And somewhere deep down, I know this is the beginning of the end.
Chapter 27
Ember
The house feels quieter after the shouting stops, but not calmer. Silence here is never peace. It’s pressure.
When I finally step out of my room, the air tastes like storm aftermath—ozone and whiskey, something burnt underneath. I follow it down the hall until I reach the living room.
Rook’s there.
He’s alone, still standing where the argument must have ended, one hand braced on the back of the couch. The light from the window paints him in sharp lines—jaw tense, sleeves rolled, knuckles scraped.
For a second, I think he doesn’t hear me. Then his voice cuts through the quiet. “You shouldn’t be down here.”
“I heard you.”
His head lifts slightly. “Heard what?”
“All of you. The fight.” I hesitate. “I didn’t mean to cause that.”
He huffs out a breath—something between a laugh and a sigh. “You didn’t. We were already cracked. You just made the fault line visible.”
I step closer. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes flick toward me, and for once there’s no anger there—just exhaustion, the kind that comes from carrying too much for too long. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t ask to be here.”
“No,” I say quietly, “but I’m the reason you’re all unraveling.”
That earns a small, bitter smile. “We were unraveling long before you showed up, Ember.”
He says my name like it costs him something.
I should leave, but my feet don’t listen. “You don’t have to keep pretending I’m just a problem you need to solve,” I whisper.
His jaw flexes. “And what should I pretend instead?”
“That I’mhuman. Same as you.”
The space between us feels electric. I can smell rain on his shirt, leather, a trace of blood on his knuckles.
He studies me for a long time. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like you don’t know who’s more dangerous.”
“I already do.”
The words come out before I can stop them. His eyes darken, and something in him gives—just a fraction, but enough. He moves closer, slow and unhurried, until there’s barely a breath between us. I can feel the heat of him, the tension rolling off his shoulders. The silence stretches so thin it could snap.
“I told myself to stay away from you,” he says softly. “That if I didn’t, I’d destroy everything I built.”
“Maybe it’s already destroyed,” I whisper.
He exhales through his nose, and for a moment, I think he’ll step back. Instead, his hand lifts, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. His fingers linger near my jaw, tracing the edge of it, slow enough that I forget how to breathe.
The touch isn’t rough. It’s careful. Reverent, even. My pulse trips. His thumb grazes the corner of my mouth. “Rook…”
