Wraith’s gaze flicks down my body, then back up. It doesn’t feel like Rook’s kind of look — hungry, invasive. It feels like inventory. Assessing bruises. Noting if I’m steady on my feet yet.
“You walk, or I carry,” he says. “Your call.”
“I’ll walk,” I mutter.
“Good girl.”
The words land somewhere they shouldn’t. Ihatethat. I hatehimfor that. I hatemy bodyfor reacting at all. “Say that again and I’ll claw your eyes out,” I snarl, snapping my teeth at him for effect.
His eyes darken. Just a fraction—like helikesit. “There she is.”
He steps back to let me pass. He doesn’t touch me.
That, I wasn’t expecting.
He doesn’t grab my arm. He doesn’t shove me out first to prove I’m controlled. He just moves out of the doorway and waits.
I stand. My legs are not completely happy about that. A small wave of dizziness rolls through me, but I breathe and keep my face smooth. I don’t give him the satisfaction of wobbling.
When I reach him, his hand lifts — slow, obvious, telegraphed before it ever gets near me. He doesn’t lay it on me. He hovers it at the small of my back like he’s bracketing me there, body a shield between me and whatever waits in the hall.
The message is clear.
If I run, I’ll meet his body first. If someone else tries something, they’ll meet his body first. Partner and prey. I hate how right that feels.
The townhouse hall is brighter in daylight, and I get my first clean look at it. High ceilings, original molding, pale paint, runner rug along polished wood floors. The windows along the landing throw in that washed-out London morning light — gray-blue, thin, damp. The air smells like coffee and toasted bread and something savory, like pan-seared meat.
They’re cooking? Of course they are.
Everything about this place is a weaponized illusion. You’resafe. You’re taken care of. We’recivilizedmen. Sit.Obey. Be grateful you weren’t dumped in the Thames.
We move down the stairs. Wraith stays close, one step behind, so if I bolt forward he can catch me. He doesn’t chain me. Heisthe chain.
“House rules,” he says quietly as we descend. “You don’t reach for anybody’s weapon. You don’t run your mouth just to see who’ll snap first. You don’t lie.”
I snort softly. “Interesting, coming from criminals.”
“We’re many things,” Wraith says, shooting me a hard look. “Stupidisn’t one.”
When we reach the main floor, he guides me through a short hall lined with old framed photographs — black-and-white shots of London docks and motorbikes in a row, one custom built that stands taller than the rest, a cathedral lit at night, some underground tunnel lit only by the bloom of a cigarette. None of the pictures show faces clearly.
Then he opens a door and the smell hits me full.
Coffee, dark and bitter. Toast. Sautéed peppers. Bacon. Heat, butter, salt. My stomach betrays me and tightens like I haven’t eaten in a day.
Wraith’s mouth does that almost-smile thing again, like he heard my body before I did. Then he steps aside and lets me walk in on my own.
It’s not what I thought it’d be. I expected a long table, all intimidation and distance, men thrown across from me like a board of directors at war. Instead, it’s…domestic.
Not soft, no. Nothing in this place is soft. But it’s lived-in.
The dining room is large and bright, old fireplace along one wall, mantle crowded with half-burned candles and a glass bowl of spare keys and knives. The table is solid wood, scarred byyears of use. Mismatched chairs. Sun bleeding gray through tall windows. The room hums in a quiet way — controlled, coiled.
And they’reallhere.
Rook is at the head of the table, of course. He doesn’t have to posture. He just exists there, and the room orbits. No mask this time. He’s clean this morning — black shirt, cuffs open, throat bare. Dark hair neat. Blue eyes sharp and alert like he hasn’t slept at all and doesn’t need to. He doesn’t pretend to eat.
His gaze lands on me first. Stays.
