Whatever killed Owen didn’t end with him.
I slip out the way I came, breath fogging in the cold night air, and don’t stop walking until the warehouse is nothing butanother ugly shape in my peripheral vision. The rain soaks my hair, my clothes, my skin, but I barely notice.
Because somewhere—somewhere dark and powerful and very, very dangerous—someone just saw me.
And whatever comes next, I know one thing with terrifying clarity…
London has been watching me for a long time.
And I just finally looked back.
Chapter 2
Ember
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I hiss, pacing back and forth like I have for the last hour.
I failed—miserably.
It was supposed to be simple. An easy entry point. A quick search. In and out before anyone realized I’d been rifling through their drawers. At least, that was the plan.
I never imagined I’d stumble across a man already dead—or find a vault full of weapons and drugs. I was looking for information. Not…that.
Shivering, I pad to the kitchen and put the kettle on, rummaging for my favorite blend of tea. That’s exactly what I need right now—something to keep my hands busy and my nerves from unraveling completely.
I’m not stupid.
I know The Masked Riders will come for me. Everyone in London knows who they are. The biggest mafia in all of London, with five devils at the helm. Five devils that don’t have the word mercy in their vocabulary. And now I’m certain they’ll be coming to claim my life—just like they claimed my brother’s three years ago.
It’s only a matter of time.
The kettle whistles, dragging me back to the present. My hands tremble as I pour the tea, nerves fraying with every creak and shuffle above or below me. That’s the thing about living in a flat—the walls are thin. I can never tell if the sounds are real, or if my mind’s playing tricks again.
I carry my cup to the couch and sink down, the cushions sighing under me. The television flickers on, filling the silence with noise. A news anchor talks about the royal family, a fire in Lambeth, a local play premiering at the London Theatre. I scroll through my phone while half-listening, but it’s useless. After a few minutes, I shut it all off.
Nothing can distract me tonight. Nothing can numb the fear clawing at the back of my mind.
That familiar ache starts up in my chest—the one that tempts me, that whispers about an easier way to breathe. That damnable itch festers under my skin, calling to me from the void. Whiskey to chase the pain and fear away. Nausea burns the back of my throat.
I’d promised myself—and Owen—that I’d never touch it again. He’d promised too…
Three years ago, I made that promise but he brokehis. Right before the Masked Riders took him from me.
I exhale heavily and rise from the couch, fingers trailing across the cracked faux leather. It’s old and worn in places, proof of a life lived long before it came to me. I’ve never owned anything new. Always second hand. Always given away.
I don’t know how long I stand here, my right hand curled around the couch, the other holding the cup of tea like it’s my last lifeline.
By the time I finish my tea, it’s gone cold. The rain outside softens to a whisper, a steady pulse against the glass that almost lulls me into believing I’m safe.
Almost.
I rinse the mug, flick off the kitchen light, and move through the flat in darkness. The air feels thicker than usual, charged with that strange stillness before a storm. My nerves are threadbare, humming beneath my skin.
They won’t come tonight, I tell myself. They wouldn’t risk it. Still.
In the end… The lie doesn’t even sound convincing in my own head.
I strip down to a threadbare T-shirt, crawl into bed, and pull the blanket over my shoulders. My eyes are heavy. I’m teetering on the edge of sleep when—a floorboardgroans.
