“I know what I said,” he cuts in, voice low.
We glare at each other, and the table goes still. I don’t look away. I could strangle him, I’m so furious. He holds for a beat longer, then exhales slow. When he speaks again, his voice is still quiet, but it’s different. Rawer.
“We took him because he came foryou,” he says. “We took him because he sent men to our gate to drag you out of your bed. We took him because the Syndicate is either stupid enough or desperate enough to think they can put hands on what’s ours without losing fingers. We took him because he looked you in the face and pretended not to know your name. That alone isinsult enough, but then… he sold Owen and called him dirty. We took him because he crossed the line and then pissed on it like it wasn’t painted in blood.”
My breath hitches, angry tears welling in my eyes. “He’s downstairs now,” Rook says. “Alive, but contained.”
My pulse is a drumbeat. Alive means—“What are you going to do to him?” I ask.
Rook doesn’t answer. Saint does, gently. “Whatever you want, little lamb.”
Heat surges up my throat. Not desire. Not fear. Something uglier, and cleaner.
“It’s your call,” Vale says, voice low now, no mockery. He’s leaning forward, forearms on the table, eyes dark and steady. “That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’re at this table. That’s why you’re in this house. Queen’s choice.”
Queen.
The word lands in me like a blade sliding home. It still feels unreal on my skin.
I look to Ash. He’s watching me, green eyes bright and sharp and so full I can’t name what’s in them. Pride. Anger. Possession. A kind of reverence that makes something in my chest ache. He nods once. Just once.
Like, yes, this is yours. I trust you not to break.
I swallow thickly.
Wraith’s thigh presses harder against mine.
“Show me,” I say.
Rook goes still. The others don’t react with surprise. It’s like they were waiting for that. Wraith lets out the breath he’d been holding. Saint smiles, slow and sinful. Vale laughs, delighted. Ash’s gaze flickers — there and gone — with something that looks almost like relief.
Rook leans back in his chair and studies me. He looks hungry… Proud… Furious… Andmine, all at once.
“You’re sure,” he says softly.
“I’m not some porcelain thing you wheel out for moods,” I say, voice steady. “You said it yourself. I’m the fucking motive. You don’t get to tuck motive in a tower and feed her fruit while you go do the ugly parts. I’m not a painting, or a symbol. I’m a weapon. So…Use me.”
The words hang between us, and there’s a pulse in the room when I say them. Like the energy is shifting right before my eyes.
Wraith makes a low sound in his chest. Vale whispers, “Fuck,” like a prayer. Saint exhales like somebody just poured sacrament over his tongue. Ash?
Ash closes his eyes for a second. Just one second. When he opens them again, I see it—decision.
Rook’s knuckles flex around his glass. “Very well,” he murmurs.
Then, to the room, voice calmer, colder — King mode snapping into place like a blade being drawn.
“If you’re finished eating. We’re going downstairs.” He looks back at me. “And Ember,” he says quietly, blue eyes burning into mine, “from this point forward, there’s no going back to pretending you’re just the girl who painted a wall and saw too much. You walk through that door, you’rein. All the way in. Understand?”
My heart is trying to crawl out of my throat, but I square my shoulders. “I’ve been in,” I whisper.
Something like a smile flickers across his mouth.
“Good,” he says.
He rises, and chairs scrape. Glasses clink. The air shifts.
Wraith pushes back from the table and takes my chair with him so I don’t have to move it. His hand finds my hip, steady, and stays there. Saint stands slow, carefully, cradling his wrapped wrist to his chest. Vale rolls his neck and stretches his jaw like he’s shaking out leftover impact. Ash doesn’t rush,doesn’t posture. He just stands and adjusts his sleeves, like we’re about to sit down at a computer instead of go downstairs and face the man who ruined my life.
