Saint steps closer, his voice softer, velvet-wrapped sin. “He’s right. There’ll be time for everything…later, my little lamb.” His hand brushes a strand of hair from my face, the gesture gentle enough to make my throat tighten.
Wraith carries me through the quiet halls of the manor, the air still heavy with candle smoke and the remnants of what just transpired. The walls seem to hum around us, alive with what we’ve done, what we’ve become.
When he reaches my room, he lays me down with surprising tenderness. The sheets are cool, the contrast biting against overheated skin. He tucks the blanket around me, his fingers lingering at my collarbone, tracing the edge of the mark left by Rook’s hand.
Rook stands in the doorway, half in shadow, half in light—the picture of control and command even now. “Get some rest,my disobedience,” he orders, his voice quiet but carrying enough authority to still the air. “Tomorrow, you’ll learn what it means to wear that crown.”
I meet his gaze, too tired to argue but unwilling to look away. “You think I don’t already?”
Something dangerous flickers across his face—pride, possession, maybe even reverence. “You’ve only just begun, my queen.”
He turns, leaving me in the dim glow of the room. Wraith lingers, adjusting the blanket one last time, his thumb grazing my jaw before he straightens to follow.
“Stay,” I whisper. The word leaves me before I can stop it—soft, unguarded, heavy with everything I don’t have the strength to name.
He freezes. For a moment, neither of us moves. The tension stretches taut between us. Then he exhales slowly, that small, almost feral smile curving his mouth.
“If that’s what you want, little fox.”
I nod, too tired to speak, too content to fight it.
He kicks off his boots and slips beneath the sheets, careful but sure, the mattress dipping under his weight. His warmth finds me instantly. Strong arms wrap around my waist, pulling me close until my back meets his chest, until every breath I take is matched by his.
“Sleep,” he murmurs against my hair, voice low, rough with satisfaction.
For once, I do—safe in the circle of his arms, wrapped in the kind of peace that feels almost like surrender.
Chapter 39
Rook
Morning comes slowly.
The manor feels different. Quieter, but not calm. The kind of quiet that comes after thunder—when the air still trembles, unsure if the storm is over or only catching its breath.
The kitchen is wide and gleaming, a cathedral of marble and steel. Light pours through tall windows, spilling across polished counters and black granite floors. The place smells like coffee and rain. Someone left the French doors open, and the damp morning air curls in through the opening, soft and cold against the heat of the espresso machines.
Wraith leans against the counter, forearms braced, a mug half-empty beside him. He hasn’t spoken much since last night. There’s a steadiness to him that wasn’t there before—something calmer, more assured. Ember’s doing, no doubt. She has that effect on all of us. The power to undo, and in undoing, tobind.
I set down my own mug and study him.
“You stayed,” I say.
He doesn’t look up. “She asked.”
A simple statement. No apology. No justification.
And he’s right not to offer one.
For a long moment, we just listen to the wind move through the open doors, the creak of the house settling. The manor has its own heartbeat. It feels alive this morning.
“You regret it?” I ask finally.
He shakes his head once. “No.” Then, after a beat, “Do you?”
I don’t answer immediately. My gaze drifts toward the hallway—the one that leads to the east wing, to the room where she’s likely still asleep. My disobedience. My ruin. My queen.
“I don’t regret her,” I say finally. “I regret what she’s about to make me do.”
