Vale lets out a low whistle. “Didn’t see that one coming.”
“Shut it,” I say without looking his way. My attention stays on her.
“You’re serious?” she asks.
“As a bullet.”
Her jaw sets. “And what exactly does that entail? Sitting pretty while you talk business?”
“Exactly that,” I say. “You’ll smile when required, keep your ears open, and give them no reason to suspect a thing. You’re our eyes disguised as a pawn tonight, Ember. I don’t like it, but it’s necessary.”
She stands, slow and careful, hands flat on the table. “I’m notanyone’spawn.”
The words come out low, but they hit like a strike.
“I know,” I say quietly. “But I need you to be—just for a few hours.”
Her eyes flash. “I may play a part out there, but I will not choose in here. You won’t make me choose between what’s mine and what’s yours.”
I rise, closing the space between us until we’re eye to eye. “Who said they’re different?”
For a long beat, no one moves.
Then she exhales, a sharp sound that’s half a laugh, half a dare. “You really don’t care what they think, do you?”
“Not in the slightest,” I murmur. “Never have.”
The corner of her mouth curves—not a smile, exactly, but something close. “You’re impossible.”
“Good,” I say. “Then I’m doing my job.”
London glitters outside the car windows, all wet glass and reflections. The restaurant sits in the heart of Mayfair, a place that smells like money and old secrets.
Inside, the lighting is low, the walls paneled in black and brass. The Syndicate’s contact waits in a corner booth—a man too well-dressed for his own safety, all polished cufflinks and expensive whiskey poured too early in the evening.
We make an entrance. That’s the point.
Ember walks beside me, arm looped through mine. Her perfume is something dark and sweet that crawls under my skin, her emerald dress gleaming like a secret in the dim light. Heads turn, but I’d be surprised if they didn’t. Just look at her.
Jonas Whitlock’s eyes flick toward her, then back to me. “Didn’t know you were bringing company, Voss.”
I don’t care for his tone. Never have. Like the way he’s staring at her even less. “She’s with me.”
A pause. Then a smirk. “Lucky man.”
I don’t answer. My hand tightens slightly over hers, a silent command to hold her composure. She does—flawlessly.
The waiter leads us to a secluded table. Booth-style seating, velvet and shadow. Ember slides in first, the hem of her dress whispering against her legs, then I follow, crowding her close until the contact raises a brow.
“Didn’t realize you were so possessive,” he says, tone half-amused.
“Only when it matters,” I reply, voice even.
He chuckles, swirling the amber in his glass. “Always admired that about you, Rook. Ruthless. Focused.” His gaze lingers on Ember. “And apparently, sentimental.”
Before I can respond, Ember shifts deliberately, crossing one leg over the other, her heel brushing my ankle. Her body fits neatly against mine—an unspoken answer to the challenge.
I let it happen. Hell, I encourage it. My arm settles around her waist, a show of ownership and warning all in one.
