“Enough,” I snap, growing tired of the fucking bickering.
The word hits like a gavel. I look around the table — at the men I built this empire with. My devils. My monsters. And I can see it already — the hairline fractures forming, spreading outward from the smallest center.
Her. Ember Calloway. The girl who wasn’t supposed to matter. The girl who’s already starting to.
I drag my hand down my face, the scent of her perfume still lingering in the air — smoke and citrus, like a warning.
“She wants to play games,” I say finally, my voice quieter now, almost to myself. “Then we’ll play.”
Vale raises his glass in a mock toast. “To the girl who thinks she can outsmart the King.”
I stare at the empty doorway where she’d stood only minutes ago.
“She’s not trying to outsmart us,” I murmur to myself. “She’s trying to survive us.”
And for the first time in years, I’m not entirely sure which of us deserves to win.
Chapter 22
Rook
Morning breaks gray and unkind. The kind of London morning that seeps into your bones and reminds you you’re still alive when you shouldn’t be.
The house feels different, somehow. Quieter—like it’s holding its breath.
She’s downstairs already. I can feel it. The sound of her footsteps on marble, light and careful, reaches even here — up in the study where the rest of us gather before the storm.
Vale’s leaning against the wall, cracking his knuckles like he’s warming up for a performance. Saint sits in the corner, head bowed, thumb running along the edge of a silver cross he no longer believes in. Ash stands near the monitors, silent, watching feeds that show nothing but stillness. And Wraith—he hasn’t spoken since last night.
The tension between them is a living thing. It hums under the surface, low and dangerous. I pour myself a cup of black coffee and let the silence sit.
No one dares break it. Not until Vale finally grins and says, “Feels like a funeral in here.”
I glance up. “If you can’t take this seriously, leave.”
“Who says I’m not serious?” he says, smirk widening. “You want her to talk, I’ll make her talk. Might even enjoy it.”
“Not happening,” Wraith growls.
Vale laughs, sharp and amused. “Oh, right. Forgot you’re her knight in bloody armor now, aren’t you?”
Wraith’s chair screeches back as he stands. “Say that again.”
“Enough,” I bark, the word cutting through their noise like thunder.
They stop. Barely. Saint looks up, eyes cold. “This is madness. We don’t even know what we’re accusing her of.”
“We’re accusing her,” I say evenly, “of playing us.”
Ash’s voice is quiet, detached. “She’s hiding something, Caelum. Something she thinks is worth dying for. You can see it every time she looks at us.”
Wraith crosses his arms. “And you think dragging her down here like a prisoner is going to make her talk?”
“That’s exactly what I think,” I say.
He laughs, low and bitter. “You’ve lost it.”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But I haven’t lost control.”
