Chapter Three
Ronan
Normally, I’m a light sleeper. The kind who wakes at the faintest sound—a creak in the floor, a shift in the wind, the whisper of a door not fully shut.
But I barely stir when Rowan and Emerson slip out of the bed, leaving just Berk and me in the quiet dim of the room.
My instincts should be screaming to stay alert, to keep watch, but exhaustion runs deep in my bones.
The only thing that moves in me is the reflex to pull her closer, my arms tightening around her like I can anchor her to this world just by holding on.
She sighs in her sleep, soft and unguarded, and presses herself closer, her face burrowing into the crook of my neck until I can feel the warmth of her breath against my skin.
Her hair tickles my jaw, the strands still smelling faintly of smoke and the shampoo she found in the bathroom earlier.
She’s small like this, deceptively delicate, and it messes with me more than I want to admit.
During the day, she’s a storm—sharp words, fierce eyes, all control and calculation.
But when she sleeps, she’s just… Berk. My girl.
The one who curls up against me like she’s been doing it forever.
I shift slightly, brushing a thumb along her spine, tracing the line of her back beneath the thin fabric of her shirt.
She makes a soft sound—half sigh, half purr—and nuzzles closer, a tiny movement that punches a hole right through my chest. It’s instinct for me to protect, to guard, to fight.
But this—this quiet, this fragile peace—is something I don’t know how to hold without breaking.
She’s always reminded me of a kitten, all soft edges and claws, wild when cornered but trusting when she knows she’s safe.
Except Berk doesn’t trust easily. She’s built of scars and steel, and the fact that she’s here, wrapped up in my arms, breathing easy against me, feels like a goddamn miracle I don’t deserve.
I press my lips against her forehead, a small promise that I’ll keep her safe even when everything around us burns. Her fingers twitch against my chest, like she knows what I’m thinking, and I smile despite the weight sitting heavy in my gut.
She shifts again, mumbling something I can’t make out, the words lost in the space between us.
I tighten my hold just a little more, my hand splayed across her back, feeling her heartbeat thrum against my palm.
The sound of her steady breathing becomes a rhythm I match my own to, slow and grounding, pulling me under before I can stop it.
For once, sleep comes easy. And for the first time in a long time, I let it. Because right now, she’s here. Safe. Warm. Alive. And as long as I’ve got her in my arms, the monsters out there can wait a little longer.
By the time I wake up, the light slanting through the blinds is sharp and mean, a late afternoon glare that makes everything look washed out and tired.
Berkley is still draped across me, her body soft and warm, breath brushing against my throat.
She’s out cold, completely dead to the world.
For once, she looks peaceful—no tension in her jaw, no furrow in her brow.
Just her. I tighten my arm around her, making sure she’s still there, still real.
I don’t think I’ve ever held on to anything this carefully in my life.
But the longer I lie there, the more the quiet eats at me.
The guys are still gone, which means they’re locked in the war room obsessing over the feeds.
I should be there too. They’ve probably stayed awake all morning, chain-drinking coffee and tearing through data trying to find Kimber.
They need rest. I’ll take over for a while.
I move slowly, careful not to wake Berkley as I slide her off my chest. She doesn’t even twitch—just sighs, curling into the spot I left behind. That tiny sound punches me in the chest harder than I want to admit. I lean down, brushing a kiss across her temple before I drag myself out of the room.
The air gets colder the closer I get to the war room; the hum of the equipment is like static under my skin.
When I push the door open, the glow from the monitors hits me in the face, a harsh blue-white light that makes everything look more desperate.
The room stinks of burned circuits, cold coffee, and frustration.
Rowan’s slouched over a keyboard, his knuckles white, his eyes hollowed out by dark circles.
Emerson looks worse—jaw tight, shoulders hunched, staring at the screen like he could strangle it into giving him an answer.
“Hey,” I mutter, my voice scraping through the heavy silence. “Find anything?”
They both answer at the same time. “No.” The word is flat, heavy as a body hitting the ground. Rowan drags a hand down his face, and Emerson finally looks over, eyes bloodshot, the muscle in his jaw ticking like a damn metronome.
“Give me a rundown,” I say. “I’ll take it from here. You two go crash. Keep Berk company. She shouldn’t wake up alone.”
They don’t argue. They look tired—angry, but past the point of saying anything about it.
Rowan nods once, slow and deliberate. Emerson swipes his face, leaving a streak of exhaustion behind.
Rowan leans back in his chair, the blue light from the monitors carving deep shadows beneath his eyes.
His fingers drum against the edge of the desk, restless, frustrated.
Emerson’s stands beside him, arms crossed, shoulders tight, the vein in his temple pulsing like it’s ready to blow.
They look wrecked, but it’s not the kind of tired sleep fixes—it’s the kind that lives under your skin and festers.
Rowan’s voice is low, edged with a calm that means he’s holding back a string of curses. “We hit a couple of accounts tied to their shell company. Choked them before they could move anything else.”
Emerson rubs the back of his neck, jaw ticking. “We traced two lines that looked promising. Both were dead ends. Whoever’s cleaning up their mess knows what they’re doing. They’re burning every breadcrumb before we even get there.”
“Ghosts,” Rowan mutters, spinning the chair just enough to face me. “That’s what they’ve turned into. We had signals this morning, fragments of movement, but they’re gone now. Wiped clean.”
I stare at the screens, lines of static flickering where data used to live. The silence stretches, heavy with the truth we already know. “So, we’ve got nothing,” I say flatly.
Rowan exhales through his nose, his voice raspy. “For now.”
Emerson’s hands clench at his sides. “They can’t hide forever. They’re desperate, which means they’ll slip up. It’s just a matter of time.”
I nod slowly, eyes narrowing on the dead monitors. “Then we make damn sure we’re ready when they do.”
They move toward the door, both looking wrecked in that way men do when they’ve hit their limit but refuse to admit it.
When they’re gone, I sink into the chair, cracking my knuckles until the sound echoes through the room.
The keys are cool under my fingers as I wake up the screens, rows of code and encrypted feeds spilling out in front of me.
I can tell at a glance it’s bad—some signals are dead, trackers gone dark, communication lines scrambled to hell.
“Motherfuckers,” I growl under my breath. “You think you can hide from me?”
The system fights back, sluggish with corrupted data, but I’ve always been good at breaking things open.
It’s the only genuine talent I’ve ever had—breaking what doesn’t want to be broken.
I dig in deep, tracing the ghosts of their digital footprints, following half-burned trails across encrypted networks.
Every move I make reveals another layer of how much they’ve covered their tracks, but I don’t care.
The more they hide, the more it pisses me off.
I lean closer to the screen, its glow bleaching my face. My reflection looks feral—bloodshot eyes, clenched jaw, a man fueled by spite and grief. “You can cover your tracks all you want,” I mutter, voice low. “But we’re coming for you. You don’t get to touch what’s ours and walk away breathing.”
The cursor blinks as if it’s mocking me. I slam my palm down on the desk, the sound sharp in the silence. “Fuck!” The shout burns through my throat, but it doesn’t help. I drag my hand over my face, forcing myself to breathe.
They took Kimber. The thought is a constant, pounding rhythm in my skull. They took a kid. Our family. And that’s what kills me—the one line we’d never cross, the one they just spit on.
I keep working, jaw tight, scanning for even a flicker of a trace. If there’s a whisper of her voice or a signal ping that matches one of their devices, I’ll find it. I’ll tear through every firewall, every defense, until I’ve got them by the throat.
The room creaks as the house settles, a reminder of how quiet it is without laughter.
My eyes flick to the doorway. I can hear faint movements down the hall, probably Rowan settling Berkley back into bed, Emerson finally letting himself collapse.
They deserve that. I’ll hold the line until they wake.
My fingers fly over the keys, the screen a blur of data. “You’re dead men,” I whisper to no one, the words a promise that tastes like ash and blood. “Every one of you.”
Outside, the sky’s darkening again, the edges of the day bleeding into night. Perfect. Because when the world sleeps, that’s when men like me do their best work.
Berkley’s footsteps hit my radar before I see her.
They’re light, deliberate, that signature sound of someone who could slip through shadows and slit a throat before her target ever saw her coming.
Even barefoot, she moves with the same quiet precision she uses to dismantle men twice her size—and damn if that image doesn’t go straight to my dick.