A week. That’s how long it’s been since the mission. Since Damien. Since the ground I’d been standing on split open and I learned that Owen wasn’t dirty after all. That he was the one being buried under someone else’s lies.
A week since Wraith’s hands and mouth and the kind of fire that burned something in me clean.
And in that week, I’ve started to learn the strange heartbeat of this house.
The way Vale hums when he’s thinking, off-key and dark. The way Saint mutters scripture under his breath when he’s pretending not to watch me. The way Ash moves like a ghost through the halls, always near but never seen. The way Wraith’s shadow lingers at my door just long enough to make sure I’m safe before disappearing.
And Rook… he’s everywhere and nowhere. Commanding without speaking. Watching without letting me catch him doing it.
I’ve started to understand that’s how they all work—silence, proximity, presence. They don’t have to tell me where I stand. I can feel it.
I’m not a prisoner anymore. Not exactly free either.Something in between.
The rain outside hasn’t stopped since that night. It feels like London is stuck in the same loop as me—drenched, but still standing. The city hums beyond the windows, all slick streets and muffled horns, the kind of noise that feels like it’s breathing.
I lean against the cold window and let it soak through my skin. My reflection stares back at me—barefoot, hair unbound, wearing one of Rook’s shirts I stole from the laundry because itsmells like smoke and soap and something that makes my chest ache.
I shouldn’t feel at home here.
But I do. That’s what scares me.
I used to wake every hour, waiting for a sound that meant escape—a lock turning, a guard shifting, a door left ajar. Now I wake and listen for them instead. The low murmur of Vale’s laughter down the hall. The clink of glass in Saint’s study. The soft mechanical hum from Ash’s office when he thinks everyone’s asleep. The steady tread of Wraith’s boots outside my room before dawn.
It’s not captivity anymore. It’sprotection. And I don’t know when the difference happened.
I still tell myself I’m here because I need answers. Because Owen deserves the truth, and I can’t dig it up alone. But that isn’t all of it. There’s something else I can’t name—something heavier, quieter.
Belonging.
It’s ridiculous. I know it is. These men have blood on their hands, secrets stitched into their skin, and every reason in the world to ruin me if I double cross them. But theyhaven’t. They’ve done the opposite. They’ve built walls around me and called it safety.
And I’ve stopped trying to climb them.
I think of Wraith’s hand at the small of my back, grounding me without words. Saint’s voice when he calls me little lamb—mocking, but not cruel. Vale’s grin that hides the fact that he’s watching everyone else for danger. Ash’s quiet nods when I walk into a room, like he’s cataloging my presence because it matters. Rook’s eyes, always on me, daring me to be more than what I was before.
Each of them claiming some piece of me I didn’t know was available to claim.
And somehow, I’m letting them.
I trace the rim of the window with my fingertip, breath fogging the glass. I tell myself it’s strategy. That it’s easier to work from the inside, to make them trust me, to find what I need and get out clean. But the truth is simpler and far more dangerous.
I don’t want out. Not yet...
Maybe notever.
I think about Owen, about the way he used to tell me not all cages have bars. That some just feel like safety until the door closes behind you. He was right. But maybe this is one I’m willing to step into.
Because here, at least, I’m not invisible. They see me—the way I think, the way I fight, the way I stand my ground. They don’t flinch when I speak or soften when I argue. They meet me there, every single time.
MI6 taught me to be a tool.
The Riders are teaching me how to be a weapon.
And I think, for the first time in my life, I like the sound of it.
I turn from the window, eyes catching on the small details of the room. The black leather chair Rook put there after I said the bed was too soft, the stack of books Vale left without saying why, or the perfume Saint ordered for me, still sealed. Even, the cup of tea cooling on my nightstand that I didn’t make but Ash definitely did.
They all leave pieces of themselves here.
