Last night’s panic tastes metallic in my mouth. I remember the door ajar, their voices in the hall, the way Rook and Wraith sounded like two men trying to decide whether to set a house on fire. I remember hearing Owen’s name on their lips, and the knowledge that came after. I remember how I felt—how Istillfeel. The fire raging through my veins at the thought of his killer sleeping in a room somewhere in this house. I remember the words they said.Proof. Like that somehow makes his death justifiable. Nausea churns in my stomach.
And then, like a nightmare… I remember standing at the edge of a choice that has always lived at the intersection of my body and my shame.
I sit up and stare at the drawer under the vanity like it’s a safe I have to crack. My palms are still a little damp from the too-cold shower I took to scrub whatever fingerprints of fear remained. I tell myself the seduction idea was just that—a thought born of desperation, a math equation I ran in the dark and rejected—but the part of me that learned to survive remembers how leverage works. It remembers how men rearrange their priorities when a thing belongs to them.
That part of me is pragmatic. Clinical. Terrifyingly efficient.
I sigh heavily, and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, then pad to the wardrobe. The men bought me clothes. They said it was “decency” and “image”. I call it inventory. I pull open the door and the clothes they thought I’d like spill out. Black tailored pieces Caelum would approve of, soft cashmere scarves that feel like hospitality smothered in wealth, an absurd satin slip that belongs in a different life. I hold the slip by the strap and scoff—my throat flips at the performative vulnerability of it. I amnotsoft. Not really. Not for sale.
But I also know what a look can do in the right light. I riff through the pile until I find things with edges. A dark blouse that sits like armor, a skirt that hits the thigh in a way that reads deliberate without apologizing, boots with a heel that’s enough to shift posture but not cripple me. I change in the small bathroom and catch my reflection in the mirror—red hair, bruised mouth, tattoos like maps up my arms. I feel ridiculous and somehow dangerous all at once.
On the sink line, tucked between the house-brand soap and an antiseptic pack, is a paper bag. I hadn’t noticed it before. It was small and folded, the kind of careful smallness someone uses when they don’t want to make noise.
Inside is a selection of toiletries—tampons, a proper razor, the kind of face cream I remember seeing in glossies when I was nineteen and thought I’d have a life that smelled like linen. Concealer that could hide the faint purple on my lip. A perfume sample that tastes of warm citrus and something sharp and mysterious underneath. Someone snuck must’ve them in.
That sliver of kindness is weird. Unnerving. I scan the hallway with a sudden, absurd paranoia. Cameras. Ash’s monitors. Wraith’s unnatural closeness. But the bag is real and so is the relief that follows like a small, hot thing through my chest. Whoever left it watched me with a softness I’m not used to. Whoever left it risked trouble for me.
Gratitude is a slippery thing.
I place the items back in the bag, close it, and tuck it into the hollow in my wardrobe where small things live—tickets, names, a folded photocopy of a face I don’t trust. The toiletries will be useful. They’ll buy me confidence and a way to control the narrative I feed them. If I’m going to manipulate the room, I’ll want to present myself on my terms, not theirs.
I shuffle back to the bed, sit, and feel the weight of choices like stones in my pocket. There’s no courage in seduction that isn’t carefully plotted. If Iusemy body, I must use it with rules and fallback plans. If I don’t, I might keep my line of dignity, and die sooner. If I do, I live and lose pieces of myself one by one.
I close my eyes. The plan refuses to settle into anything pretty. It is cold, practical, and merciless.
Finally, I stand, wash my face—dab the concealer gently over the bruise—and dress in the armor I picked. The blouse, the skirt, the boots. I braid my hair back in a tight plait that keeps it out of my face. I inhale once, sharp and controlled.
I’m not giving anyone my throat today. Not yet.
The bag of toiletries tucks under the mattress. If someone’s been kind, they’ll know why it matters. If they were testing me, I’ll test them back. Either way, the day begins and I walk out to eat with the men like I’ve never considered the possibility of bargaining with bone.
Chapter 16
Rook
Icalled them to the table before the hour. We sit without ceremony because a table in this house has always been the simplest way to show control. Chairs placed, positions known, roles unchanged. The rain keeps time on the panes. The city is mute below us, distant.
They arrive like pieces of the machine each with their own temper. Wraith is the first—silent, solid, the kind of presence that clamps the room’s edges. Ash drifts in like smoke and electronics, carrying his quiet with an analytics’ weight. Vale comes in loud, practiced mischief on his face. Saint arrives last, sleeves rolled, hands with the soft callus of a man who’s both sinner and caretaker.
Ember’s chair is empty at the opposite side of the table. I don’t comment on that. The absence carries enough rumor.
“Report,” I say simply.
Ash is clinical. “I’ve rechecked the feeds tonight. Her actions in the bedroom sequence are inconsistent with simple trauma—there are pauses, measured breath control, a suppression pattern in autonomic response. She can manage her parasympathetic reflexes. That’s training, Rook.”
“Training for who?” Vale asks flatly. “MI5? Her brother’s book club?”
“Field tradecraft,” Ash says. “Ops-level conditioning. Definitely not a bloody amateur, that’s for sure. Possibly run through an institutional handler at some point.”
Wraith shifts, leaning forward until his elbows are flat on the table. “So she’smorethan a witness,” he says. “You’re saying maybe even a spy?”
“I’m saying she’snota bystander,” I correct. “And whether she was planted for the Riders, for someone else, or simply survived a covert life doesn’t change the fact that she’s a variable we need to decide what to do with. Adangerousone.”
Vale snorts. “Dangerous because she looks like she could seduce a nun into sin? Give me a break.”
“You always want to break things first,” I tell him. “That’s why you’re useful and why you’re a problem.”
He bristles but smiles. “I like the sound of that.”
