“I shouldn’t have,” he murmurs, his voice raw.
“Seems to be a theme,” I whisper.
He huffs out something like a laugh. “You make it hard to think.”
“Maybe stop trying,” I say, surprising us both.
“Can’t.” He steps back, exhales unsteadily, and stares at me with wide eyes. “You’re going to ruin us.”
“Maybe I already have.”
He doesn’t answer. Just studies me a second longer before turning toward the door. “Goodnight, Ember,” he says quietly.
When he’s gone, I stand there, listening to his footsteps fade down the hall.
The rain’s heavier now, drowning the sound of my heartbeat, but not the memory of his lips.
Four kisses.
Four men.
And I don’t know if I’m winning the war or being pulled under it.
Chapter 25
Ember
Iwake to light bleeding through the curtains and the smell of coffee drifting down the hall.
For a moment, I forget where I am. Then I remember everything.
The night before. Ash’s voice. His mouth—careful, hesitant, nothing like the others.
Guilt threads through me, though I can’t tell if it’s for him, for them, or for myself. I should feel triumphant. I’ve done exactly what I set out to do—woven myself into their cracks until they can’t tell which part of me is real.
But winning doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like drowning slow.
When I walk into the kitchen, the air goes taut.
All five of them are there.
Rook at the head of the table, reading something on his phone. Vale stirring his coffee like he’s daring it to talk back. Saint leaning in the doorway with his usual lazy half-smile, the picture of penance gone wrong. Wraith—shoulder tense, gaze flicking to me and away again. And Ash, who won’t look at me at all.
The silence hums. Too casual to be real.
“Morning,” I say, because someone has to.
Four sets of eyes lift. Rook’s are the last.
He gestures to the seat beside him. “Eat.”
It’s not a request. It never is.
I sit, because arguing would only make it worse. A plate’s already waiting—toast, eggs, coffee. The kind of domestic normal that feels like a threat.
Conversation limps along. Vale makes a joke that no one laughs at. Wraith clears his throat once. Saint watches me over the rim of his cup, eyes bright with amusement he doesn’t bother to hide.
Rook says nothing. But every time I reach for my coffee, his gaze follows the movement—subtle, possessive, unspoken.
