Saint turns to him. “I’ll go with her.”
That earns a low grunt from Mateo. “You? You’ll let her sweet-talk you into believing she’s harmless.”
Saint just smiles, faint and maddening. “Perhaps I have faith.”
I cross my arms. “I don’tneeda chaperone.”
“You’ll have one anyway,” Caelum says, his voice soft but absolute. “Saint’s offer is generous. Take it.”
My jaw tightens. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you stay inside.”
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. Saint doesn’t move. He just watches me — calm, patient, like he’s waiting for me to recognize that this is a test and the only way to win is to choose the lesser evil.
I exhale slowly. “Fine. The garden. With him.”
Mateo grins. “Look at that. Progress.”
I give him a look that promises violence. “Don’t push it.”
He raises his mug in salute, eyes glinting with mischief. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I catch the faintest flicker of amusement cross Caelum’s face before he hides it again behind his coffee. Wraith mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a prayer for patience.
Saint steps away from the stove, wiping his hands on a towel. “Whenever you’re ready, little lamb.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t call me that.”
“As you wish.”
But I see the ghost of a smile as he opens the back door, and for the first time in days, I feel cold air hit my skin.
It smells like rain and iron and something faintly green. Freedom, almost — except for the man standing beside me.
I step outside anyway.
Because sometimes, the smallest defiance is still a victory.
Chapter 13
Saint
Rain still hangs in the air, caught between falling and remembering how.
London smells like wet stone and old sins.
The garden behind the townhouse isn’t much — a square of green bordered by brick, half-hidden under ivy and morning fog. Once upon a time, it belonged to a priest’s house. The irony isn’t lost on me.
Ember steps out first, boots sinking into damp earth, hands shoved in her jacket pockets. She tilts her head back, lets the mist hit her face like she’s trying to taste freedom through condensation.
She doesn’t look at me. That, I decide, is intentional.
“You’re not much of a talker,” she says after a long silence.
“Neither are you,” I reply.
Her laugh is soft, short, but it cuts through the stillness like a bell through smoke. “Difference is, I’m doing it on purpose.”
