Wraith nods once. “Then we do it right.”
I meet Ember’s gaze again. She’s standing taller now, steady, waiting—not for permission, but for partnership. And for the first time since this started, I realize that’s what she’s become to us. Not a weapon. Not a witness. Something in between.
“Alright,” I say, voice quiet. “You wanted the keys to the kingdom, Red? They’re yours. Let’s see what you can do with them.”
The corner of her mouth curves, slow, and wicked. “Good.”
Outside, the rain starts again, soft and steady against the glass. Inside, I feel the shift settle—subtle, irreversible.
The storm isn’t coming anymore.
It’s already here.
Chapter 40
Ember
By dinner, the mood in the manor has shifted.
It’s not the usual tension — not the “which one of you is going to snap first” hum that’s lived in the air since the night they dragged me here. It’s tighter now. Focused. It feels like the whole house is leaning forward over open flame.
The dining room looks like power.
High ceilings traced in dark molding. Walls paneled in deep, polished wood. The long table is solid, heavy, old. Not pretty, not delicate. Built to survive impact. Built to be leaned over, fought across, planned on. Candlelight throws gold across glass, across hands, across faces. The storm outside licks rain against the tall windows in a steady hush.
I sit at Caelum’s right.
That’s new.
Four weeks ago I wouldn’t have been at this table at all. A week ago, I would’ve been at the other end, a guest, a subject, an investment.
Tonight? I sit within reach of him.
If left is protection and right is visible, then this is something else entirely.
Claimed.
Wraith sits on my other side, broad shoulders blocking part of my view of the room beyond him. He’s calmer than usual — not relaxed, but settled. There’s a possessive simmering under his skin that’s quieter now, like a satisfied animal guarding a meal. He keeps brushing his thumb in slow circles against my thigh under the table.
No one comments on it.
Saint’s across from me, lounging in his chair in that deceptively lazy sprawl that still manages to look like penance. His ice-pale eyes catch candlelight and gleam silver-blue. Vale’s across and down, one elbow on the table, lip curled in a half-smile that’s been dangerous since I met him. Ash sits at the farend, but it’s not distance. It’s position. He can see all of us from there. He likes angles.
Rook stands, and that alone quiets the room. He hasn’t even spoke yet, and already the room tightens in anticipation.
There’s food on the table — steaks, charred and bleeding. Roasted vegetables glossy with oil, still-warm bread I know Saint baked himself because he’ll deny it if asked. A bottle of something expensive Wraith opened like it was nothing. I ate. I made myself eat.
Ground yourself before you go to war. Owen always said that.
My chest twinges painfully, and I shove the hurt down.
I reach for the crystal in front of me filled with water. Rook sets both hands on the table, leaning in just enough to anchor our attention without posturing. He’s in black like alway. Black shirt open at the throat, black trousers that fittoowell, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looks like sin given structure.
“We’re talking Damien,” he says.
Excitement threads through me, weaving brightly in my chest like a kernel of hope. This. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
Wraith goes still beside me. Ash looks up sharply, green eyes cutting toward Rook.
