His mouth curves faintly. “Maybe.”
Wraith’s voice cuts through the comms, sharp and sounding slightly irritated. “Move. We’re done.”
We retreat fast, slipping back to the bikes before the dark can remember us. Saint swings on first, then reaches a hand out as if asking me to ride with him. I grap hold of his hand, and hesteadies me as I climb on behind him, my hands finding his waist without thinking.
Wraith’s engine roars to life, his massive machine surging forward. Saint follows, smooth and lethal. The rain chases us as the warehouse falls away, the city swallowing its secrets again.
I don’t speak until the skyline reappears, until the road stretches wide and fast beneath us, until my heartbeat finally slows.
But inside, I’m still shaking. Not from fear. From recognition. Because… Iknowthat face.
And now I know who really sold my brother out.
When we reach the townhouse, the world feels too bright.
The rain hasn’t stopped—it’s a thin, silver curtain against the windows—but the lights inside burn gold, soft and deceptive.
Rook is waiting in the study, sleeves rolled to the elbow, posture all command and composure. The map from this morning is still spread across the desk, pins glinting under lamplight like tiny warnings.
He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at us—the mud on Wraith’s boots, the wet sheen of Saint’s coat, the mud on my sleeve I hadn’t noticed until now. “Well?” he asks finally, voice even.
Wraith drops the file onto the desk, the folder hitting the wood with a dull slap. “You got what you wanted. The Syndicate and Russians are working together. Meeting went smooth. We weren’t spotted.”
“Who led the exchange?” Rook asks, already flipping the folder open.
Saint answers, tone precise. “One of the Syndicate lieutenants. And a broker from Moscow. They were discussing distribution routes—south docks, East End. Not just weapons, either. We also found a familiar face we weren’t expecting.”
Rook glances up. “I don’t like that. What else? Drugs?”
“Information,” I say before either of them can. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “Files. Intel. Damien’s selling it to both sides.”
Rook doesn’t bother asking who Damien is, by now ’m sure he has every file under the sun pulled on me. It should surprise me. Or at the very least make me angry. It does’t.
Wraith’s brow twitches. “She’s right. They passed a case with British seals. Could be government-grade encryption.”
Rook’s gaze sharpens. “And you’re sure of that?”
I nod. “Positive.”
He studies me for a long moment. There’s calculation in his eyes, but something else, too—something I can’t quite name.
“And her?” he asks quietly, still watching me.
Saint steps forward, shaking the rain from his coat. His voice is low, almost careful. “Held her own.”
There’s a silence that follows, heavy as the thunder outside. Rook doesn’t thank him. Doesn’t praise anyone. He just opens the desk drawer and pulls out a sleek, black card, setting it on the map like an offering.
It gleams faintly under the lamplight. My name etched at the bottom—Ember Calloway.
“Credit card,” he says simply. “No limits. You’ve earned it.”
My eyes flick from the card to his face. “Why?”
He leans back in the chair, fingers steepled. “Because I reward results. And because I want to see what you’ll do with freedom—when you realize it’s conditional.”
The words land like a weight between us.
“Dinner tomorrow night,” he adds. “We plan after that.”
