My eyes snap open, every muscle locking in place. Another creak. Closer.Muchcloser. My breath catches. The sound is wrong—too deliberate, too heavy to be pipes or neighbors. Someone’s inside.
I roll silently from bed, bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. My mind races, cataloguing the room—the open window, the hall, the faint glimmer of the streetlight cutting across the living room. I move like I’ve practiced this before—because I have.
The first thing my hand lands on is a curtain rod I never hung after the last move. I pull it free from where it leans against the wall, its metal cold and solid in my grip. Not ideal. But it’ll do.
The shadow shifts in the hallway—then steps inside.
I swing.
The rod connects with a skull, a dull, satisfying crack crashing through the air. The man stumbles, curses, and rams into the dresser. I don’t wait. I pivot and jam the end into another one’s ribs as he charges. He folds over with a strangled gasp.
Adrenaline tears through me. For a second, I almost think I can get out—then the air changes.
Hesteps out of the dark. Massive, broad shoulders, black jacket, the glint of a mask catching the thin slice of moonlight—a wolf’s skull, all bone and shadow. The presence radiating off him is colder than the rain outside.
Wraith. A name I've only heard spoken in hushed tones, a reputation that precedes him. I gulp, and my stomach drops to my ass.
He’s taller than I expected. Still. Calculated. No wasted movement.
“Little fox has claws,” he murmurs, voice low, rough velvet that crawls beneath my skin.
“Get thefuckout of my flat.”
He doesn’t answer. Just studies me from behind that mask, head tilting like a predator fascinated by its prey.
“You hit my men.”
“They broke in.”
“That’s fair,” he says, almost amused. “But it ends here.”
He moves, and he’sfast. I swing the rod again, a desperate arc, but he catches it mid-strike, twists in fluid motion, and the metal clangs to the floor. I spin, throwing a punch that connects with his jaw. He grunts—more surprised than hurt. I aim for his throat next, but he blocks it with ease, grabbing my wrist and pinning me against the wall in one single move.
His mask hovers inches from my face. I can smell the rain on him, the faint metallic tang of the street.
“Stop fighting,” he says softly. “You’ll only make me want to keep you longer.”
“Let. Me. Go,” I growl, enunciating each word with more force than the last.
He leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “Can’t. King’s orders.”
I struggle, twisting, nails scraping against his gloves, but his grip is iron. Something cold presses against my neck—a sharp sting, some kind of chemical, deliberately meant to force me under. The world starts to spin.
The last thing I hear before everything fades is his quiet murmur…
“Sleep, Red.”
And the thought that echoes as darkness swallows me—
They found me.
Chapter 3
Ember
Cold.
That’s the first thing I feel when I surface. Cold and the slow drip of water echoing somewhere in the dark. My head throbs. My mouth tastes like iron and dust.
