Wraith is breathing like he’s one second away from tearing free of his skin. Ash is no longer blank. His face is something I haven’t seen before — grief, fury, possession, guilt, calculation — layered into something sharp enough to cut.
Ember? She hasn’t moved. She’s still standing in front of Damien. Arms loose at her sides. Bare feet planted on concrete. Her chin is tilted like a queen watching a man beg.
Her eyes have gone cold. Whatever softness she still had when we walked in here — whatever part of her that still wanted explanation, apology, context — isgone.
Damien’s still talking. He can’t help himself. Weak men like him love the sound of their own rationalization. “You think I’m a monster?” he hisses. “I kept you in the program. I kept you both paid. I kept you fed. Where the fuck do you think you two would’ve been without me? On the street? Back in some piss-stained foster flat with no heat and no door lock? You should be on your knees thanking me for giving you any kind of life at all, you little—”
My hand tightens in his hair. He chokes off with a wince. “Shh,” I murmur. “Now you listen.”
His jaw flexes, eyes spitting hatred. I lower my voice. “You sent men to my house,” I say. “You sent men to my gate. You sent them for her.”
He tries to smirk, and falls miserably short. “And?”
“And you thought,” I continue, still soft, “that waspower.”
I smile, and he swallows.
“You don’t understand the room you’re in,” I say. “You don’t understand what’s happened in the last four weeks. You don’t understand what she is to us now. You don’t understand that you have already died. This, right now, is just us deciding how slow.”
Color drains from his face, and Ember leans in.
She bends at the waist, slowly, until her mouth is right at his ear. She doesn’t touch him. She doesn’t give him the dignity of flinching away. Her voice is quiet enough I almost don’t catch it. “I wasseventeen,” she whispers.
Ash inhales like someone just drove a blade through him. Wraith’s eyes go black. Saint whispers, “God have mercy,” and for once I’m not certain he’s being sarcastic. Vale mutters something ugly in Spanish under his breath and cracks his knuckles, slow and eager.
Ember straightens. Her eyes shine. Not wet. Bright. Alive. Burning.
“When Owen died,” she says, voice steady, “I told myself it was because he pushed too hard. Because he took a risk. Because maybe the people he worked for weren’t careful enough. Because maybe that was the cost. I told myself you were still the one who could fix it. I told myself you were the one who could clear his name. I told myself you wouldn’t let him go down dirty.”
She smiles. It’s a broken, beautiful, lethal thing.
“And then you sat there,” she says, “and you said the word ‘leverage’ like that’s all I’ve ever been. And then the boys came back today with your blood under their fingernails. And now you’re here. Withme.”
Her chin lifts.
“So I want to be very clear before we start,” she says. “This isn’t about intel anymore. This isn’t about Syndicate. This isn’t about any bloody operation. This is about me. And you. And what you did. And what you let happen.”
Damien swallows, and opens his mouth to say something. I don’t let him get that far.
“From this moment,” I say, still calm, still soft, “you will answer whatever she asks you. You will not insult her. You will not raise your voice to her. You will not attempt to redirect. You will not attempt to contextualize. You will not use the words ‘dramatic,’ ‘hysterical,’ ‘girl,’ ‘manipulative,’ ‘feral,’ ‘orphan,’ or any synonym thereof in relation to her. You will not refer to Owen as dirty. You will not say ‘your brother chose this.’ You will not speak unless spoken to. If you break any of these rules, I turn you over to Mateo for ten minutes while I watch.”
Damien laughs. He actually laughs. It’s thin and shaking, but it’s there. “You think I’m scared of your house pet with prison tattoos?”
Vale’s smile goes incandescent. “Oh,” he purrs. “Say that again.”
Wraith moves so fast the room blurs. His hand goes to Damien’s knee, slamming his palm down just below the kneecap and leans. Not enough to snap it. Enough to send a shock of white-hot pain knifing up Damien’s leg.
Damien chokes on a scream. The sound that leaves him is wet and ugly.
Wraith’s voice is a low growl at his ear. “Callanyonea pet again and I’ll feed you that fucking kneecap.”
He lets go. Damien gasps for air, eyes watering hard now.
Good.
He finally understands.
Ember doesn’t look away. She just watches him shake for a moment. Then, softly, “Who signed off on Owen’s burn notice?”
