And she does look like something wild.
Smaller than I expected, but nothing about her reads fragile. There’s a stiffness in her spine, the kind that comes from too many years waiting for the next blow. Red hair tangled from struggle, blood blooming at the corner of her mouth from where she probably split her lip on a hit. Her wrists are free.Good. I told Wraith not to bind her again.
I want to see how shemoves.
The music’s pulse rolls through the floorboards under my boots, and for a moment, it feels like the whole building breathes with her heartbeat. I hadn’t believed the photos could get her right—too flat, too still. They didn’t show the fight. They didn’t show the spark that makes even fear look defiant.
Ash murmurs beside me, voice just loud enough to cut through the bass. “You’re staring.”
I don’t look away. “Observation.”
Vale snorts from his post at the bar rail. “You meanhunger.”
Saint’s already shaking his head. “She’s not a piece of art, Rook.”
“No,” I say softly. “Art doesn’t bleed when it’s touched.”
They fall silent at that, and I keep my eyes on her.
Ember Calloway. The sister of Owen Calloway, courier and traitor, executed three years ago after selling our shipment routes to the Russians. I remember the file—the grainy photo, the address, the blood on the cobblestones. I remember the way the city smelled that night, copper and rain. But I never saw herup close. Only the intel reports, the monitor feeds, her murals scattered across East London—bright, furious things painted over crumbling walls like graffiti prayers.
And now she’s here, standing under my lights, alive and dangerous for reasons no one has yet managed to quantify.
Wraith stops a few feet from the table. Ember doesn’t bow. She doesn’t flinch. She meets my gaze through the smoke, and for a heartbeat, everything in the room stills.
She knows. Not who I am—but what kind of man sits surrounded by masks while she stands unarmed. Her jaw tightens. Defiance, threaded through fear.
“Miss Calloway,” I say at last. My voice carries, calm, deliberate. “You’ve had quite a week.”
“Kidnapping usually ruins my sleep schedule,” she replies.
Vale chuckles under his breath. Saint doesn’t. Ash glances at me, waiting for my reaction.
I smile. It’s a small thing, sharp at the edges. “You’re bold.”
“You’re criminals.”
“Accurate,” I say. “But that’s not what interests me.”
She crosses her arms. “Then what does?”
“Whyyou were in my vault.”
“I was looking for answers.”
“About your brother?”
Her mouth hardens. “You know damn well about my brother.”
“I know what thereportssay,” I correct, leaning forward. “What I don’t know is why, three years later, his sister decided to crawl through my operations like a ghost chasing bones.”
She doesn’t answer, and that silence tells me more than any confession could. She’s not reckless—she’s desperate. Desperation always has a reason.
Wraith shifts behind her, silent as shadow. She senses it, doesn’t turn. Her pulse jumps in her throat. I track the motion without meaning to.
“Where is it?” I ask.
Her brow furrows. “Where’s what?”
