Chapter 25
Ember
Iwake to light bleeding through the curtains and the smell of coffee drifting down the hall.
For a moment, I forget where I am. Then I remember everything.
The night before. Ash’s voice. His mouth—careful, hesitant, nothing like the others.
Guilt threads through me, though I can’t tell if it’s for him, for them, or for myself. I should feel triumphant. I’ve done exactly what I set out to do—woven myself into their cracks until they can’t tell which part of me is real.
But winning doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like drowning slow.
When I walk into the kitchen, the air goes taut.
All five of them are there.
Rook at the head of the table, reading something on his phone.
Vale stirring his coffee like he’s daring it to talk back.
Saint leaning in the doorway with his usual lazy half-smile, the picture of penance gone wrong.
Wraith—shoulder tense, gaze flicking to me and away again. And Ash, who won’t look at me at all.
The silence hums. Too casual to be real.
“Morning,” I say, because someone has to.
Four sets of eyes lift. Rook’s are the last.
He gestures to the seat beside him. “Eat.”
It’s not a request. It never is.
I sit, because arguing would only make it worse. A plate’s already waiting—toast, eggs, coffee. The kind of domestic normal that feels like a threat.
Conversation limps along. Vale makes a joke that no one laughs at. Wraith clears his throat once. Saint watches me over the rim of his cup, eyes bright with amusement he doesn’t bother to hide.
Rook says nothing. But every time I reach for my coffee, his gaze follows the movement—subtle, possessive, unspoken.
He doesn’t touch me, but it’s enough. Everyone notices the way he tracks me.
I pretend not to.
When the plates are cleared, Rook leans back, folding his arms. “You’re not staying locked up all day.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Wasn’t planning on a field trip.”
His expression doesn’t change. “We’re staying in. Movie, lunch. Normal.”
“Normal,” Vale repeats, laughing under his breath. “That’s rich.”
“Quiet, Devil,” Rook says, not looking at him. His focus stays on me. “You’ll join us.”
It’s phrased like an order, but something about it feels like an invitation. I hesitate, then nod. “Fine.”
“Good,” he says simply, rising from his chair. “Living room. Ten minutes.”
As he walks past, his hand brushes my shoulder—not possessive, not quite gentle either. Just enough to make me aware of the weight of his attention.
Wraith moves behind me to refill my mug, wordless, his sleeve brushing my arm. The contact is fleeting, but deliberate. A ghost of something I don’t want to name.
The tension follows me down the hall, heavy and invisible.
By the time I reach the living room, the lights are dimmed and a low, unfamiliar film hums on the television—some old crime noir with rain-slick streets and too many shadows.
Rook’s already on the couch, and he gestures for me to sit beside him.
I do, if only to stop another argument. The leather is warm, smelling faintly of smoke and cedar.
Wraith brings a blanket, his fingers grazing mine when he passes it over. “Here,” he mutters.
I pull it across my lap, acutely aware of how close they all are—how small the space feels when every breath, every glance, feels like it’s carrying weight.
The movie starts, and no one says a word.
I feel Rook’s arm slide along the back of the couch, then lower—slow, deliberate—until it settles behind me. I glance at him, a silent question in my eyes, but he doesn’t look away from the screen. Of course he doesn’t. So, for now, I let him stay there.
Wraith shifts on my other side, fidgeting like he can’t sit still.
The movement pulls my attention from the movie—whatever the hell we’re watching—and I try to focus, but can’t.
The proximity, their scent, the quiet heat between us—it’s all too much.
It fills the air like London fog, thick and suffocating, seeping under my skin until I can’t think straight.
I’m so lost in it that I almost miss the brush of a hand beneath the blanket. At first it rests lightly on my thigh. Then it slides higher, fingers ghosting along the edge of my pants.
My breath catches. I dart a quick glance toward Wraith. He gives nothing away—eyes fixed on the screen, expression carved from stone. A man pretending he isn’t doing exactly what he’s doing.
I turn my head toward Rook instead. His jaw is tight, his focus locked forward. He looks unaware of the storm brewing inches away—or maybe he knows, and that’s what makes the air between us hum.
When Wraith’s fingers ghost over my heat, caressing me through my clothes, I clench my teeth in shock, trying hard to suppress my growing desire. It’s fucking hot. Knowing what he’s doing. Knowing the others don’t have a clue. God, why is that such a turn on?
Wraith massages me, working me through my leggings, the fabric becoming increasingly damp. I bite my bottom lip, trying to suppress the groan that begs to escape me.
His body goes taut beside me. I feel him shift again, obviously uncomfortable. I almost laugh, but I don’t, because I know, for a single fucking fact, it’ll clue the others in—and I bloody well don’t need that.
Wraith slips his hand inside my leggings, and it takes everything in me, not to buck my hips at the contact.
His fingers find the sensitive bundle of nerves, circling mercilessly.
It feels so fucking good. My breath hitches, and Rook shifts beside me, removing his arm from my back.
I feel his hand slide under the blanket, and I freeze.
Panic claws at me, but Rook doesn’t give anything away.
He only slides his hand across my stomach, then up higher, ghosting across the lacy fabric of my bra.
It’s just a brush of movement—but it’s enough to undo me.
Wraith’s fingers circle faster. Rook’s hand slides under the bra and ghosts over my nipple, fingers pinching the sensitive skin, tugging and massaging the peak.
It’s the action that undoes me. I suck in a sharp breath—legs shaking under the blanket, stars blinding me until I’m forced to close my eyes.
Wraith and Rook’s hands slip out discreetly, their eyes still fixed on the movie, both pretending nothing just transpired on this couch.
I glance at Vale. He’s grinning, smug, blowing a kiss I pretend not to see.
My pulse won’t slow down. Every nerve feels awake, buzzing with something I don’t have a name for. The movie keeps playing, some dull background noise to drown out the sound of my heartbeat.
I should feel ashamed. I should feel violated. But I don’t.
I feel… Alive.
Heat still clings to my skin, electric and heavy, the ghost of their touch thrumming through me like a secret I shouldn’t want to keep. I bite the inside of my cheek until the taste of copper blooms there—anything to ground myself.
This wasn’t part of the plan.
I wanted to manipulate them, to use their obsession, not… enjoy it.
God, that’s what makes it worse. The wanting. The way my body leans toward danger like it’s a language I was born speaking.
Rook’s calm control. Wraith’s reckless hands. The tension that binds all of us tighter with every line we cross. It’s madness—and I’m feeding it.
I drag in a breath, force myself to stand. My legs tremble, not from fear but from too much adrenaline, too much wanting, too much everything.
Let them think they won that round.
I’m not the one being played.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.