Chapter 5
Ember
The first thing I register is warmth.
Not the cheap kind you get from blasting an old radiator and praying it doesn’t explode. Real warmth. Low, even, expensive. It sinks into my skin before my mind is fully online.
The second thing I register is that I’m not on concrete anymore.
My cheek is pressed to something soft. Smooth. High-thread-count sheets, probably stupidly overpriced. The air smells faintly of cedar and something darker underneath—bourbon, leather, the ghost of smoke. Male. Controlled. Intentional.
My eyes snap open.
For two, three, four seconds, I don’t move. I force my breathing to stay even. If someone’s watching, I want them to think I’m still out.
The ceiling above me is white plaster, clean, framed with elegant crown molding that curves in delicate loops at the corners.
That alone tells me more than I want it to.
This isn’t a warehouse or a holding cell.
This is a place someone actually lives. Someone with taste and money and the arrogance to think they can keep me here without chains.
My wrists aren’t tied.
I test my ankles next, just in case. Free.
Okay. That is a decent sign. Carefully, slowly, I roll onto my back and let my eyes adjust.
The room is dim, washed in the glow of city light pushing past heavy curtains. London at night paints everything in diluted amber. It spills through in a soft stripe across the floorboards, climbing one leg of a chair and vanishing into shadow.
Floorboards.
Not laminate, not cracked tile. Dark, oil-polished hardwood that still holds an old house’s faint groan. Old bones with new money overlaid. He really did bring me to a townhouse then.
Good.
Old bones creak. New money relies on locks. Locks can be played.
I sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The world tilts, bends, snaps back in a hard, nauseating reel. A wave of chemical throb rolls from the base of my skull down my neck. Sedative hangover. My stomach doesn’t like that at all.
I swallow hard and breathe through it until the floor stops threatening to slide sideways.
The bed is big—king size or bigger, dressed in charcoal linens and layered duvets. I drag my fingertips across the sheet. Silky smooth. Not satin. Egyptian cotton, maybe. Rich boy bedding. Between my thighs, the mattress barely dips when I move. Quality. Quietly expensive.
I’m still in my T-shirt. My shorts are still on.
No one touched me.
Relief hits so sharp it almost hurts. I let it crest and recede. Then I get back to work.
The room itself is… not what I expect.
It’s not cage-like. Not bare. Not a panic room with cinderblock walls. It’s curated.
There’s a low dresser against one wall, matte black.
Brass pulls. On top of it sits a glass decanter and two matching tumblers on a small silver tray, like someone thinks this is a hotel.
My stomach twists uncomfortably, not because I can’t handle the temptation but because of what lies beside it.
Beside the tray, neatly folded, lies a dark gray hoodie and a pair of joggers. Both appear to be my size at a glance.
Weird.
A small sitting area anchors the far corner—a deep armchair in dark green leather, and a side table with a stack of books.
Not decorations. Worn at the edges, spines cracked, actually read.
The one on top is a first edition of something with embossed gold lettering.
Someone here has money and taste and sentimentality. Or they’re pretending to.
A long mirror stands angled near the wardrobe, old frame, gilt faded. My reflection stares back—red hair a mess, kohl smudged under my eyes, mouth still split at the corner. There’s a bruise beginning to bloom on my jaw, already turning shadow-purple. My throat tightens.
Wraith did that when he pinned me to the wall. Not on purpose. Just force meeting bone.
The memory hits fast and out of sequence. The door. The creak. The mask. His hand closing around my wrist like a promise. “Stop fighting,” in that low, unbothered tone that made it sound like a suggestion, not an order.
And before that—me in my own flat, my own bed, thinking I could sleep.
Anger floods me so hot I almost shake with it. Focus. I shake my head, forcing myself to take in every single detail. Training ingrained in me from a very young age. Training that has managed to keep me alive all these years.
Sweet suffering Jesus please let it keep me safe now.
To the right of the bed, there’s a door. Closed. Painted the same deep matte blue as the walls. I angle my head and listen.
Silence. No voices. No footsteps.
To the left, heavy curtains spill floor to ceiling, drawn tight.
The fabric is thick, almost theatrical. I slide off the bed, bare feet hitting wood, and pad toward them slowly, soft-stepping to test for squeaks.
There aren’t any. Of course there aren’t.
These floors are old, but someone cared for them.
I slip my fingers into the curtains and part them an inch. London looks back, wet and yellow-lit and indifferent.
We’re high up. Fourth floor, maybe fifth, judging by the angle on the street lamps and the way the neighboring roofs slope. The window itself is tall and narrow, an old sash style retrofitted with internal reinforcement. I can see it in the glint—thin, almost invisible rivets along the inner frame.
I press my palm against the glass. Thick. Double-layered. I test the latch next and it doesn’t give.
There’s a tiny, neat square of metal bolted where the original release would have been. Tamper-proof. Whoever owns this place is not new to holding things they shouldn’t be holding.
Okay. Window isn’t my first option.
I let the curtain fall back into place and turn to the door.
My bare feet barely whisper against the floor as I cross to it. I pause with my ear against the wood. Listen.
Still nothing.
I wrap my fingers around the handle and try it.
Locked.
Not a shock. But the lock matters. The lock tells me what they think I am.
I lean in, squint in the low light. It’s not a deadbolt. Not a double or triple external reinforcer. The hardware is sleek, flush, keyed on the outside, thumb-turn inside… that has been removed. The hole where the thumb-turn should be is a clean circle of innards and cool air.
So they modified the interior side.
It’s petty, but for some reason that annoys me worse than the lock itself. You buy this level of door hardware and then punch out the safety feature like some over controlling landlord? Coward move.
But I also clock something else… This isn’t steel. This is dense, older wood. Strong, but not indestructible.
If I pry up one of the brass pulls on the dresser, or snap one of the closet rods, I could get leverage.
Noted.
I turn from the door and move through the room again, slower this time, looking past the obvious comfort and into the bones. I clock two cameras.
One in the upper corner opposite the bed, discreet, caged in a black housing that blends against the molding.
Another in the ceiling light fixture, so small you’d miss it unless you were already looking for surveillance.
Neither have visible red indicator lights.
They’re the kind that doesn’t blink. The kind that assumes you won’t notice you’re being watched until after you’ve already given them what they want.
I look straight at the nearest one and smile without warmth. “Enjoying the show?” I whisper.
If they’re smart, they’ll have audio.
I’ll let them think I’m not.
I go to the dresser next. Top drawer first.
Clothes. Not mine, but close enough you’d think someone guessed. Soft T-shirts, black and white. Underwear, still in their folded shop rolls. Sports bras. Socks. None of it looks worn. All of it looks bought for me.
My stomach turns. It’s not the captivity that rattles me. It’s the familiarity. The presumption. The quiet little message stitched into the cotton…
You’ll be here a while.
Second drawer is filled with joggers, leggings, a pair of black jeans.
Third drawer has nothing but a neatly coiled phone charger, two hair ties, and—of all things—a tin of salve. I pop it open, sniff. Arnica and clove. For bruising.
The anger sharpens to something colder, cleaner. They’ll bruise me. Then they’ll stock ointment like an apology.
And, of course, no phone.
No sharp objects. No blades. Nothing I could turn in my hand and make hurt.
The books on the table pull at me next. I cross the room and crouch by the low stack, reading titles by the strip of light that sneaks around the curtains.
There’s a slim poetry collection. A battered copy of some philosophical text. A leather-bound volume so old it looks like you’re not supposed to touch it without gloves.
The one on top is fiction. Crime, by the feel of it. British author. I flip it open to the middle.
Margin notes. Not printed. Handwritten. Strong, clean lettering in black ink. Harsh angles. Precise. A man’s hand.
I skim the notes on one page. They’re not about the prose. They’re about motive.
—He doesn’t react to the blood. He reacts to the disrespect.
—Not rage. Principle.
—This is where he decides she’s his.
Heat curls at the base of my throat. It’s not attraction. It’s recognition.
Whoever wrote this doesn’t read for entertainment. He reads to understand leverage. To understand possession.
I shut the book and slide it back where I found it.
“I’m not yours,” I say under my breath.
That one I don’t whisper for the camera. I whisper it for myself, and I mean it.
The nausea finally ebbs enough that I trust my body. I stand and circle the bed, bending, checking underneath.
No restraints installed in the frame. No ankle cuff points. No bolted hardware. Interesting.
So this isn’t an interrogation room. This is… staged comfort. Soft captivity. Which is worse, somehow.