Jonas grins wider. “Ah. I see. A statement piece.”
That earns him a smile from me—a slow, cold thing that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Careful. You don’t have enough men in this city to backup that kind of talk.”
The grin fades, replaced by an uneasy laugh. “Relax. Just business. Speaking of which—” He gestures for another drink. “Word is, the Russians are buying passage through the south docks again. Not their usual ports. Someone’s giving them clearance they shouldn’t have.”
“Someone from your end,” I say.
His jaw ticks. “Could be. Could also be a ghost in your own house. You’ve made enemies.”
“Enemies don’t bother me.” I take a sip of wine. “Betrayal does.”
Ember’s fingers trace the rim of her water glass, delicate but purposeful. “So which is it?” she asks softly. “An enemy or a betrayal?”
The man studies her like she’s a puzzle he wants to take apart. “You’ve got sharp teeth for decoration, sweetheart.”
“She’s not for decoration,” I say.
Her hand rests on my thigh, subtle, grounding. I know it’s part of the act, but it doesn’t feel like one.
“Fair enough,” Jonas concedes, leaning back. “If you’re looking for your leak, check the manifests out of Canary Wharf. Someone’s been clearing shipments through there under different names. Russian codes. British handlers.”
I trade a glance with Ember. She’s listening, filing every word away like ammunition.
The man smirks again, eyes dropping briefly to where she’s settled in my lap. “You train all your assets this well?”
The room goes quiet.
I set my glass down carefully, my voice dropping low. “One more word like that and I’ll make sure your assets start turning up in the Thames.”
The smirk disappears. “You’ve lost your sense of humor, Voss.”
“Didn’t bring it to dinner,” I snarl.
He shifts in his seat, awkwardly clears his throat, and tosses back the rest of his drink. “I’ll send what I find.”
“Do that.”
He leaves not long after, the click of his shoes fading into the ambient hush of the restaurant. For a long moment, neither of us moves. Ember’s still in my lap, still pretending it’s part of the performance, but her pulse betrays her—fast, steady, too aware.
Finally, I murmur, “You can stop pretending now.”
She doesn’t move. “Was I pretending?”
My gaze drops to her mouth. “You tell me.”
She leans in slightly, her voice a quiet blade. “You can’t use me as a pawn and expect me to stay where you put me, Rook.”
I almost smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Her eyes flash—defiant, alive. “Good. Because I’m done letting men decide where I belong.”
She slides off my lap with a grace that’s infuriating and magnetic all at once. I stand with her, straightening my jacket.
“Then I guess you’ll have to decide for yourself,” I say softly. “Just remember what happens to queens who forget the board they’re playing on.”
She doesn’t look back as we walk toward the exit, the world outside already waiting with its fog and lights and unspoken promises.
The Syndicate man’s warning rattles around in my head, but it’s her words that stay.
