“They won’t start here,” I say. “They’ll start with her habits. Her soft spots. Anywhere she’s consistent. She likes to sketch in the solarium. She keeps her tea in the second left cupboard inthe kitchen. She showers so hot it steams the hall mirror. They’ll watch first, and map her. Then they’ll strike.”
Vale lets out a low whistle. “Fuck, you have been paying attention.”
I cut him a look. “Always.”
Ash stops pacing. “They’re going to try to snatch her off property,” he says quietly. “Not hit the manor. Too much noise. Too much exposure. They’ll follow her the first second she steps off these grounds without full presence.”
Saint frowns. “She’s not stepping off these grounds without full presence.Ever.”
“You can guarantee that for how long?” Ash shoots back, voice sharp. “Aweek? Two? You expect Ember fucking Calloway to sit here and let us lock her in a tower now that she’s tasted blood? You expect her to ask permission to walk down a hall?”
Saint’s silence is his answer.
Rook exhales through his nose. “Exactly. We can’t board the windows and call that safety. We’ll lose her before we ever lose Damien.”
I feel something low and ugly coil tight in my gut at that. “No,” I say. “We’re not losing her.”
Rook’s gaze flicks to me. Not warning. Agreement. “We won’t,” he says. “But that means we plan for failure as much as we plan for control.”
Vale drops his boots off the desk and leans forward, interest sharpened. “Escape hatch discussion, then.”
Saint huffs a quiet laugh. “How dramatic.”
“How necessary,” Rook corrects.
He reaches to the far edge of the table and pulls a black leather folio toward him opening it. It’s full of passports. Stacks of them. Clean, crisp, no bends, no wear. Some already worn-in just enough to pass a quick inspection. Different names. Different countries. Photos of us. Photos of her.
Seeing her face there — still Ember, but with different names, different hair, different nationalities written beside her eyes — twists something in me I don’t like. Because part of me wants to burn every single one of them and make sure no one ever calls her anything but Ember Calloway again. And the darker part of me knows Rook is right to have them.
He lays them out one by one. “We have identities built in Berlin, Marseille, Porto, and Dubrovnik. Each with accounts pre-seeded. Cash and crypto, spread across five banks so they can’t freeze us in one go. Transport secured for all six of us to move under separate flags if we need to move in pieces. Safe houses in two of those cities. The others we can spin in twenty-four hours.”
Ash moves in fast, eyes scanning. “You have fresh sets for her already.”
Rook doesn’t look at him. “Of course, I’ve planned for every contingency.”
Ash’s jaw flexes. “Since when?”
“Since she walked into our lives,” Rook says simply.
The room goes quiet for a beat at that.
Saint lets out something that’s almost a laugh — not because it’s funny. Because it’s obscene, the way honesty from Caelum Voss can be. “You planned exit routes for her before you even trusted her,” he says softly. “Caelum. My son. My king. That’s almost tender.”
Rook shoots him a look that says shut up before I make you pray for real. Saint smiles anyway. Vale leans back. “Alright,” he says. “Geography handled. Money handled. I assume weapons caches handled because I know who I work for. So let’s talk timing.”
“Not unless we have to,” Rook says.
“Define have to,” I say.
He doesn’t flinch when he meets my eyes. “Have to is Ember bleeding in my hands and me needing to move her before she dies. Have to is Syndicate getting federal eyes pointed at us in a way I can’t dig out from under. Have to is Damien trying to vanish offshore with protection heavier than I can punch through in this city.”
Vale nods slowly. “Fair.”
Saint tilts his head. “And if they come with lawyers and badges instead of guns?”
Rook’s mouth curves in a cold almost-smile. “Then we burn the lawyers and keep the badges.”
Saint laughs. “Ah. Good. I was worried we’d go soft.”
