“I’m not stupid,” I mutter.
“I know,” he says, and somehow that lands like a palm down my spine.
We move again, deeper. Saint leads now. The corridor narrows, then opens into a room I recognize even before my body reacts.
Where they first put me.
Not the same lighting. Not the same table. But I know it. I know the cold in the concrete. I know the sightlines. I know exactly where Rook stood the first time I saw him without a mask, how he tilted his head, how he watched me bleed and shake and still didn’t look away.
My throat tightens without permission.
Rook slows. “You good?”
It’s a quiet question. He asks it like no one else is here. I force my breath out. “Yeah.”
He studies me. I let him. Then he nods once, approving that answer.
Wraith stands in the doorway. Vale wanders the perimeter, hands in his pockets like he’s admiring artwork. Saint lingers close enough to touch if I need it and far enough not to crowd if I don’t. It should make me feel observed. It doesn’t. It makes me feel… accounted for.
“We don’t bring outsiders down here,” Rook says. “Ever.”
“I wasn’t aware I was an outsider,” I say before I can stop myself.
Silence.
Vale lets out a low huff of a laugh, delighted. Saint’s head bows like he’s hiding a smile. Wraith’s mouth does that thing where it almost splits into one and stops at the last second. Rook’s eyes flare with heat and longing.
For a moment I think I’ve gone too far. Then he steps in close — too close — and tips my chin up with two fingers. It’s not rough. It’s not sweet either. It’s control.
“No,” he says softly. “You’re not.”
My pulse kicks. He lets me go before my brain catches up. “We’re not done,” Rook says. “There’s one more stop.”
Vale perks up instantly, like a child promised a toy.
Wraith rolls his shoulders like he’s slipping into a familiar weight.
Saint exhales like a prayer.
Ash appears in the hall like he grew out of the wall. I don’t flinch only because I’ve started to expect him to materialize like bad code. He nods at Rook, then at me.
“Van’s ready,” he says.
“What van?” I ask.
Rook gives me that slow, lethal almost-smile. “The one that keeps our empire standing.”
Chapter 37
Ember
The warehouse sits along the docks — not the pretty docks, not the curated, redeveloped, overpriced London docks with artisanal bread and yacht boys in cuffed sleeves.Ourdocks. Metal and salt and diesel and money moving under tarps. It smells like sea rot and power.
From the outside it looks abandoned.
From the inside it looks like control. Pallets are stacked and wrapped, marked with coded stencils — not English. Some Cyrillic. Some Spanish. Some are nothing I recognize, which tells me it’s custom. Crates are bolted, sealed, scanned. Every movement is logged by Ash on a tablet while Wraith oversees the actual loading with the patience of a man who has broken bones for less than sloppiness.
Vale’s in his element here. He moves through the space like a conductor. Saint hangs back, talking quietly to a man in a pressed shirt who’s definitely not a dock boy. Rook walks me through the floor like it’s a gallery.
