I stand last. My knees are steady, but my hands aren’t.
Rook sees anyway. He steps in close — not touching, not quite — and drops his voice low enough that only I hear: “One more thing.”
I look up at him. His gaze goes razor sharp, but not cruel. “Understand this, Red,” he says. “He doesn’t get to speak to you however he wants. He doesn’t get to tell his version. He doesn’t get to twist Owen dirty and spit it at you and hide behind title and rank. You don’t live in his story anymore. He lives in yours.”
My throat burns, but I say it anyway. “I know.”
He nods once. “Good,” he says softly. “Because tonight, he learns that too.”
We leave the dining room together.
And I realize, as we head toward the east wing—toward the stairs—that for the first time since this all started, I don’t feel like I’ve been stolen.
I feel like I’m being escorted.
Chapter 47
Rook
It’s colder down here than upstairs. Upstairs is old English stone and money chill — the kind that sits in the bones of the manor and whispers legacy. Down here it’s deliberate.
The air in the lower level is kept a few degrees below comfort on purpose, and the walls smother any sound. The corridor lights are low and recessed, bleeding amber across concrete and brick. You don’t hear footsteps back here. You feel them.
We built this level for extraction work. Containment. Interrogation. Finalities.
Most people never see it, with good reason. But, Ember walks in like she was born to. She doesn’t hesitate when we reach the steel door at the end of the hall. Doesn’t slow.
Her chin is high, that copper hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes pale and bright and unflinching. She’s not wearing armor — leggings, one of my shirts, plain canvas. She looks wrong in this setting. Soft where the room is hard. Warm where the room is cruel.
And she doesn’t flinch.
I’m going to think about that later. Carefully… Quietly...Alone. There’s something ridiculously hot about it, that level of quiet confidence.
Right now, all I can do is watch her. And god… she’s fucking brilliant. Wraith’s at her left shoulder. Saint’s just behind her right, splinted wrist close to his chest, his other hand loose and ready. Vale prowls along the wall like a pacing animal. Ash is silent and watchful at my side.
I key in the code and palm the lock, and the door releases with a low hydraulic hiss.
We step into the room, and my eyes immediately land on our guest. Damien is strapped to a heavy chair bolted to the floor, surrounded by concrete, reinforced glass, anchored metal, and purpose.
Wrists secured. Ankles secured. Chest strapped low so he’s upright whether he wants to be or not. Clean restraints. Padded. Not because I care about his comfort. Because I care about the state of his body when I’m done. Bones break in predictable places. Bruises tell stories. I don’t want accidental stories. I want control.
He looks like he’s been through hell and still believes he’s above it.
Cheeks flushed. Hair out of place. Split lip. One eye slightly swollen. Jaw clenched hard enough to crack a crown. He’s alert, even exhausted. Too alert. Still thinks there’s a version of this where he walks out.
He looks up when we enter, but his gaze snags on Ember first. And for one flicker of a second — fast, but it’s there — I watch something like discomfort cross his face.
Then he pastes on the controlled anger, the authority. The “you’re all making a mistake” mask.
“Calloway,” he rasps, like this is a debrief and not a cage. “You don’t know what you’re doing, girl.”
I don’t get to respond. Because Ember laughs. Not hysterical.
It’s low and sharp. Anger written all over her face—like she’s a goddess claiming the spoils of war.
It hits me so hard I almost smile. There she is.
Damien’s eyes narrow, as she walks forward.
