For years, the Riders have been a perfect machine. Every man with a purpose. Every breath in time with the others. No friction. No weakness.
Now there’sher.
And everything’s slipping.
At first, it was subtle. A softer tone from Saint. The hint of hesitation in Ash’s reports. Wraith hovering longer outside her door than any order required. Mateo laughing too loud.Now it’s chaos wrapped in civility — smiles at breakfast, jokes at dinner, tension like a wire beneath every word.
She’s a catalyst. I know it.
I just don’t know for what.
I sit in my office, the London skyline stretching gray and endless beyond the rain-streaked windows. The sound of traffic hums below — far away, completely irrelevant. I used to like this view. It made me feel above it all. A reminder that I could claw my way out of any gutter on top.
Now it feels like a mirror. Cold. Impenetrable.
I drag a hand through my hair and look down at the files spread across the desk. Photos. Reports. A timeline that doesn’t fit.
Owen Calloway’s operation should have been simple. Drugs, weapons, falsified shipments through the Russians. I gave the order, Wraith carried it out, and the body disappeared into the Thames like every other ghost we’ve made.
But Ember Calloway doesn’t move like the sister of a street rat. She watches like some trained operative. And when she lies, she does it too well.
If she’s what I suspect — or worse, what I’m starting to believe — then every choice I’ve made since the night Owen died has been a noose tightening around my own neck.
I close the file. My patience has limits, and lately, they’re shrinking.
There’s a knock on the door — not light, not hesitant. Heavy. Familiar. “Come in,” I say immediately.
Wraith enters like he always does. A bulky frame that always towers over everything else. He’s quiet, eyes darker than usual. He closes the door behind him but doesn’t move closer.
“You wanted to see me,” he says.
“I did.”
I nod to the chair opposite me, but he doesn’t sit.Typical.
I study him for a long moment.Ronan Black. My enforcer. My oldest ally. The only man in this house who’s ever seen me bleed and lived to speak on it. Not that he ever would. He’s way too fucking loyal for that. But…
Lately, he’s not right either. And if I had to guess, it has something to do with a certain redhead sleeping in my bed.
“Something on your mind?” he asks, arms crossing over his chest.
“Plenty.” I lean back, steepling my fingers. “You, for one.”
His brows lift slightly. “Me?”
“You’ve been…off.”
He grunts, unimpressed by my line of questioning. “Define…off.”
“Distracted,” I say. “Less disciplined. Less loyal.”
That gets a reaction — a slow, dangerous look from under his lashes. “Careful, Caelum.”
“Am I wrong?”
He exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. “You’re paranoid. That girl’s got your head twisted.”
“My head,” I echo softly, “is fine.”
