Like I’ve become something worth leaving pieces for.
The thought makes my throat tighten.
I move to the bed and sit, pulling my knees to my chest, staring at the faint glow of the city through the curtains. The emerald around my neck catches the light again, a pulse of green fire. Wraith’s gift. His mark. I touch it lightly, feeling the warmth of skin underneath.
Every gesture, every glance, every unspoken thing they do feels like gravity now. And I don’t know how to fight gravity.
I don’t even think I want to.
Maybe this isn’t about escape anymore. Maybe it’s about choosing where I land. I lie back slowly, eyes tracing the faint lines of the ceiling. The air smells like rain and smoke and something warmer—something that feels like home.
For the first time since Owen died, I’m not haunted by the sound of running footsteps.
I’m haunted by stillness. By the possibility that I’ve already stopped running. And the terrifying thing is…
It doesn’t feel like surrender. It feels likepeace.
By morning, the house is already moving.
I wake to the sound of voices in the hall. Low, controlled, threaded with that specific kind of tension that means business, not danger. I know the difference now. That alone is new.
Sunlight pushes through the curtains in that washed-out London way — more suggestion than light. The air still smells faintly like rain and last night’s whiskey. I sit up slowly, the sheet sliding over bare legs. Rook’s shirt is still on me. I still haven’t given it back.
For a second, I just sit there and breathe.
It’s quiet in my head.
That never used to happen.
I stand, stretch, and pad to the wardrobe. Someone—Ash, if I had to bet my life—has already laid out clothes for me on the chair. Black jeans, a fitted black tank, a leather jacket that’s definitely not mine and fits like it was bought for me anyway.Boots. Everything practical. Everything that moves with the body.
Today isn’t silk and emerald—it’s armor.
I pull it on piece by piece and watch myself in the mirror. No makeup except a line of dark kohl. Hair in a loose knot at the base of my skull. My bruises have started healing, but I still look like trouble.
There’s a knock at my door. I don’t jump anymore when that happens, which is maybe the most dangerous change of all.
“Come in,” I call.
The door opens and Rook fills the frame. He never rushes. Not physically. He’s the kind of danger that walks. Slow, certain, absolute. Dark slacks, dark shirt, sleeves rolled to expose forearms veined in control. Watch at his wrist. Jaw clean-shaven. Blue eyes too sharp for this early.
He looks at me once. Top to bottom. Not hungry, just assessing—andapproving. “Ready?” he asks.
I huff a little. “For what, exactly?”
“For your day,” he says, like it should be obvious. “We’re moving. You’re with us.”
My stomach tightens. “With you,” I echo.
“Withme,” he corrects, voice lower.
The way he says it shouldn’t make warmth curl in my blood. It does.
He nods once, like that’s settled — because with him, it always is — and steps back so I can pass. When I do, his hand settles brief and firm at the small of my back. Not to guide. To claim. I should hate that. I don’t.
The house is awake in a way I haven’t seen before. Saint is already in a dark jacket and black shirt, sleeves buttoned to the wrist, rosary chain just visible at his throat. Vale is leaning on the railing like a devil in a cathedral, smirking around a lollipop of all things, tattoos everywhere, eyes lit with trouble. Wraith’sby the front door, broad shoulders filling half the entry, arms crossed, eyes already scanning for threats that haven’t happened yet. Ash is nowhere obvious, which tells me he’s already ahead of us.
“Field trip?” Vale asks lazily as we approach, like this is an amusement, like today’s agenda is brunch and sin instead of whatever this is.
