My stomach flips, doing somersaults like a freaking acrobat. His gaze locks with mine. Dark. Hungry. Lit with something sharp and electric.
“Competition makes things…creative,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing my lower lip. Once. Just once, and I swear my knees nearly give.
“Wraith may play gentle,” Vale murmurs, his voice a sin-soaked promise, “but I don’t.” His hand at my waist tightens—just a little. Not enough to hurt. Enough to remind me he’s here. “And I really like knowing you’ll think about me when he touches you.”
The words slide through me like smoke. I swallow, hands bracing against his chest. Solid. Warm. Unmoving. “You’re dangerous.”
He grins. “That’s the point.”
Then—just like that—he releases me. Steps back. The air rushes in where he was, cold and unforgiving.
But the damage is done.
He gives me one last look, dark and entirely too pleased. “Get some rest, Red.”
Then he turns and disappears down the hall like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just reach inside me and twist something loose.
I stand there, pulse racing, skin humming, breath shallow.
Ihatethat I want him. I hate that I don’t hate it. And I really fucking hate that this house is starting to feel less like a cage… And more like a den.
Chapter 29
Rook
Morning breaks gray over London. The rain has finally eased, but the fog still clings to the city—heavy, wet, and watchful. It curls through the wrought-iron rails of the balcony like smoke from a dying fire. The air smells faintly of gasoline and cold stone, the remnants of last night’s storm still whispering through the streets.
The house is awake early. I can hear them before I see them—voices, low and sharp, ricocheting off the marble halls. The kind of arguing men do when they’re too tired to fight and too proud to stop.
The kitchen hums with tension when I step inside.
Wraith leans against the counter, broad shoulders taut, the steam from his mug rising between his hands like an omen. Vale, of course, has claimed the table—boots planted where the plates should be, spinning a knife lazily between his fingers. Saint sits at the far end, posture deceptively relaxed, his half-finished tea still steaming. And Ash—Ash looks like hell. Pale. Eyes ringed in sleepless shadows.
Then there’s Ember.
She stands by the window, framed in weak morning light. Her hair catches the gray glow, bleeding gold and copper through the strands. The reflection of the rain-slick glass mirrors her face—soft, indecipherable, dangerous.
When she turns, even briefly, it’s enough to still the room.
Vale breaks first, of course. “Morning,” he drawls, grin slicing through the quiet. “Or is it judgment day? I lose track.”
“Sit down,” I tell him.
He smirks but obeys, knife flashing once before he tucks it away. The chair at the head of the table creaks beneath my weight. I rest my hands on the old wood, feeling the grain, the faint vibration of the others’ tension traveling through it. “We have a problem,” I say finally, voice cutting through the low hum. “And a possible lead.”
Wraith’s eyes flick up, sharp. “Her brother?”
“Maybe.” I nod once. “One of our contacts in Whitechapel finally passed along a name. Claims they saw him a week before he went missing. If they’re right, Owen wasn’t working alone.”
Ash straightens, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He gives me a look that all but outright spells the question.What the fuck are you doing? Have you forgotten she still has the drive?“And you think draggingherinto this is the answer?”
His tone slices like a blade—controlled, but brittle. Ember doesn’t move. She just stares out the window, her reflection ghosting over the city.
“She’s part of this now,” I say evenly.
“She’sleveragefor this,” Ash counters. “Not backup.”
Saint exhales slowly, setting his cup down with a soft clink that sounds too final. “I’m inclined to agree. Sending her out there is reckless. If she’s caught—”
