“Busy,” I lie.
She doesn’t blink. “Liar.”
Saint’s mouth curves. Vale actually laughs. Wraith glances at me, then at her, and then looks back down at the pan like he’s pretending breakfast matters. Rook is the only one who doesn’t react. He just watches me over the rim of his glass like I’m being weighed for worth.
I roll that down slow. Measure out my answer.
“You were safe,” I say at last.
Her expression flickers. Just a fraction. Hurt, yes. But also something softer. Warmth, almost. “You checked,” she says quietly.
Not a question.
I don’t answer that, because we both know I did. I watched her sleep. Again. I removed the timestamp footage again. Saint knows. Vale suspects. Rook pretends he’s not aware of thecameras he didn’t authorize going mysteriously dead between 02:00 and 04:00.
But Wraith? Wraith’s the only one who looks at me when she says it.
Interesting.
That’s when I realize something else.
Her balance and power has shifted. She’s not in survival mode anymore. She’s not bargaining, or begging for air. She’s negotiating positioning.
That’s different.
She sets her mug down and stretches, the hem of the borrowed shirt sliding up her thighs. It should look vulnerable. It doesn’t.
“So,” she says, voice casual, “which one of you is going to explain Canary Wharf to me like I’m stupid?”
Saint almost chokes on his coffee. Vale grins like Christmas landed early. “Careful. You’re going to make the King twitch.”
Rook does not twitch. Rook is insulted by the suggestion that Rook would twitch. He just wipes his thumb along the rim of his glass and says, evenly, “No lies. No half-truths. That’s what we agreed.” His gaze cuts toward me, then Wraith. “She’s in this now.”
My spine goes cold. When didthathappen? I didn’t agree to that. I would’ve remembered. Except I’m looking at Wraith, and Wraith is meeting Rook’s gaze like yes, that’s settled, and I can feel it—the thing that changed overnight. The crack that almost split us open? It’s been soldered.
Not avoided. Fucking soldered. Heat and pressure and metal, fused.
Ember watches the exchange between them. Her lips part, just slightly. She’s smart enough to understand what just shifted. Smart enough to see that she’s not leverage anymore.
She’s central support.
I clear my throat. “Canary Wharf,” I say, deliberately clinical, because if I don’t ground this in data I’m going to lose the thread and do something stupid like say you’re the only thing keeping this from collapsing. “The Syndicate’s using shell manifests to move product and intelligence through lower port lanes. Russians are riding the clearance under British cover.”
“Meaning?” she asks.
“Meaning,” I reply, “someone in bed with the Syndicate has access to intel they shouldn’t. Someonelocal. Someone who’s not supposed to be talking to foreign crews at all, let alone clearing their ships. Someone like your handler.”
Her expression shifts — not surprise. Not shock. Just confirmation.Damien.
I see it hit her. Like a wire pulled too tight.
Her jaw locks, eyes going hard and flat for half a second before she smooths it down to something palatable. To most people, that flicker would read as nothing. To me, it looks like an old wound tearing open. So I log it. Mentally, I write it down.
Damien. Canary Wharf. MI6 fingerprints on Syndicate shipments. Russians in bed with the London machine. Cross-reference. Build timeline. Trace the payments. Follow the dead.
“I’m going with you next time,” Ember says.
Rook growls, “You’re not.”
