Chapter 8
Vale
The house is quiet.
Not silent — this place is never silent — but quiet in the way of men who didn’t sleep because they were guarding a choice they shouldn’t have made.
Wraith left before dawn. I heard the front door, heavy and low, heard the rumble of his voice on a call in the foyer, something about ports and contracts and “try it, I’ll take your teeth.” Gone after that.
Ash is still awake somewhere, because Ash is always still awake somewhere. I can feel the hum of his presence downstairs in the den, tech equipment whispering through the floorboards, that soft data-swarm you start to hear if you live long enough beside ghosts and wires.
Saint took his coffee and his quiet apology of a conscience to the back garden right after sunrise. He does that — goes out where the ivy strangles brick and whispers scripture like he thinks the roses are going to forgive him.
And Caelum?
Caelum’s gone cold.
He didn’t say it, but we all felt it when he left the townhouse this morning. I watched the change go through him when the ink dried last night, all five signatures lined at the bottom of the page like a pact we’ll have to murder to keep. He’s steady again. I know what that means.
It means he’s hunting.
Which leaves just me in the kitchen.
And her.
It’s late enough that the London light has started to seep in low through the tall townhouse windows, that gray-yellow sludge of morning that never commits fully to being day.
I’m leaning back against the counter, mug hooked in my hand, one ankle crossed over the other, tattoos on my forearms catching the light in strips.
She’s at the table—alone. No one’s cuffing her. No one’s hovering over her chair like she’s going to make a run for it. No one’s aiming a gun at her throat.
We’re past that now.
I watch her while she pretends not to watch me.
Little thief.
She’s curled over the table, elbows planted, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other tearing the corner off a piece of toast and not eating it. Copper-red hair is down, messy, unbrushed, curls everywhere. She didn’t bother to tame it. Good. I like her with edges.
There are faint purple shadows under her eyes, the kind that come from not sleeping, not crying. She doesn’t look fragile. She looks used up. Paper-under-fire used up.
And that mouth.
Split on one side. Swollen. Pink.
I did not do that to her. Wraith caught her jaw against the wall when she tried to drive her knee through his ribs.Doesn’t mean I don’t plan to enjoy the view. “Gonna eat that,” I ask mildly, “or you just performing starvation for attention?”
Her jaw ticks, just a little. She doesn’t look at me. “Bite me.”
I smile slow around the rim of my mug and take a drink. “Breakfast first, carino. I like my girls conscious when I bite.”
That gets her eyes. They flick up, quick and hot and annoyed. Ice blue. Those eyes are lethal. They’re not gentle, not pleading. They don’t do soft. They cut.
“Don’t call me that,” she snaps.
“You don’t like carino? You preferred trouble, was that it?” I tilt my head, pretending to think. “Or was it sweetheart? I remember you blushing. That was sweet. Do that again.”
Her nostrils flare. “In your dreams.”
“In my dreams,” I say warmly, “you’re a lot louder than this.”
Her cheeks go high with color so fast it’s almost pretty.
Ah. There it is. Under the anger. Under the spitfire. Under the “fuck you, Vale.” There’s heat.
Want.
And confusion about the fact that there’s want.
Good morning to me.
I push off the counter, slow, lazy, like there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be than crossing this kitchen toward her.
The townhouse smells like coffee and frying butter, and her — paint and soap and warm skin.
I like the way it clings this morning. I like that she smells like she slept in our sheets.
Her eyes track me. She doesn’t move her body. Smart girl. Predators lunge when prey bolts.
I set my mug on the table, not across from her. Beside her. Close enough that the heat of me meets the heat coming off her shoulders.
“Eat,” I tell her softly.
“Is that an order?” she mutters.
“Yes.”
She huffs, low. But she tears another strip of toast and actually puts it in her mouth this time. Chews. Swallows. Glares.
“Good girl,” I murmur.
Her lips part, offended. Perfect.
“I swear to God,” she says, voice low, “if one more man in this house calls me that—”
“You’ll what?” I lean in a fraction, lazy smile staying where it lives. “Scratch me? Curse at me? Try to knee me in the balls like you tried with Wraith? By the way, he was flattered.”
“I was aiming higher than his balls,” she says sweetly.
God, she’s going to be the death of someone. Maybe me. Wouldn’t that be fun.
I sink into the chair next to her — the one she refused yesterday — and sprawl the way I always do: long legs, one arm draped over the backrest, body turned to face her like I’m settling in for a private show.
I don’t bother hiding the way my gaze drags.
I want her to feel it. I want her to feel watched and wanted and not sure which one is worse.
She feels it.
Her throat works. Her fingers tighten around the mug.
But she still tries. She still fights. “Where are your… princes?”
“Princes,” I echo, pleased. “That’s adorable. That what you’ve decided we are, Red? A little court for you to spit at?”
Her jaw clenches at the nickname, but she doesn’t correct me. Progress.
I tap my thumb once against my thigh, thinking as I talk. “Wraith’s out. Saint’s pretending the garden is a confessional and not where he hides to pretend he’s not thinking about you. Ash hasn’t left his screens since last night. King went hunting.”
Her eyes flicker, fast. “Hunting who?”
I grin. “And why would I tell you that, little thief?”
Her mouth curves, slow and small and dangerous. “Because if it has to do with Owen, I deserve to know.”
Ah. There it is again. She says his name like a blade, like she trusts it to cut both of us.
I lean forward, elbows to my knees, hands hanging loose, and let her see me drop the lazy flirt — just for a breath. “I’m going to tell you something,” I say. “And you’re going to listen to me, Ember.”
Her breath stutters. Ember. Not Red this time. I watch that land in her shoulders.
I lower my voice. “You keep saying ‘I deserve.’ ‘I deserve answers. I deserve the truth.’ And maybe you do. I even think you do,” I add, because honesty always sits better on the tongue when you deliver it like sin.
“But understand where you are. You are in our house. You are under our roof. You are walking around in a deal we should’ve never signed that’s got our names on it like a confession.
You are sitting at our table, with my coffee, in a shirt that smells like Caelum’s soap, with Wraith ready to put his body between you and a bullet without asking why.
You don’t get to walk into that and start throwing around ‘I deserve.’”
Her chin lifts.
God, I love that.
“You think I’m scared of you?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “But I’d like you to be.”
Her lips part, eyes darken to a deeper shade of blue.
I lean in, just a little closer, enough that I can feel the heat rolling off her skin. “Fear keeps you alive, Ember. You understand that?”
She swallows. Her voice drops to something quieter. “I’ve been alive without you just fine.”
“Mmm.” I tilt my head. “Is that what you call what you were doing?”
Her eyes flash.
Good. That hit her the way I intended for it to.
Now I let the lazy back in, because she’s cracked just enough to feel it. I slide two fingers under her chin and tip her face to me. Not hard. Not cruel. Just… claiming.
Like I’m inspecting a bruise I paid for.
She freezes. Not with fear. With awareness. Her breath goes tight, shallow. Her pupils kick wide. Her mouth parts just a hair — enough to pull at the split in her bottom lip. The sight of that almost ruins me.
“Look at me,” I murmur.
She tries not to. Fights it for as long as her body will allow. Then she does.
Her eyes lock on mine. Ice blue to pitch black. Defiant. Trembling. Wanting. Hating that she’s wanting.
“There she is,” I whisper. “Good morning, trouble.”
Her throat works. She lets out a small, shaky sound and tries to mask it with attitude. “You are such an asshole.”
“I know,” I say warmly.
Her pulse is a drum at the base of her throat. I have a sudden, electric urge to put my mouth there and feel it against my tongue.
My thumb strokes along her jaw once, slow, savoring. Her skin is soft. Warm. She holds perfectly still, like prey told to freeze.
“I like you better like this,” I murmur. “When you’re not performing so hard.”
Her brows knit. “Performing?”
“Mm.” I sit back a fraction but I don’t take my hand away yet.
I keep my fingers under her chin, a point of contact she can’t quite get out from under without pulling hard enough to make a scene.
“Last night, at the table? All fire. All spit. ‘Put it in writing.’ The audacity of a little fox who doesn’t know she’s already in the wolf’s mouth. ”
Her eyes flash. “I knew exactly what I was doing.”
“I know you did,” I purr. “That’s what made it so entertaining.”
She swallows, and I feel the movement against my fingers.
God, she’s pretty like this. Choking on pride and adrenaline with her chin tipped up in my hand.
I drop my voice to something low, almost kind. “But this? This is you. Tired. Hungry. Still angry but not sure where to put it. Trying to convince yourself you don’t want to lean into the only warmth in the room.” I tilt my head. “That’s honest.”
Her mouth trembles. She tries to pull back. I let her, slow, like it was my idea. She jerks her chin free on the last inch and glares at me like she just won a war.
Fucking adorable. She thinks she has won. I lean back in my chair again, grinning.
“You’re disgusting,” she mutters.
“And you’re shaking,” I counter.
She slams her palm flat on the table. “I am not shaking.”
I look at her hand. The fine tremor in her fingers.