Chapter Three
Emerson
“This weekend, you’re coming with me to entertain a few new clients.”
Bryce Blackthorne—my father—doesn’t pose questions. He issues directives as if the world exists to obey him, as if every syllable should be met with gratitude and lowered heads.
I give a tight nod. Refusal isn’t an option. Not when he holds the one thing over me I can’t afford to gamble—my sister.
It’s his favorite tactic. Dangle her future in front of me like a treat for a well-trained dog.
Threaten to ship her off to some overpriced institution with uniforms and barbed wire the moment I step out of line.
He delivers these threats with a smile, too.
As if he’s offering a privilege, not weaponizing the only person I truly care about.
“Yes, sir.” The words leave me before I can stop them. I hate how automatic they’ve become.
He studies me for a beat too long, eyes cold and calculating, as if he’s already searching for my next weakness to exploit. Then he turns and walks away, fully expecting me to fall in behind him.
I do.
Not from loyalty.
From necessity.
The meeting takes place at a high-end steakhouse downtown, the type with white tablecloths, suit-clad waiters, and candles flickering on every surface despite the early hour.
I sit tall and silent while Bryce speaks in polished circles around the two men across from us.
They look manufactured in their tailored suits, perfect nails, practiced smiles that never reach their eyes.
I catch pieces of their conversation. Words like “offshore adjustments,” “quiet partnerships,” and “discreet transportation solutions.” Vague enough to sound harmless to most people. Sharp enough to raise every alarm bell inside me.
I’m seventeen.
I shouldn’t understand any of it.
But I do.
Because Bryce made sure I would.
He trained me to be his shadow, his contingency plan, his puppet waiting for its strings to be pulled.
He smiles, lifts his glass, and says something about mutual gain and long-term discretion. The clients toast. I sit still, pretending to fade into the wallpaper.
The drive home is suffocating.
I sit rigid in the passenger seat of his glossy black Mercedes, hands clenched into fists against my thighs. The silence between us is worse than yelling. It means he’s preparing his next blow.
“Maybe if you didn’t sit there like a mute little coward, they’d take you seriously.”
My jaw tightens. “You told me to observe.”
“I told you to learn, not sit there like a ghost.”
I turn my head toward the window and start counting the seconds.
“You want to keep that little sister of yours close?” he goes on, his voice slicing through the air. “Then stop embarrassing me. You think I won’t send her away? Try me.”
My stomach twists hard.
“You’d really do that to her?” The question leaves my mouth sounding nothing like me.
He smirks. “Don’t test me, Emerson. You’re not nearly as important as you think. You only hold value because you follow instructions. The second you stop?”
He leaves the rest hanging.
He doesn’t need to finish.
He’s repeated the threat so many times it’s practically a script: I’ll send you away too. Same tone, venom, and sick pleasure he takes in saying it.
I swallow the fury clawing its way up my throat and stay quiet.
If I push back too far, he’ll make good on every word.
When we walk into the house, I don’t waste a single second. The moment I see Mom upright and coherent—shock of the century—I know I’ve got an opening. She’s not slurring, not passed out on the sofa, not crying into a glass of cheap wine. Which means I don’t have to hover today.
Kimber’s shut in her room, probably coloring or watching one of those bright, sugary cartoons that help her feel safe. Thank God. I need a break and some air.
I grab my motorcycle keys and head out, riding across town while the tires hum against the road, pushing me forward, pushing the noise in my head back. The constant pressure. Threats. The weight of everything he expects from me—it’s endless chaos.
Lately, the only place that feels remotely sane—the only place where my mind slows enough to breathe—is with the guys.
And Berk.
Not that I ever say that out loud.
I can’t.
Bryce has made that crystal clear. If he senses anyone means something to me, he’ll twist it, use it, weaponize it. Berk would be his favorite target.
So, I stay silent.
I keep my mouth shut about how she makes my chest loosen, how her laugh slices through the dark like sunlight, how sleep barely comes when she shuts us out.
I won’t let her become another pawn in his hands.
When I reach the house, I head straight for Ronan’s room. No knocking. They always know it’s me.
Inside, the guys are sprawled across the room like kings of doing absolutely nothing. Rowen’s holding a book he hasn’t turned a page in for at least twenty minutes, and Ronan is upside down on his bed with his legs hooked over the headboard like he’s auditioning for a circus act.
I kick the door shut behind me.
“Anyone talked to Berk yet?” The question comes out sharper than I intended, but I’m past pretending.
Rowen looks up first, steady as always. “Reign talked to her earlier. Said she’s okay… just trying to sort everything out.”
“It’s been days,” I bite out.
“She panicked, dude,” Ronan says, flipping upright with a dramatic groan. “You saw her face. She hit the eject button like we were made of fire.”
“She’s allowed to freak out,” Rowen adds, ever the mediator. “We dropped a lot on her. She needs space. She’ll come back when she’s ready.”
I grind my teeth and start pacing. “I’m not mad at her. I’m just—”
“Losing your mind without her?” Ronan finishes.
I stop pacing and stare straight at him. “Yeah.”
Because that’s the truth.
She’s the one person who cuts through the static in my head. When she’s around, the noise quiets. The world stops spinning so violently. Without her? I’m stuck holding my breath, waiting to fall apart.
“We’re all feeling it,” Rowen says, setting his book aside. “But we’ll work it out. Reign’s already backing us, and Berk’s processing everything. When she’s ready, we move forward. Together.”
Ronan nods. “We just have to be smart. We can’t make this public until we know how to explain it. Not to school, and definitely not to our parents.”
I stiffen.
“Yeah,” I mutter, forcing a breath out. “That’s a conversation I’m never having.”
My dad will never know about Berk. Not now. Not ever.
Ronan sighs and scrubs a hand over his neck. “It sucks, man. If the three of us date her, guys will high-five us and call us legends. But Berk? People will tear her apart.”
“Not happening,” I snap, the words a growl. “Anyone who says a single thing about her, they deal with me.”
Ronan salutes dramatically. “Yes, Captain Rage.”
Rowen ignores him, eyes serious. “We protect her. That’s the rule. All of us or none of us.”
I nod, because there’s no other option.
Berk isn’t just some girl we care about.
She’s ours.
She’s the calm within all our storms.
And no one—absolutely no one—gets to hurt her.