Chapter Two
Berkley
The frantic rush to get back to my hidden hovel barely registers as thought—it’s instinct, survival, the same rhythm that’s carried me for months now.
My body moves quickly, but every step feels stretched thin, like I’m trudging through wet cement.
The alleyways blur, the streets twist, until finally I slip into the narrow gap that leads to the small, suffocating space I’ve called home these past few months.
Only once I’m inside, wedged between concrete and shadow, does the weight of what just happened slam into me full force.
My boys know. The truth is out, no longer locked away in my chest where I thought I could bury it forever.
They know how I was touched. How I was violated.
How every inch of me was carved into pieces that night and scattered like ash.
It’s stupid—I know it’s stupid—but my first thought is fear that they’ll treat me differently now.
That their eyes will change when they look at me, that pity or disgust will eclipse what used to be there.
That I’ll stop being me in their minds and become nothing more than what was done to me.
The thought makes my chest cave, breath hitching in short, uneven gasps.
Panic rises sharply and unrelenting, like barbed wire tightening around my lungs.
My hands tremble as I press them against my thighs, trying to anchor myself, but the ground tilts, spinning with the force of memory.
The flashes come quickly and mercilessly—hands where they shouldn’t have been, voices I can’t scrub out, the helplessness that hollowed me out from the inside.
My skin prickles with phantom touches I’ll never get rid of.
I haven’t felt this close to breaking in years.
Not since that first year after the fire, when panic attacks ruled my nights and left me clawing at my throat for air.
I thought I’d moved past it. I thought I’d hardened enough, fought enough, killed enough to bury the panic beneath steel.
But here it is again, cracking me open, leaving me seconds away from unraveling in the dark of my hideaway.
Practiced breathing slows the frantic rhythm of my chest, pulling the haze from my vision one careful inhale at a time.
I focus on the count—four in, hold, six out—until the ringing in my ears dulls and my mind clears, sharp edges forming again where the fog had settled.
The panic loosens its claws, retreating far enough that I can think, though my body still trembles with the aftershocks.
In that clarity, my heart aches for Ronan.
I can picture him even now, jaw clenched, eyes burning, convinced I’ve abandoned him again.
The thought twists inside me, sharp and relentless, because I know what my absence must feel like to him.
But I also know Ronan—he understands, even if he won’t admit it.
He’ll stop at nothing to find me, no matter how far I run or how hard I try to keep my distance.
That’s who he is. That’s who he’s always been.
My only hope is that Rowan and Emerson will keep him flat on his back long enough for the hole in his chest to heal.
He’s no good to me dead, not while there’s still so much left unfinished.
But someone tried to kill him. Someone put a bullet in my Ronan and would’ve finished the job if luck hadn’t been on our side.
And that someone could come back—could take another shot at him, or worse, shift their sights onto Rowan or Emerson.
The thought of it boils my blood, replacing the fading panic with a sharp, familiar rage.
We may have monumental issues festering between us—betrayal, lies, the kind of wounds that never fully scar—but they’re mine.
My men. My mess. Mine to punish, to forgive, to love, to destroy, to put back together again if I damn well please.
No one else gets that right. No one else gets to touch them.
Now is not the time for division. Now is the time for war.
For coming together, for sharpening every weapon, for tearing Dean and Bryce’s empire apart brick by brick, body by body.
I’ll make them bleed, I’ll make them beg, and I won’t stop until every last remnant of what they’ve built is reduced to ash.
Death by unmerciful death. That’s the only justice left.
But before any of that, I need to get my shit together.
My head has to be sharp, steady, untouchable.
The panic that crawls up my throat when I least expect it needs to stay buried.
I can’t afford to hesitate, not now. Not when what we’ve uncovered has torn away the last of my illusions.
First, I need to find my balance again. Then? I need to shed some blood.
There’s nothing that steadies my hands, nothing that quiets the chaos in my head, quite like killing.
Call it release, call it focus, call it survival—it’s the only therapy that’s ever worked.
And lucky me, there are several names etched onto my list that can meet their end sooner than expected.
Some have been waiting patiently, debts long overdue.
Others have only recently earned their place there. Either way, they’ll all pay.
The latest discoveries, the truths dragged into the light, have forced my timeline forward.
What I thought I had months to enact; I now have only days, weeks at the most. Every second wasted is another chance for them to strike again, another chance for me to lose the few people I have left.
No, this isn’t about patience anymore. This is about immediate action.
Tonight, the clock resets.
Tonight, the killing begins.