She’s been walking around for days with that cold light in her eyes, that new weight in her shoulders, that crown we all put on her head fitted like it was made for her skull. She’s calmer. Sharper. Worse, in the way that’s better. She’s not prey anymore. She’s the hunter.
We did that, we helped build that confidence back in her—helped her come alive again. And now I get to hand-deliver her the man who made seventeen-year-old Ember feel small and tell her, here,reina, this one is yours.
Yeah. I’ll keep him breathing for that… Barely.
The van turns off the main road.
We’re heading toward the manor now — the long private drive, trees lining the lane, security gates shutting the rest of London out.
Marcus feels the change. He goes very, very still. “Where are we,” he whispers.
I lean forward, grin wide enough to split my face, and pat Marcus’s cheek. Tender. Patronizing. “Welcome to court,” I say.
He flinches like I hit him, and I laugh in his face. It’s sadistic and cruel, and I love every fucking second of watching him squirm.
Because here’s the truth… I’ve been a lot of ugly things in my life — blade, traitor, animal, executioner.
But right now? Right now I get to be a gift.
And that’salmostbetter than killing the wanker.
Chapter 49
Ember
Ihaven’t slept lately.
I close my eyes. I drift. My body rests because it has to, but my mind just… paces.
The manor feels different now. Heavier. Like the walls know there’s blood under them. Like the air knows there’s a man screaming in the dark two floors below and another one about to replace him.
It’s beenthreedays since we took Damien.
Three days of questions. Three days of answers. Three days of me walking into that room and asking, “Who cleared Owen’s extraction route?” and “Who signed the order?” and “Who paid you to keep their secrets?”
Three days of him trying to posture, to pretend he has nothing to give us, and Wraith reminding him what happens when he does. Three days of Saint sitting across from him, voice soft and patient, asking him what it felt like the first time he lied to a child. Three days of Ash carving through his contradictions with surgical precision. Three days of Vale in the corner, smiling like he’s hoping Damien lies so he has an excuse.
AndRook. Rook just listens. He doesn’t have to do anything else. His silence is worse than Vale’s grin.
No one has laid into him more than necessary—not what they’re truly capable of. Not yet.
That was my rule. I thought I wanted the slow burn, to watch the light slowly leave his eyes.
Turns out I don’t, a slow death feels like rot.
I’m standing in Rook’s office when the sun’s not quite up yet. The whole room is gray-blue, not lit yet, the only glow coming in from the massive windows that overlook the back lawn. London is a smear beyond the trees, blurred with early mist.
The office smells like him. Warm wood. Expensive whiskey. Clean spice. Gun oil.
He’s at his desk, forearms braced on the dark surface, head bowed like he’s praying to the map in front of him. He’s still in yesterday’s shirt. The sleeves are rolled. The top two buttons are undone. There’s a faint bruise at his jaw that I didn’t see last night, and his knuckles are split.
I don’t ask. “You’re avoiding me,” I say instead, letting the words hang between us like a live wire.
His head lifts slowly, blue eyes cutting to me, and it hits me in the chest like it always does. He looks carved and tired and wired all at once, and when he looks at me, something in him shifts. Softens. Goes almost gentle.
It almost makes me angrier.
“I’m not avoiding you,” he says.
