For a second, I almost smile. But it fades before it reaches my mouth. “Don’t mistake strategy for sympathy,” I say.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She turns back toward the window, light haloing her in gold. I let my eyes linger a moment longer than I should, memorizing the outline of her against the fog.
She’ll have her chance tonight. If she passes, she’ll earn her freedom—at least the illusion of it. What she doesn’t know is that the moment she proves herself, she’ll never truly walk out of this house again.
Because queens don’t leave the throne once they’ve taken it.
And I’m not about to let mine go.
By the time the others scatter, the air still hums with friction—like static clinging to the walls.
I linger in the study, the old room still carrying the scent of gun oil, smoke, and leather. The rain outside has turned thin and silvery, streaking down the tall windows, blurring the city beyond. London looks half-dead in weather like this. It suits us.
Footsteps approach—steady, heavy. I know who it is without even looking. Wraith doesn’t knock. He never does. He enters with that quiet weight of his, all coiled muscle and shadow, moving like the room should brace for him. He shuts the door behind him and folds his arms. “You wanted to see me before we head out,” he says simply.
“I always want you when something’s about to go wrong,” I answer, motioning to the map spread across the desk. Pins dot the streets of Whitechapel, small black marks tracing routes, safehouses, and syndicate activity. “I already told you that one of our Syndicate contacts finally decided to talk, but I don’t know how well I trust it.”
Wraith arches a brow. “Seems to good to be true, if you ask me.”
I nod, “I was thinking the same thing. Three weeks of silence. And now all of a sudden he’s eager to tell us about Owen Calloway and a supposed meeting with a Russian broker.”
Wraith leans in, scanning the map. “You think it’s bait.”
“Iknowit’s bait,” I say. “The Syndicate never offer information for free. And they never do it without an audience.”
He nods slowly, eyes tracing the red line across the map. “So we watch their next exchange.”
“Exactly. Recon only. No confrontation, no interference. I want eyes, not bodies.”
Wraith hums low, the sound rough in his chest. “And her?”
“She needs to see the world she’s stepped into. Let her understand what happens when people think they can play both sides.”
There’s silence for a long moment. The rain ticks against the windows, filling the space between us. Then he asks, “You trust her?”
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I trace one finger over the map, to the district marked with a single black circle. “I trust results,” I say. “And I trust you to keep her alive long enough to deliver them.”
He smirks faintly. “That’s not an answer.”
“No,” I agree, “but it’s the only one you’re getting.”
For a while, neither of us speaks. The clock ticks on the far wall, steady and precise. The faint scent of burnt coffee lingers from earlier, mingling with the smoke curling from the ashtray on the desk. Then I shift, tone flattening. “There’s one more thing.”
He looks up, wary. Like he knows exactly what I’m about to say.
“This mission,” I say, “has to stay clean. No distractions. No attachments. Whatever’s been happening between you and her—it ends tonight.”
Wraith’s expression doesn’t change, but his jaw tightens just enough to confirm what I already know.
“She’s part of the team now,” I continue. “That means discipline. You touch her again, and it’s not her neck on the line—it’syours.”
A long silence follows. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rise to it, but I can see the storm in him—the wolf barely leashed. Finally, he says, “Understood.”
I lean back in my chair, studying him. “I mean it, Wraith. Whatever you think this is, it’snot. We don’t get to have softness in this world. It always costs too much.”
His gaze flicks toward the window. “You saying that for her or foryou?”
