And now the city is going to answer.
I should be afraid, and maybe I am a little.
But standing there in the middle of a room full of dangerous men who have already killed in my name and will again, with Rook’s hand at my jaw, Wraith’s heat at my back, Ash’s eyes guarding, Saint already rewriting the perimeter in his head, and Vale humming like he’s about to compose someone’s funeral—
I don’t feel hunted.
I feelcrowned.
Chapter 43
Wraith
The manor feels wrong. Not quiet —wrong. Quiet is what we had this morning. That coiled kind of calm before movement, where everyone’s loading weapons and checking angles and pretending not to feel what they’re feeling.
This isn’t that. This is the air after someone fires the first shot in a war you didn’t admit you were already in.
Ember’s upstairs resting. I carried her there myself. Not because she couldn’t walk — she could. She kept saying “I’m fine,” like she hadn’t almost been shot and hadn’t just had to listen to the man who burned her life talk about her brother like he was disposable. Like she hadn’t put a bullet into someone and held her aim and not shaken until we were clear.
But she was glass-edged. Running hot on adrenaline and stubbornness and fury. The kind of hot that cracks if you touch it wrong.
Rook told her to shower. Eat something. Sleep. He didn’t ask. He told. She rolled her eyes and obeyed.
That alone tells you how bad this is. Now it’s just the rest of us.
We’re in Rook’s study. Heavy dark wood. Leather, old money, and newer weapons. The map table’s already been cleared and replaced with folders. Two laptops. One hard case. A bottle of whiskey Saint didn’t bother to pour into glasses.
Rain hits the windows, steady and mean, rattling against the panes.
Rook stands at the head of the table, jacket off, sleeves still rolled, jaw tight, eyes colder than I’ve seen them in a long time. Vale leans back in one of the leather chairs like he’s lounging in a confessional, boots up on the corner of the desk, twirling a pen between his fingers. Saint perches on the arm of the other chair, shirt open at the throat, cross glinting faintly against his skin. Ash is pacing. That’s how you know it’s bad. Ash doesn’t pace. He’s a still-bleed type. But right now he’s burning a line into the rug.
No one’s talking yet, but it’s Caelum who finally breaks the silence. “We crossed it.” It’s a question, and no one argues. He drags a hand down his face. “Up until today, Damien had room to claim ignorance. Wiggle. Spin. Deny.‘Owen who?’ ‘Ember who?’ ‘You must be mistaken.’Not anymore.”
Saint whistles. “We pulled his veil.”
“We ripped it,” Vale says, smiling like that’s his favorite memory.
“It means,” Rook goes on, ignoring him, “we’re officially past containment. Which means I need contingency.”
He looks at me on that last word. I know what he’s asking before he says it.
“Speak,” he says.
I plant my hands on the table and lean in. “They’ll come for her first.”
Saint snorts softly. “Obviously.”
I shoot him a look. “I’m not finished.”
He gestures an apology without saying the words.
I nod once. “They’ll come for her first. Damien has two options now. Bury her, or prove he still controls her. Either way, it starts with getting hands on her. That means eyes on this property, bodies moving in patterns they shouldn’t, and pressure where they think we’re weakest. That’s her.”
“We reinforced the grounds tonight,” Saint reminds me. “I’ve already rotated the exterior patrol. No one blinks near the perimeter without me seeing them.”
“You think Syndicate’s going to knock at the gate and ask to speak to management?” I ask him.
Saint’s mouth curves. “Fair point.”
