Chapter 19
Wraith
The afternoon drags, heavy and gray, the kind of London light that turns everything to smoke.
I’ve been watching the hall feed for over an hour. Ember hasn’t left her room since this morning. Not once. No noise, no movement. Just silence.
And that silence is louder than any scream.
Vale’s sprawled across the armchair opposite me, half-eaten apple in one hand, smirk in the other. “You’re pacing,” he says, his voice lazy. “It’s unnerving. You only pace when you’re about to gut someone or confess to something.”
“Shut it,” I mutter.
“Which is it, then?” He takes another bite. “You going soft, or you got a body to bury?”
I ignore him and pull my phone out, thumb hovering over Rook’s number.
He watches me dial and whistles low. “Ooooh, we’re escalating. Should I stay? I love when Daddy scolds you.”
“Out,” I command, but Vale doesn’t even budge. “Now.”
He rolls his eyes, tossing the apple core into the bin with infuriating grace. “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t offer moral support when you start spiraling.”
“Vale.”
He laughs as he stands, brushing invisible lint from his shirt. “Try not to break the furniture. Or her.”
The door shuts behind him, and blessed quiet finally settles. Then the call mercifully connects.
“Report,” Rook says, voice low and cold.
“She’s been in her room all day,” I tell him. “No movement since breakfast. I don’t like it.”
“Maybe she’s sleeping,” he argues.
“She’s not,” I say with a sigh.
A pause. Then, “You sure?”
“I’ve been watching the feed. She’s too still. Not pacing, or moving. It’s like she’s waiting for something.”
Rook hums thoughtfully, the sound scraping down my spine. “You think she’s planning something.”
“I know she is.”
“She won’t get far,” he muses aloud.
“I’m not worried about her getting out,” I say, softer now. “I’m worried about what she’s going to do before she tries.”
Another pause. He doesn’t answer right away, which means he’s thinking.
Calculating the variables we don’t see. That's why he’s the king.
The silence between us stretches until I almost fill it with more words — and then I hear the shift in his tone when he finally speaks. “Keep an eye on her. Don’t engage.”
“Understood,” I answer gruffly.
“Wraith.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
“She gets under your skin, you step back. Don’t let her scent confuse you.”
My jaw tightens. “I can handle one woman.”
“Good,” Rook says. “Then handle her.
The line goes dead after that. I drop the phone on the table, the sound echoing like a gunshot. The room feels too small, the air too thick. I rub the back of my neck, trying to shake the static off.
And then the door opens.
For a moment, I think I imagined it — the creak, the shift of air — until she steps in. Ember.
The world seems to tilt, her scent crowding the space between us. It’s warm and decadent, the perfect scent for such a sinful looking woman.
She’s wearing black. Not the kind of black that hides, but the kind that hunts. The dress clings to her like a second skin, the neckline deep enough to make reason crawl out the window. Her hair’s loose, copper waves catching the dull light, her lips bare but flushed like sin’s afterthought.
Every instinct in me reacts — protective, possessive, wrong.
She shouldn’t look like that. Not here. Not for me.
“Evening,” she says softly, voice careful, like she’s testing the ground before stepping on it. I don’t trust myself to answer. She tilts her head, eyes skating over me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I almost laugh. “Something like that.”
She takes a few steps closer, the sound of her heels clicking against the floor, slow and harsh.
“Vale’s gone?” she asks.
“For now,” I answer hesitantly, wondering just where she’s going with this. She doesn’t take long to show me.
“Good.”
She keeps coming, until the space between us is thin enough that I can fully smell her perfume — citrus and smoke. New. And I know I didn’t authorize that.
“What do you want, Ember?” I manage, though my voice comes out lower than I intend.
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe I’m just bored.”
I arch a brow, “Try again.”
She exhales, a quiet, trembling sound that doesn’t match her words. “You said not to play with things I don’t understand. So… Maybe I’m trying to learn.”
She’s close enough now that I can feel the heat from her body. The dress glints with every breath she takes.
“Don’t,” I warn, but I don’t move.
Her hand lifts, hesitating in the air between us before it finally rests on my chest. Light, tentative, testing. I should stop her, but I don’t.
The world narrows to that single point of contact — her hand, warm through my shirt, pulse quick beneath her skin.
“I’m not scared of you,” she whispers. “Even though, I know it was you who killed Owen.”
The look she gives me freezes the blood in my veins. I don’t know how she found out about that, and from the looks of it she wants to gut me like a fish. I know she’s lying, at least about being scared. But the bravery in her lie burns anyway.
“Did he suffer?” She asks, her voice wavering slightly.
“No,” I answer, giving her that small kindness. I wasn’t cruel. I catch her wrist before it can move higher. She looks up, and it’s a mistake — because her eyes are a storm I’ve been trying not to drown in. “You should be afraid of me,” I say, but it sounds like a plea. “Of what I'm capable of.”
Her breath brushes my chin. “Then make me.”
That’s the moment I break. I pull her against me before I can think better of it, my mouth finding hers before reason can stop it. It’s rough at first — a collision, not a kiss. Her fingers twist in my shirt, dragging me closer, demanding more.
The taste of her is chaos — heat, defiance, salt from a tear I don’t think she meant to shed. When I finally tear away, we’re both breathing hard, her hand still clutching my collar like she’s not ready to let go. “Don’t,” I manage. “Don’t do that again.”
She swallows. “You kissed me.”
“Yeah,” I say, voice hoarse. “And I shouldn’t have.”
She steps back slowly, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “Then maybe next time, don’t look at me like you’re starving and I’m your only key to salvation.”
Then she’s gone, the door shutting quietly behind her. I stand there for a long time, staring at the empty space she left behind, the scent of her still clinging to the air.
I drag a hand over my face and mutter, “Fuck.”
Because Rook was right. She’s under my fucking skin.
And I’m already bleeding for it.