Chapter 18
Ember
The house hums quieter after a meeting. It’s the kind of quiet that comes from men pretending they haven’t just been sharpening knives.
They’ve been whispering most of this morning, hushed voices that spell a certain trouble.
I can feel it in my bones—in the walls — the static, the way the air carries their tension like perfume.
They think I don’t notice, but I do. They’re hiding something.
By the time I step into the main room, only two remain. Vale and Wraith.
Vale lounges on the couch, sprawled like he owns the place — tattoos and danger stretched across black fabric, eyes glinting with lazy amusement. Wraith stands near the window, arms folded, all stillness and storm.
Perfect targets.
If I’m going to survive this, I need leverage against the rest of them. And I’m running out of time to find it.
I adjusted my blouse before walking in — unbuttoned two more than necessary.
The line of my collarbone catches the light when I move.
The hem of my skirt rides higher than decency would allow.
I pretend it’s comfort. It isn’t. “Did the boys have a productive meeting?” I ask, dropping my voice into something teasing.
“All that power in one room — surprised the walls didn’t catch fire. ”
Vale looks up, smirk cutting across his face. “Jealous you weren’t invited, Red?”
“Jealous?” I tilt my head. “No. Curious though? Maybe. You don’t exactly strike me as the type to plan anything before acting.”
He chuckles. “Touché.”
Wraith just grunts, gaze flicking to me and then away. “You need something?”
“Yeah,” I say, ignoring the way my stomach revolts at speaking to my brother’s killer. “Makeup. Clothes that aren’t two sizes too small. Shampoo that doesn’t smell like motor oil. You know — the basic human things.”
Vale raises an eyebrow. “You asking for a shopping trip?”
“Something like that,” I reply. “If I’m going to be your pretty little prisoner, I might as well look the part.”
Wraith’s jaw tightens. “Not happening.”
I roll my eyes before I can stop myself. “You’re joking.”
“No,” he says, voice stern and final.
Vale leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, watching me with that feral half-smile. “You can tell us what you want, carino, but it doesn’t mean you’ll get it.”
“I’m not asking for diamonds,” I snap. “Just fucking mascara.”
“Not happening,” Wraith repeats, and the finality in his tone makes me want to scream.
Instead, I walk closer to him. Slowly—like a panther stalking its prey. Vale’s eyes track me like a cat watching a flame. “Come on,” I murmur, fingertips brushing the back of his hand where it rests on the couch. “Don’t tell me you’ve never indulged a woman before.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop me. Just lets me trail my fingers up his arm, testing the reaction, the edge.
He smirks, tilting his head. “Careful, Red. You’re playing with things you don’t understand.”
I turn to Wraith next. His body is rigid, tense, and unreadable. “And what about you?” I ask quietly. “You seem like the type who likes control. Maybe I just need to ask the right way.”
He looks down at me — all muscle, restraint, and that strange, haunting calm.
When I reach out and touch his chest, his hand snaps up to catch mine before it can wander further. “Enough,” he says softly.
The sound of it hits deeper than a shout, and my gut recoils. What the fuck am I doing? “Didn’t mean to offend,” I say softly, stepping back quickly.
“You didn’t,” Vale murmurs. “You just underestimated us.”
My laugh comes sharp. “I tend to do that when I’m locked in a house full of men with superiority complexes.”
“Then maybe stop trying to manipulate the ones holding the keys,” Wraith says.
I glare at him, heat flooding my face. “Maybe I just wanted lipstick, not a lecture.”
“Sure you did,” Vale says, voice low, amused.
The moment stretches — a pulse of air, thick and humming with tension. I can feel both of them watching me, waiting for me to break first. I don’t.
“Fine,” I say, pushing past them. “Forget it.”
My heels hit the marble too hard as I walk away, each step a punctuation mark on my irritation.
“Wraith,” Vale calls after me, still grinning, “better tell the King his little red fox is getting restless.”
Wraith doesn’t answer, but I feel his eyes follow me until I’m out of sight.
In the hallway, I stop long enough to catch my breath. My pulse is still racing, part anger, part shame. I’d tried something — stupid, reckless, beneath me — and it failed.
They indulged me. Let me think I had the upper hand, when really they were taking my measure. I hate them for it. And I hate myself for caring that it didn’t work.
Back in my room, I close the door, lean against it, and breathe.
I’m still trapped, and it’s clear I’m still being studied. Still playing a game where every move feels like a confession.
But at least now I know the rules. They won’t break easily.
Which means I’ll have to stop playing fair.
By the time I reach my room, my pulse is still in my throat.
I shut the door, not hard enough to echo—just enough to make the latch click. The kind of quiet that says do not follow.
My hands are still trembling. I can feel where Vale’s sleeve brushed my skin, where Wraith’s fingers closed around my wrist. My attempt to play them backfired spectacularly. They’d seen through me, indulged me, then dismissed me. Like a child throwing a tantrum.
I pace once, twice, then stop in front of the wardrobe.
I’ve been through it before. I know what’s in there—cashmere sweaters, silk blouses, expensive lingerie that doesn’t belong to my world.
But something feels… different.
The air inside smells faintly of perfume, the kind that wasn’t there yesterday. Something citrusy, unfamiliar.
I start flipping through the clothes again anyway—half out of spite, half out of compulsion. Silk, lace, black, red, white. Things meant to soften edges, not survive the world outside.
And then I see it. Hanging dead center like it’s always belonged there… A little black dress. Tight, short, gorgeously sleek. But, I swear it wasn’t there before.
I touch the fabric—smooth, expensive, dangerously soft—and feel something ugly curl low in my stomach. Someone added it, they had to. Does that mean that someone came in here while I slept?
I should be angry. I am angry. But underneath it, there’s a flicker of something else—curiosity. Temptation.
Because it’s exactly the kind of dress that rewrites the room when you walk into it.
And maybe that’s what I need now. A rewrite.
I strip out of my clothes and pull it on. The material slides over my hips, molds to my body like it’s memorized me. The neckline dips low, the hem stops where decency gives up. It fits too perfectly.
Which means whoever bought it knows me—every inch, every curve, every weakness.
That thought should unsettle me, and it does. At least a little. But I can’t help the small, wicked part of me that whispers… good.
I catch my reflection in the mirror, and for a moment, I don’t see the girl who watched her brother die. I don’t see the operative who’s lost control of her own mission.
I see power. Wrapped in silk and threat.
The sight hits me like a confession.
I find the pair of heels shoved beneath the wardrobe—sharp, black, and impossibly high. I slip them on and straighten. My posture changes instantly, my body aligning to the shape of someone dangerous. Someone in charge.
There’s a bag on the vanity — the same one that appeared yesterday. I open it again, scanning the contents. The toiletries are all still there, all neatly arranged. Moisturizer oils, concealer, a razor, and that same cheap lip balm I’ve been using to fake confidence.
But there’s something new. A small glass bottle of perfume. Expensive by the look of it — crystal stopper, no label. The kind of scent someone chooses for you, not with you.
It wasn’t there before.
The thought snakes under my skin, cold and electric. Whoever it was — they didn’t take anything. They only left something. But the question still remains. Is it a gift, or a warning?
I uncap the bottle, curiosity outweighing caution. The scent hits instantly — bright citrus undercut with smoke and amber. Feminine, yes, but edged with something darker. It’s dangerous how good it smells.
I dab it along my collarbone, then the hollow of my throat. The perfume warms against my skin, turning sharpness to silk.
In the mirror, the woman looking back at me doesn’t look trapped.
She looks like the reason cages were built.
It isn’t vanity, I finally decide. It’s strategy.
If they’re going to treat me like a pawn, I might as well look like a queen. I smooth my hair back, adjust the neckline, study the sharp lines of my reflection — the dress, the eyes, the quiet defiance threaded through every breath.
For the first time since I got here, I feel something close to control.
Even if it’s borrowed.
I don’t know who put this dress here — or why.
But if it was meant as bait, I plan to make them choke on it. I grab my jacket from the chair, throw it over my shoulders, and head for the door.
It’s time to let them see what they’ve made.