Chapter 20
Ember
My back hits the door the second it closes behind me.
I don’t breathe.
Can’t.
The air still tastes like him — smoke, leather, heat.
What the hell did I just do? I just kissed my brother’s killer. And the most fucked up part? I liked it.
My hand lifts to my mouth before I can stop it, fingertips grazing my lips. They’re swollen, tingling, traitorous. I can still feel the weight of him, the restraint that cracked when he pulled me in. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.
It wasn’t supposed to happen at all. I told myself I wanted control. Leverage. To see if I could make him want me enough to use it later.
Instead, I kissed him like I meant it. Like I fucking meant it! What the fuck is wrong with me?
The room feels too small. My heartbeat too loud.
The perfume I’d dabbed earlier has turned acrid, sweet and suffocating.
I drag my hands through my hair, trying to think, trying not to replay the sound he made when he broke away — that guttural, human sound of someone losing a fight with themselves.
I press my palms to the cool wood and whisper, “Idiot.”
Because that’s what I am. An idiot with shaking hands and an hour to compose herself before dinner.
Dinner. Oh God, fucking dinner.
My stomach drops because I forgot one crucial detail. He’ll be there. All of them will.
I didn’t think that far ahead when I put the dress on. Didn’t think about sitting across the table from five men who make a living reading tells.
They’ll see it. The flush, the fidget, the tremor in my voice.
And worse — he’ll see it.
I push away from the door, move to the vanity, and stare at my reflection. My face looks the same, but my eyes don’t. There’s something raw there, something alive and afraid. I touch my throat where his breath had been and feel a pulse flutter back, frantic.
There’s no undoing it. I’ll have to face them like this.
By the time the clock downstairs chimes seven, my nerves are strung so tight I could shatter glass by looking at it.
I straighten the dress, grab the jacket again — armor in thin disguise — and step out into the hallway.
The scent of food hits before the sound does. A decadent dinner of roasted meat, garlic, paired with something rich and spiced. My stomach twists with hunger and dread.
They’re already at the table when I walk in. All fucking five of them.
Rook at the head, unreadable as ever. Wraith to his right, staring at his plate like it’s a confession.
Vale opposite, smirking before I’ve even sat down.
Ash, quiet and calculating, eyes darting once over me like he’s taking inventory.
And Saint, serene in a way that isn’t comforting — like a man who’s made peace with his damnation.
Every head turns as I enter, and the air changes. The scrape of a chair leg is the only sound as I move toward the empty seat between Vale and Saint.
“Evening,” I manage, voice steady only because I force it to be.
“Afternoon, technically,” Vale says, grinning. “But who’s counting?”
Rook doesn’t speak. Just watches me. His gaze drags slow — from my face to my throat, then further down to the edge of the dress. It’s not lascivious, no. It’s dissecting. He’s cataloguing changes, noting behavior, looking for cracks.
Wraith still hasn’t looked up.
I take my seat, snatch a fork and knife, holding with perfect posture.
“Nice dress,” Vale murmurs. “Wasn’t in your rotation before.”
“I found it,” I say simply.
“I bet you did,” he replies, biting his bottom lip. I ignore it, because it will only make him worse and I don’t intent to encourage anyone else tonight.
Saint shoots him a warning glance, the kind that says behave.
“Eat,” Rook says, voice a quiet command.
No one argues, and we all dig in. The meal passes in fragments — the clink of silverware, the occasional cough, Vale’s too-loud chuckle breaking through like a match strike.
I pick at the food more than I eat it, the taste dulled by nerves. My skin prickles. Wraith’s silence is heavier than words, and every time I dare a glance, I catch his jaw clenched, his hands motionless beside his plate.
“Something wrong with the food?” Rook asks finally, tone mild but edged.
“No,” I say, forcing a small smile. “Just not very hungry.”
“Odd,” Vale says, smirking again. “You look like you’ve worked up an appetite.”
I freeze.
Saint sets his fork down hard enough that the sound makes everyone look at him. “Enough.”
Vale raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just making conversation.”
“Then make better conversation,” Saint says, voice low, steel beneath velvet.
The silence after that stretches, taut and uneasy. Rook breaks it first. “You’ve been quiet today, Ember.”
“Just thinking,” I answer, pulse thundering in my chest.
“About?” He questions.
“About how long you plan to keep me locked in this house.”
His mouth tilts — not a smile, not quite. “As long as it takes.”
“For what?” I ask.
“For you to tell me what I want to know,” he replies.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you stay.”
Simple. Final.
I nod, pretending I’m not shaking inside. “Guess I’d better make myself comfortable then.”
Vale leans in, voice low enough that only I can hear. “You already are, sweetheart.”
I turn my head just slightly, meeting his gaze. “Keep talking, and I’ll shove your fork somewhere creative.”
His grin widens. “Promise?”
Rook’s chair scrapes back, the sound sharp. “Enough,” he says, louder this time.
Vale finally shuts up.
No one speaks after that. The only sound is the clatter of silver and the slow thud of my heart.
When dinner finally ends, I stand first.
“Excuse me,” I say.
Rook watches me go. Wraith still doesn’t move, an the moment I’m out of the dining room, I press my back to the wall, heart racing.
The plan was supposed to give me leverage. Instead, it’s turning into a noose.
I can feel the shift — the suspicion, the tension, the hunger. One of them’s already slipping, and the others will follow. And when they do, I’ll be caught between monsters who don’t share well.
I swallow hard, the memory of Wraith’s kiss still ghosting my lips.
It had felt like power at the time, mixed with something like hatred. For the man who ruined my life and stole the brother I love fiercely.
Now? It just feels like a warning.