I don’t look back. I don’t need to. The smirk pulling at my lips is enough to tell me everything I need to know; we did it. We cut the cord. We burned the coffin they wanted to bury us in. And the timing couldn’t be sweeter—her number flashing at the exact moment our past turns to ash. She answered me. Faster than I expected. Faster than I deserved. That single reply is a lifeline wrapped in barbed wire, and I grip it tight.
Proof that this is only the beginning.
I click her number without hesitation, my thumb moving faster than my brain can process, pulse thundering so loud it drowns out even the roar of the fire. The camera opens, and I adjust the angle with deliberate precision, making sure the inferno eats up theframe, the house outlined in its own funeral. Flames lick at the night sky, spitting sparks that shower down like dying stars, and the glow swallows us whole.
I tilt the shot to catch Rowan and Emerson just behind me. They look unreal in the firelight, their faces carved in shifting shadows and molten orange, like avenging spirits crawling up from hell itself to collect what’s owed. Rowan’s jaw is tight, his eyes hollow but burning with purpose. Emerson looks older than I’ve ever seen him, grief and rage etched deep, his silhouette hard and unyielding against the blaze. Together, we look less like brothers and more like executioners waiting for the guilty to line up.
The crackle of burning wood is relentless, snapping and groaning as beams collapse inside the house. It’s a sound that fills the silence like a battle drum, an anthem of destruction, and I let it bleed into the recording. Every pop, every hiss, every collapse of charred timber becomes part of the message. I want her to hear it as clearly as she sees it. I want her to feel it—the destruction, the ending, the promise of what comes next. With the flames at my back and vengeance in my veins, I hit record, ready to send her proof that this is no longer just talk. This is war. And we’re all in.
“Pixie,” I murmur into the lens, the word dragging out of me like a vow, my voice low, steady, anchored in every ounce of truth I have left. It’s not just her name—it’s a promise. A warning. A plea. I hold the phone steady for a beat, letting the firelight frame my face, the blaze behind me proof of what we’ve already burned away. Then I tip the camera toward my brothers.
Rowan steps forward first. His shoulders squared, but I can see the tremor in his hands, the weight dragging at his chest. His voice comes out rough, scraped raw from shouting and guilt, each syllable heavy like stone. “Berk… I don’t expect forgiveness. Not for what I did. Not for what I let happen. But I swear to you, I’ll never raise my hand against you again. Never. I’ll use these hands to fight for you instead—to kill for you. You’ll never bleed because of me again. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that.” His throat works as if he’s swallowing glass, and the silence after his words says more than anything else could.
Then, Emerson steps into frame, firelight catching the wet shine in his eyes before he blinks it away. His voice is quieter, but no less sharp, his tone carrying that rare steel he only uses when it matters most. “You deserved better than me, better than all of us. I see that now. I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder; sorry I let myself believe lies because it was easier than facing the truth. But I won’t make that mistake again. I’ll fight every day, giving all I have, to earn back even a fraction of your trust. Even if it takes the rest of my life. I’ll prove we’re not them. I’ll prove we can be the men you deserve at your side.”
I steady the phone one last time; the blaze roaring behind me like a demon set free, flames painting my face in shifting reds and golds. My pulse pounds so hard it feels like the words are etched into my bloodstream before I speak them.
“Pixie,” I murmur again, softer this time, but the weight behind it could shatter mountains. “I’ve loved you since before I even knew what love was. And I’ll love you until I take my lastbreath—and even then, I’ll find you in the dark.” My jaw tightens, the firelight catching in my eyes, turning the devotion in my chest into something sharper, deadlier. “But don’t think for one second I won’t come for you. You remember what I told you before—what would happen if you ran from me again. You don’t get to disappear on me, Pixie. Not anymore. I’ll see you soon, baby. And when I do…” I lean in closer to the lens, voice dropping to a growl, “…you’re mine.”
I press a slow kiss to the camera, lips brushing the screen like I’m sealing it in blood, before I lean back and let the smirk curl again at the edge of my mouth. Only this time, it’s not playful—it’s sharpened into something ruthless.
“This is only the beginning,” I tell her, voice hard as steel, firelight dancing in my gaze. “Watch closely, Pixie. Because from here on out, we’re burning their empire to the ground.”
I end the recording; the screen goes dark in my hand, but the weight of what we just did still burns in my chest. It feels like more than a video—it’s a vow carved into digital stone; a promise sealed with fire and ash. I hit send without hesitation, knowing she’ll see it, knowing she’ll feel it in her bones the way I meant her to. A crooked grin pulls at my mouth as I turn to my brothers. “Good night, gentlemen. Don’t forget to turn down my bed,” I mock, the words dripping sarcasm, because we all know damn well I won’t be home to use it. They hate it, and I enjoy rubbing salt in that wound, letting them stew on the knowledge that while they’re standing here, I’ll be out there—finding Berk.
Rowan’s jaw flexes, but he stays silent, his eyes flashing like he wants to argue, but he knows better. Emerson, though… Emerson finally cracks. His voice cuts through the tension, low and tight, like he’s barely holding it together. “Do you know where she is?”
I meet his eyes, nod once, sharp and deliberate. But I don’t say a word. Not a single fucking syllable. Because if I do, they’ll follow. They’ll try to insert themselves where they don’t belong—not yet anyway. We still have our own sins to reconcile, our own shit to work through before we can stand in front of her together. Right now, she’s mine to find. Mine to face. Mine to hold—or to burn with, if that’s how it has to be.
The silence stretches, thick as smoke, but I don’t break it. I tuck my phone into my pocket and turn toward the night, my body already humming with the pull of her.
When I sneak up to Trent’s house, the first thing that hits me is the silence. Not the kind of silence that means peace, but the heavy, suffocating kind that hums with unfinished violence. It takes me a beat to realize I’m too late—late to the show, late to her reckoning. My gut twists, a mixture of frustration and something darker, something almost reverent. Hours ago, she slipped out Reign’s bedroom window, dissolving into the night like smoke through my fingers. I should’ve known better than to think she wouldn’t strike fast. She’s not one to sit still, not one to let fury cool before she uses it. She’s out here writing vengeance in blood while the rest of us are still catching our breath.
The image of her moving through this house—silent, lethal, every step driven by purpose—locks around my chest like a vice. Isee it with brutal clarity. Berk in the shadows, blade flashing as it catches the light, eyes burning with what they took from her. My dark angel. My nightmare dressed in vengeance. Just the thought alone makes my lungs ache, because I know her. She’ll sense me coming, feel it the same way I feel her in my bones. That thread between us has always been there, buried but unbroken, snapping tighter every time we draw closer.
And this time… this time there’s no way in hell I’m letting her go. She can fight, she can run, she can bleed me dry with fury, but I’ll chase her to the ends of the earth if I have to. Because losing her once already carved a hole in me so deep it’s still bleeding, still festering years later. The idea of losing her again? Of watching her disappear into smoke and shadows a second time. That would finish me in a way no bullet ever could.
Unthinkable. Impossible. I won’t allow it. I’d set fire to every building, topple every empire, bury every last son of a bitch who ever dared touch her before I’d let her slip through my fingers again. If the world has to burn for me to keep her, then let it burn. I’ll stand in the ashes with her in my arms, and I’ll call it salvation.
My thoughts won’t slow, racing faster than my heartbeat as I slip through the shadows, every possibility flashing in my head like lightning strikes. Is she working him over slowly, peeling him apart layer by layer with that steady, merciless precision of hers? Or is she whispering his sins back to him, each word a blade of its own, cutting deeper than steel ever could?
I move carefully, each step deliberate, boots silent on the floorboards—learned, practiced, predatory. The house feelswrong—too still, too heavy. The air hangs thick with tension, with the copper tang of blood threading through it, subtle but undeniable. Then I hear it. Her voice.
It freezes me where I stand. Low, melodic, a cadence that almost soothes, except it’s sharpened at the edges with venom. A song of vengeance, cutting through the silence like silk drawn across steel, delicate but deadly. My chest tightens, every nerve in me sparking to life at the sound. Pix. My warrior. The girl I lost and the woman she’s become, wrapped into one haunting sound that’s both beautiful and terrifying.
So, I track it. Not rushing—moving slow, deliberate, almost reverent, letting her voice pull me through the dark like a thread. Each note, each word she utters is a compass pointing me toward the storm I know she’s unleashing inside these walls. The anticipation is suffocating, but it’s nothing compared to what comes next.
Because I know something she doesn’t. A fun little fact that will twist her blade deeper, fuel her fire higher. The bastard she’s working over right now, the one pinned beneath her wrath, isn’t just Bryce’s second. He’s the piece of shit who put a bullet in my chest days ago. She doesn’t have that piece of the puzzle yet, doesn’t realize just how personal this kill already is. But I do. And when I tell her, when I hand her that truth, it’ll take this kill to the next level.
Until then, I watch her work, and I swear I’ve never seen anything more fucking beautiful in my life. Every line of her body hums with power, coiled and lethal, like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment and is finally stepping into the truth ofwho she is. Each flick of her wrist sings with vengeance, sharp and purposeful, like she’s conducting a symphony of violence and I’m the only audience meant to see it.
She’s painted in crimson—not her own, thank every twisted god that exists—but the bastards she’s dismantling. And somehow that makes her even more breathtaking. It’s not gore to me. It’s art. Justice. The pure, unfiltered beauty of a woman claiming the power they tried to bury in her. My pulse hammers so hard it feels like it’s trying to rip out of my chest, syncing with the rhythm of her strikes, the cadence of her fury.
The blade in her hand isn’t just a weapon. It’s an extension of her, an old friend she trusts more than people, a promise that she’ll never be defenseless again. She wields it like it was forged for her alone, every arc through the air smooth and merciless, every puncture carrying the weight of years of silence and pain. And her eyes—fuck, her eyes. They burn with something dangerous, something no one could ever cage again. They glitter like shards of obsidian catching firelight, sharp enough to slice me open without ever touching me.
She’s not just surviving. Not just fighting. She’s transforming. Becoming something raw and untouchable, something holy in its violence. And I can’t tear my eyes away. She’s perfection, wrapped in blood and fury, and I want her with a kind of desperation that borders on madness.
I shouldn’t be turned on. I am anyway. Every rational part of me screams that it’s wrong, that arousal has no place here in the middle of someone else’s screams, with the copper tang of bloodthick in the air. But my body doesn’t give a fuck about rational. It reacts to her—always has, always will. And right now, watching her drenched in someone else’s life, fury dripping from her blade as naturally as breath fills her lungs, it wrecks me in ways I can’t put words to.
