I take the card slowly, the metal cool against my fingertips. The letters feel carved, not printed. Permanent.
Behind me, Saint exhales. Wraith shifts, silent as ever. I can feel the weight of their gazes but don’t look up.
“Congratulations, Red,” Vale calls from the doorway, his tone a smirk disguised as a greeting. He’s leaning on the frame, cigarette hanging from his lips, the faintest curl of smoke rising to the ceiling. “Looks like you just got promoted.”
I glance at him, but I don’t rise to the bait.
Rook watches me pocket the card. His voice lowers, the kind that sounds calm but carries a threat in its undercurrent. “You did well tonight. Don’t let that make you reckless.”
I meet his eyes. “I’m not the reckless one here.”
Something flickers across his face—amusement, maybe, or warning—but he doesn’t answer. He just waves me off, dismissing me like smoke in the air. The others linger a moment longer before scattering, boots echoing down the marble hall. When the door clicks shut behind me, the silence is suffocating. The faint hum of the rain against the windows fills the room, and I stare at the card in my hand.
It gleams black and endless—like a hole I’ve already stepped into.
Freedom. That’s what it looks like. What it pretends to be. But freedom, in this house, feels like silk around the throat. Beautiful. Tight. Inescapable.
As I tuck the card into my pocket, the truth settles over me like smoke—sweet, suffocating, and impossible to escape.
I’ve earned my freedom.
So why does it feel like I’ve just lost it forever?
Chapter 31
Saint
The storm hasn’t stopped.
It prowls over London like something alive, a restless animal gnawing at the night. Rain drums against the townhouse windows, soft at first, then harder—steady, insistent percussion that seeps into my bones. The air still smells like smoke, asphalt, and her perfume—whatever faint trace clings to my coat. A ghost made of citrus and fire.
I should go upstairs. Shower. Sleep. Pretend tonight never happened.
Instead, I pour another drink.
The study is dim, the kind of dark that feels intentional. Rook’s lamp glows low, turning the dust motes into sparks in the air. I sit in his chair—his throne—and stretch my legs, the old wood groaning under me. The map still lies across the desk, edges curling, the pins catching light like tiny stars that mark the places we’ve bled.
I stare at it, but it blurs. The only thing that stays clear are her eyes. The sound she made when she saw Damien. The taste of rain and defiance on her lips.
Footsteps cut through the quiet—heavy, deliberate.
I don’t look up. “You shouldn’t stomp like that, Wraith. It gives you away.”
The door slams, hard enough to rattle the walls. “You kissed her.”
I smile into my glass, the rim cold against my mouth. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve kissed plenty of women.”
He moves closer, the air heating with his anger—feral, unrefined, the kind of rage that belongs to back alleys and battlefield dirt, not this polished room. “Don’t play with me, Saint. You know exactly what I mean.”
I lift my eyes. “She’s not yours. She’s not anyone’s really…”
Wraith’s jaw tightens. “Rook told usbothto keep our distance.”
“And yet,” I murmur, “you’ve never been very good at following orders yourself.”
His fists curl at his sides. “You think this is a joke?”
“Everything’s a joke,” I say softly, “if you survive it.”
