakes. “I can’t go through losing you again. Never.”
There’s no smartass comment in me to offer. Nothing but the sting behind my eyes and the lump in my throat.
Then Rowan moves.
It’s small at first—a step forward. A hesitant reach of fingers brushing my forearm. But for Rowan Calder, that’s like a full emotional confession broadcast on national television.
When he speaks, his voice is rough, scraped raw from the inside. “I replay that fucking video in my head every night,” he hisses.
My breath lodges in my lungs.
“Every damn night,” Rowan repeats. “Trying to figure out how I missed it. How I didn’t see what was happening. How I didn’t stop it.” His fingers curl slightly in my sleeve. “How I didn’t protect you. Or Reign.”
Hearing him say her name—Reign—cuts deep. Cuts slow. Cuts real.
He shakes his head, throat bobbing hard.
“When we found you again… when I saw you standing there breathing… knowing what I’d done to you…
how I never protected you…” His voice splinters.
“Something inside me snapped back together. But seeing what they did to you? Knowing we weren’t there?
Knowing I failed both of you…” His voice drops so soft I barely catch it. “It guts me, Berk.”
I reach out and take his hand because it’s the only thing I can do without collapsing into him. His fingers tighten instantly, as if he’s afraid I’ll evaporate.
“I get it,” I whisper, and I mean it. “I really do.”
Emerson’s palm settles between my shoulder blades, grounding me. Ronan steps closer too, like they’re instinctively forming a wall around me again—only this time not to smother, but to steady.
“This is new for all of us,” I say, looking between them. “We’re trying to figure out how to be… us. How to love each other without repeating the past. Without drowning each other.”
Ronan snorts softly, shaking his head. “Yeah, and we’re fucking terrible at it.”
Despite everything, a tiny smile pushes through. It’s tired. Sad. Real.
Rowan squeezes my hand. “We’re trying, Berk,” he says softly. “We just… we don’t want to lose you again. We can’t. Losing you once destroyed something in us we didn’t even know was there. We’re terrified of a second time.”
“We’re even more terrified of you walking into danger alone,” Emerson adds. “You shouldn’t have to bear every scar by yourself. Not anymore.”
I swallow hard. Their pain. Their fear. Their love. It hits me all at once, a tidal wave of emotions that rattles my bones.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell them, voice steadying even as my heart trembles. “But I’m not stepping back either. Kimber needs us.”
Ronan nods, jaw set with fierce determination.
Rowan’s shoulders loosen just a fraction.
Emerson lets out a breath like someone finally cut the cord choking him.
Then Ronan wraps an arm around my waist and mutters into my hair, “Good. Because we’ve got work to do. And I swear to fuck, if you slam another door in our faces, I’m picking the lock and dragging your stubborn ass out by your ankles.”
A laugh breaks out of me—unexpected, needed, healing.
They all smile then. Small. Soft. Real.
Ronan nudges me back into the war room with a palm to my lower back, then punctuates it with a sharp slap to my ass that echoes off the walls. I jump, glare, and he just grins like the cocky bastard he is.
“Alright, Pix,” he murmurs, herding me forward like I’m his favorite misbehaving pet, “tell us what that gorgeous mind dug up while you were barricaded in here.”
I drop into my chair, fingers already moving to wake the screens back up. Code scrolls like waterfalls. Data maps. Scraped conversations. Cell tower pings. All of it humming under my skin.
“I’m almost through everything,” I say, breath steadying as the work pulls me into its rhythm. “But I think I’ve pinned down Bryce’s location.”
Three shadows close in behind me. Their breathing syncs, anticipation sharpening the air like static before a storm.
Emerson’s hand lands on my shoulder, grounding and warm. “Show us.”
I pull up the digital map and tap the blinking red dot pulsing along the water’s edge.
“He’s been bouncing between this spot near Pier Twenty and a warehouse farther up the docks,” I explain, zooming in. “Same cluster of pings for the last week. Barely moves outside this radius.”
Ronan whistles low. “So, the bastard’s been nesting.”
“He’s messaging someone about moving soon,” I continue, clicking open a hacked thread marked with timestamps. “He’s nervous. Says there’s heat on them.”
“Which is adorable,” I add. “Because that’s us. We’re the heat.”
Rowan leans over me, bracing a hand on my chair. His voice is low, threaded with controlled fury. “Does he know something happened to Jory and Riker?”
“Possibly,” I reply. “He also mentioned enemies, so he doesn’t know if it’s us or someone else. But the timing is too tight. He’s rattled.”
Emerson squeezes my shoulder. “Then what’s our next move? When do we strike?”
I swivel in my chair to face them fully. The three of them look carved from violence and devotion. My family. My wolves.
“Soon,” I answer. “The sooner the better. If he’s thinking about moving, we have a narrow window before he changes locations again. We can’t let that happen.”
Rowan nods once, teeth grinding. “Then we hit him before he hits the road.”