Rook watches my face like he can see the exact second that thought lands. He steps in, close enough that I can feel his heat through both our jackets, and lowers his voice so only I hear it. “Last chance to lie to me, Red,” he murmurs. “You want out?”
And here’s the dangerous truth. I don’t.
I meet his eyes, voice ringing clearly. “No.”
Something dark and satisfied moves through his expression. His hand comes up, curls around the side of my throat — not choking, just holding — his thumb resting right over my pulse like he’s claiming the rhythm of it for himself.
“Good girl,” he says, soft and unhurried.
Every nerve in me lights up. I don’t drop my gaze. I don’t step back.
I nod once.
“Alright then,” he says, releasing me like a promise. “Let me show you the rest of your kingdom.”
The gates open like a mouth.
Black iron, tall and spiked, swallowing us whole as they part and close again behind the car with a whisper instead of a slam. The drive curves through trees so old and heavy they lean in overthe gravel like witnesses. The rain has slowed to mist, but the air still smells wet, cold, metallic — and beneath it, smoke. Cedar smoke. Hearth smoke.
Rook is driving.
No escort, no convoy, no games. Just him at the wheel and me in the passenger seat like this is normal, like this has always been my place. The others are behind us in a second car. I can’t see them from here, but I can feel them. I always can now. It’s like my pulse has learned their weights.
We turn the last bend and I see it.
Not a house.
A manor—by London standards. A palace, by mine.
The place rises black out of the fog, all old stone and sharp angles and leaded glass, ivy crawling over one side in thick green ropes. It’s not pretty. It’s powerful. Carved lions sit crouched at each corner of the front steps, jaws bared. Tall arched windows flicker with warm light from inside, throwing gold and amber across the damp gravel. Rain clings to the slate roof, making it shine like onyx.
“Where are we?” I breathe.
“Our house,” Rook says simply.
I huff. “You said that this morning.”
He glances at me, then back at the drive as the car eases to a stop. “That was where we sleep,” he says. “This is where we are.”
A low, steady current moves through me. Anticipation. Nerves. Want. All of it woven tight.
He cuts the engine.
It’s quiet for a second. The kind of quiet that feels ceremonial.
“Ember.” His voice is low. “From this point on, if you don’t want it — any of it — you say so. And we’re done. We take you back. No punishment. No anger. No debt.”
I turn to look at him fully. “And what happens if I say yes?”
His eyes flick over my face, like he’s memorizing every shift in expression. “Then this is yours,” he says.
My throat goes tight. “All of it?”
“All ofus.”
Everything inside me jolts. I don’t have anything to say to that, so I don’t try.
Rook gets out. Comes around. Opens my door for me like a gentleman, like a king escorting his chosen into court. His hand is warm when I take it. Steady. His palm covers mine like a promise.
