Emerson
Normal is a joke. Nothing about us blends; nothing about us whispers quiet suburban stability, and nothing about Berk—stiff but defiant and stunning as hell—suggests we belong in a middle school gymnasium decorated with hand-painted posters and glitter glue.
But Kimber has her spring showcase tonight, and the four of us would walk into a burning building for her, so a school gym is nothing.
The place smells like popcorn and floor wax, and every set of eyes lands on us the second we walk in. Parents freeze mid-conversation. Kids stop in groups like we’re some urban legend that stepped out of the woods instead of a trio of brothers trying not to scare PTA volunteers.
Berk stays tucked between us, still moving carefully, one arm wrapped snugly around Rowan’s waist, the other hand in mine.
She’s healing better than expected, but there are moments—tiny, quiet ones—where a wince flashes across her face and I want to put Dean in the ground all over again just to make sure he stays dead.
Ronan walks slightly ahead, shoulders loose, but his gaze sweeps the room like instinct will always rule part of him. His tattoos peek from beneath his shirtsleeves, black ink against tan skin, and more than one parent pulls their kid closer when we pass.
Rowan mutters under his breath, low enough that only we catch it. “People stare like they’ve never seen a family before.”
Berk squeezes his waist and smiles up at him, soft and teasing. “Maybe they’re staring because you look like you’re about to murder someone for fun.”
Rowan blinks at her, deadpan. “I smile sometimes.”
“When provoked,” Ronan adds dryly.
I try not to laugh, but she hears the hitch in my breath and nudges my arm.
Kimber sees us before we spot her. She’s across the gym with her friends, wearing a sparkly black outfit for her performance, her hair braided neatly down her back. The second she recognizes us, she lights up and sprints over, practically launching herself into my arms.
“You came!” she squeals.
“Of course we did,” I tell her, hugging her tightly. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Rowan ruffles her hair. Ronan tries to look unaffected but fails miserably, one corner of his mouth lifting. Berk leans in to hug her, and Kimber squeezes her tightly, careful around her still-sore ribs.
“You look beautiful,” Berk whispers.
Kimber beams. “You look… tough.” Then she glances around nervously. “People are staring.”
“We noticed,” Ronan mutters.
I crouch so I’m eye-level with Kimber. “Let them stare. They don’t know us.”
“Yeah,” Rowan adds, crossing his arms in a way that only makes him more intimidating. “But they’ll learn we clap loudly.”
Kimber snorts. “Loudly? Rowan, you nearly got us kicked out of my choir concert last week.”
“That was injustice,” he counters. “Your solo was brilliant.”
Her laugh is bright, unburdened, and the sound steadies the tightness inside my chest.
We take our seats on the bleachers. Berk sits between us, leaning lightly into my side. I keep an arm behind her in case she tires. She pretends not to need support, but when she lets her head rest on my shoulder for a heartbeat too long, I know.
When the principal steps up to the mic, tapping it twice, the conversations die down.
As the lights dim, a parent a few rows down continues glancing back at us like we’re armed ghosts. Ronan notices and narrows his eyes just enough to send the guy whipping his head around.
Berk whispers, “Subtle.”
“I’m subtle,” Ronan hisses quietly.
“No, you aren’t,” Rowan and I say at the same time.
Kimber’s group lines up on the stage, music starting. She’s in the front row, glowing with nerves and excitement.
And in that moment—middle school stage lights, off-key microphones, the faint squeak of gym-floor sneakers—in the aftermath of blood, fire, and loss… the dread finally unclenches.
This is the first time in years I feel like we’re allowed to breathe.
Berk threads her fingers through mine and Rowan’s. Ronan rests his hand over her thigh.
Family.
Not the one we came from.
The one we bled for.
And if anyone in this gym thinks they can look at Berk wrong, or Kimber wrong, or even breathe wrong in our direction—
They have no idea how fast we’ll turn into monsters they should fear.
But tonight isn’t about violence.
Tonight is about light.
And Kimber’s small voice—singing too softly but with fierce determination—becomes the brightest sound in the room.
When Kimber’s section ends, the applause rolls through the gym like a soft wave. We clap the loudest—loud enough that Kimber bursts into giggles onstage. Rowan stands to his full height to whistle, earning a few more disapproving glances from parents nearby.
Berk glances up at him, smirking. “Subtle,” she whispers again.
“That was subtle,” Rowan fires back, indignant.
Ronan shakes his head, muttering, “We’re never getting invited to PTA meetings.”
After the final applause, the kids march offstage in a chaotic line of sparkles, bows, and sneakers. Kimber reappears moments later, tugging along two girls and a timid boy who seems terrified of everything—including us.
“These are my friends!” Kimber says proudly. “Molly, Jasmine, and Tyler.”
The kids stare up at us like we’re mythological creatures that stepped out of a storybook—dangerous, ink-covered, and towering. Molly waves shyly. Jasmine clutches Kimber’s arm. Tyler blinks rapidly like he’s waiting to be eaten.
Rowan crouches slightly to soften the height difference, offering a small smile that’s supposed to be friendly but looks more like a wolf baring teeth.
“Hi,” Rowan says.
All three kids stiffen.
I elbow him. “Try not to look like you’re about to interrogate them.”
He grumbles, “I’m being welcoming."
“No, you’re being Rowan,” Berk murmurs, patting his cheek.
The kids’ parents approach next, trying to act brave as they extend polite smiles. The moms hover close; the dads hover even closer, maybe trying to size us up. They fail miserably.
Kimber pipes up, “We’re having a sleepover this weekend! So, my, um… family wants to meet you. For safety.”
The parents laugh awkwardly, but their eyes flick over our tattoos, our shoulders, our expressions. They have no idea how lucky they are we’re behaving.
I shake their hands one by one. “Nice to meet you,” I say warmly.
Ronan says nothing—he just nods once, which somehow looks like both a greeting and a death warning if their house isn’t safe.
Rowan, bless him, tries for wholesome. “We’re protective. She’s important to us.”
The parents swallow in unison.
Berk steps forward then, offering a gentle smile that disarms everyone instantly. She looks soft tonight—looser clothes, hair in gentle waves, cheeks still slightly pale from healing—but her eyes? Sharp. Always sharp.
“Thank you for being so kind to her,” she says to the parents. “She’s… our heart.”
Kimber beams, proud instead of embarrassed.
We exchange numbers with each family. They have no idea Berk will run background checks, financial searches, criminal history, social media sweeps, and deep-web scrubs as soon as we get home.
We let them leave first, each parent walking a little stiffly as though sensing danger without knowing why.
Kimber waits until they’re fully out of earshot before groaning. “You guys could not have looked scarier if you tried.”
Rowan gasps, offended. “I smiled.”
“That was not a smile,” she fires back.
Ronan adds, “Should’ve seen the dad with the mustache. Thought he was gonna pee.”
I snort, shaking my head. “We behaved.”
Kimber rolls her eyes. “Barely.”
We walk her out to the parking lot, the cool night air settling the leftover tension of the crowd.
I open the passenger door for Berk, helping her slide in carefully. She grumbles about being perfectly capable, but she still winces when she bends.
“Let us spoil you,” I murmur.
Her eyes soften. “Fine. But only because I like the view when you lean in close.”
I smirk, kiss her, then shut the door.
When I round to the back, the other two are piling in with Kimber between them, who immediately throws her hands up dramatically.
“I swear, if you intimidate my friends’ parents again, they’ll never let me stay at their house.”
Rowan grins. “That’s the point.”
“Seriously,” Kimber huffs. “Half the gym thinks you’re mobsters.”
Ronan shrugs. “Better mobster than murderer.”
Kimber stares at him. “You cannot say that out loud.”
Berk leans across the passenger seat and calls back, “He absolutely can. We’re retired.”
“Please stop talking,” Kimber groans, burying her face in her hands. “People could hear.”
I turn on the engine, fighting a laugh. “We’ll dial it back next time.”
“No, you won’t,” Kimber mutters.
Berk looks over her shoulder, voice warm. “We love you, Kimmy. We just want you safe.”
Kimber softens instantly, melting back into Rowan’s side. “I know. It’s just… could you maybe look less like you’re hunting people for sport at school events?”
Ronan grins wolfishly. “No promises.”
Kimber throws her head back with a dramatic wail.
I pull out of the parking lot, laughter filling the SUV—not the kind born from survival or relief, but laughter that feels lighter. Restorative. Healing.
Berk rests her hand on my thigh, thumb stroking once.
She’s alive.
Kimber’s safe.
We’re together.
For the first time in years, the future doesn’t feel like a battlefield.
It feels like the beginning.