Vale is next.
He doesn’t approach reverently. He prowls. He smirks. He drips sin and confidence and threat. But when he stops in front of me, it… softens. Just at the edges. Just enough for me to see it. “Ember Calloway,” he says, and he says my name like it tastes good in his mouth, “my name is Mateo Valez, and I am, regrettably, the closest thing this group has to charm.”
Saint snorts. Wraith grunts. Ash exhales like a laugh he’s not supposed to have. Rook doesn’t blink.
Mateo — Vale — reaches into his box and pulls out something black. A blade. It’s not standard. It’s custom made, personally designed. A handcrafted push dagger, matte black steel, double-edged, built to slip between knuckles and stay there. The grip is wrapped in dark leather, and etched into the metal, near the base, is a tiny sigil I’ve seen before spray-painted under bridges and on walls.
The Riders’ mark—a single tiny crown.
“You’re going to need this,” he says, like he’s talking about lip balm. He flips it, grip-first, and holds it out to me. “Pointy end goes in whoever’s stupid enough to touch what’smine.”
The last word is a purr. A challenge. My hand doesn’t shake when I take it. He leans in — close, closer — his mouth near my ear, voice dropping to that sinful whisper that crawls under skin. “I’ll train you on it. You’ll like my methods.”
“Mateo,” Rook says mildly.
Vale grins slow, wicked, unrepentant. “You can call me Vale,” he murmurs, loud enough for all of them. “Everyone else does. But when you need me to make someone scream for you?” His eyes cut to mine, gone dark and sincere in a way that does not match the smile. “You say Mateo.”
There’s something like a promise sitting under my skin now. It’s starting to layer. Saint’s vow. Vale’s threat. It turns warm, coiled, alive.
Wraith comes forward next.
He doesn’t speak yet, but the air changes anyway. He’s so much bigger up close like this, all mass and ink and quiet danger. Close, he smells like clean steel and smoke and skin. His brown eyes go soft around the edges when he looks at me — not weak, never weak. Soft like hunger made patient. Soft like reverence.
“Ronan,” he rumbles. It’s not an introduction. It’s a statement. A gift. His name, offered like his throat. “My name is Ronan Black,” he says, like a vow. “Wraith, if you’re talking about me to anyone else. Ronan, if it’s just us.”
Ronan.
I feel that in the base of my spine. He pulls something from his box. It’s leather. At first I think it’s a collar, and my pulse spikes so hard I forget to breathe.
It’s not a collar. It’s aholster. Custom leather, soft black, sized to my body—my body—not generic. Slender, close-wearing, meant to sit high against my ribs and vanish under a jacket. Already fitted with a compact matte-black pistol I don’t recognize. Clean. Oiled. Beautiful.
I look up at him, throat tight.
His voice drops. “You will not go unarmed again,” he says, like he’s swearing to God and himself at the same time. “Ever. Not while I breathe.”
Heat hits the backs of my eyes and threatens to sting. I nod once, because words aren’t safe.
He doesn’t ask permission. He steps in behind me, slow, giving me time to stop him. I don’t. His hands are big and steady as he settles the holster against me, tightens the strap under my arm, adjusts the lay of the leather so it sits flush under my jacket. Theweight of the gun against my ribs is a shock of reality, of finality. Of belonging.
When he’s done, he leans close enough that his mouth just barely grazes the edge of my jaw, his breath warm. “Little fox,” he whispers, so quiet it’s almost a growl, “I’ll tear out throats for you. Say the word.”
He steps back, and I struggle to breathe.
Ash approaches next.
He doesn’t smile, but the air around him changes in a way none of the others can manage. There’s always been a hum to him — something obsessive, electric, coiled so tight you can hear it if you get close enough. He’s close enough now. “Ember,” he says, and hearing my name in his voice does something bright and aching to my chest. “My name is Lysander Quinn.”
Lysander. It fits him. Too pretty to be safe. It feels like he’s handing me a blade and letting me press it to his throat.
He doesn’t offer me a weapon. He doesn’t offer me something devotional. He reaches into his box and pulls out something different.
Abook.
Leather-bound, thick, black, edges gilt in dark metal. No title on the cover. Not store-bought. Handmade. The strap around it is locked. Literally locked. There’s a tiny biometric pad where the clasp meets. My eyes widen. “What is it?”
“Proof,” he says.
My mouth goes dry. “Of what?”
