Chapter 28
Ember
The house feels too big when it’s like this. Not empty—never empty. Just… held. Like something vast and living is crouched around me, breathing through the walls, listening. The kind of silence that presses instead of soothes. The kind that remembers.
Rain ticks against the windows in a slow, patient rhythm, steady enough to almost lull me into forgetting what happened last night. Almost.
I curl into the corner of the library couch, book open but unread, my fingers tracing the edge of a sentence I can’t seem to finish. I’ve been on the same page for ten minutes. Maybe longer. The words blur, but my mind doesn’t.
Rook’s jaw. Wraith’s hands. The way the room had gone sharp and feral and too close.
And then the shouting—and crash. The sound of knuckles meeting bone, and curses muttered under heated breath.
I swallow, my grip tightening on the book.
Footsteps come from down the hall. Light, steady and controlled—has to be Ash.
I don’t need to look up to know—it’s in the rhythm, the way he moves through space like a ghost that’s decided haunting is an art form. Quiet without being careful. Present without announcing it.
He stops near the shelves, eyes skimming the rows of old spines like he’s searching for a distraction. Or pretending to. “Didn’t think I’d find you here,” he says.
“Observation skills on point as usual.”
He ignores the bite in my voice, sliding a book from the shelf and turning it in his hands. His presence fills the room like static before a storm—subtle, charged, impossible to ignore. The faint scent of smoke and cedar follows him, grounding and unnerving all at once.
“What are you reading?”
“Something with less blood than usual,” I reply sweetly.
He glances over his shoulder, green eyes sharp and impossibly calm. “You don’t strike me as the type who reads to escape.”
“I don’t,” I say, thumbing the page. “But it’s quieter than being the reason half the house wants to kill each other.”
A beat passes between us and I can’t be sure if he’s going to comment on what I said until he does. “Most things are.”
A small laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It’s brittle. Tired. “You always this charming?”
“Only when I’m trying to distract someone.”
“From what?” I ask, huffing slightly.
“Whatever’s eating them alive.”
I close the book slowly. “You think something’s eating me?”
“I know it is.” He moves closer, not abruptly, not aggressively—careful, like he’s learned I’ll vanish if someone reaches too fast.
He’s right. I might. I don't do emotions well—at all.
Ash sits in the chair across from me, elbows on his knees, posture loose but coiled, gaze unwavering. My stomach twists, uncomfortably knotting up until I’m nothing but a ball of stress.
“You don’t sleep,” he says.
I bristle. “You watching me now?”
He doesn’t flinch. “You make a lot of noise when you pace.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Maybe I like the company of my ghosts.”
“Maybe they’re getting crowded,” he counters.
The quiet hums between us, thick and electric. There’s no pity in his voice—just recognition. Shared insomnia, different reasons.
“What do you do instead?” I ask.
“I build things. Break them. Fix them again.”
“Sounds healthy.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Better than remembering.”
The rain deepens outside, heavier now, as if London itself is leaning in to listen. My heartbeat sounds too loud in my ears.
Then he says, almost to himself, “You shouldn’t have to feel responsible for what they do to each other.”
I blink, understanding slowly sliding into place. “You agreeing with me or testing me?”
“Maybe both.” He leans back, restless energy rippling through him, before pinning me with a gaze that almost brings me to my knees. “You’re not their fault, Ember. You know that, right?”
“Feels like it sometimes,” I mutter.
His gaze sharpens. “Rook’s trying to keep you alive. That’s all.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “And Wraith was trying to keep me warm. Look how that turned out.”
A flicker crosses his face—something dark, indistinguishable. Possessive, maybe. Or protective. Both? “That wasn’t about you,” he says quietly.
“Wasn’t it, though?”
His jaw tightens, expression muddying into something I can’t quite put a name to. He doesn’t answer, but the silence does it for him.
I study him, really study him, the way his fingers twitch against his knee, the way his shoulders are just a fraction too tight. “You’re not as cold as you pretend to be,” I say softly.
His eyes lift to mine, and hold. “Neither are you.”
The air shifts. Thickens. He takes a step closer, close enough that the edge of the couch brushes his knee, that I can feel his heat, the gravity of him. For a heartbeat, I think he might reach for me.
He doesn’t. He just looks at me like I’m something he shouldn’t touch but already has.
Then he exhales, slow and controlled, pulling back. “You should finish your book.”
“I wasn’t reading it.”
“Then pretend,” he murmurs, already turning toward the door. “Pretending is what keeps us alive.”
When he’s gone, the quiet presses in again—different now, warmer and heavier. I stare down at the open page in my lap, the ink blurring slightly. I can’t remember the words. Just the way he said mine.
I close the book with a soft thud and stand, suddenly restless, nerves humming under my skin. The house feels… aware. Like it’s watching me right back.
I rise from my spot and step into the hall, and nearly collide with a wall of black ink, muscle, and trouble. Vale. Of course it’s Vale.
He’s way too close to me, like he doesn’t even need permission. Leaning casually against the opposite wall like he planned it, knowing he looks like a Spanish god. It’s almost like he was waiting just for me.
“Careful, Red,” he drawls. “You’ll run into the wrong man like that.”
My pulse kicks—hard. “Pretty sure you are the wrong man.”
His grin is immediate. Sharp, and satisfied—like he thoroughly enjoys getting under my skin. “That’s what makes it… Fun.”
His gaze drags over me, slow and unapologetic. Takes in the tension in my shoulders. The way I’m still breathing like I forgot how. “Rough morning?” he asks, knowing damn good and well it has been.
I snort. “Define rough.”
He hums. “Heard voices.”
My stomach flips. “You all hear everything.”
“Occupational hazard.” His eyes flick to my lips, then back up. “Also… I’m very observant.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Congratulations.”
He steps closer. Not crowding. Just enough that the air shifts.
“You know,” he murmurs, “he’s subtle. Always has been. Quiet hands. Careful movements. Like he’s afraid you’ll break.”
My breath catches before I can stop it. His knuckles brush my hip. Barely. A deliberate almost-touch that'’s meant to keep me off kilter.
“I’m not,” I whisper.
His eyes lift, slow and dark. “I know.”
His hand settles this time. Not squeezing. Not grabbing. Just there. Warm. Possessive. Thumb pressing gently into the curve of my waist like he’s mapping space.
My body betrays me, leaning in before I can stop it.
Vale notices, and a wicked smile curves his mouth. “There it is.”
“Stop,” I say, but it’s weak. Useless.
“Make me.”
His fingers slide—just an inch, just enough—brushing over the fabric of my shirt, grazing my ribs, slow and teasing like he’s got nowhere else to be. I shiver. He leans in, voice dropping. “You think I didn’t notice the way he touched you last night?”
My pulse stutters hard. His smile deepens, dangerous and thrilled by my reaction. “Relax,” he murmurs. “I’m not mad.”
His thumb traces a lazy line at my waist. “I’m interested.”
Heat floods my face. “You’re impossible.”
“God, I hope so.”
His other hand rises, knuckles brushing the line of my jaw. Over skin. Over heat. Over everything I’m pretending not to feel. “You think I don’t enjoy the idea of him getting there first?” he asks quietly. “Watching you come undone for someone else?”
My stomach flips, doing somersaults like a freaking acrobat. His gaze locks with mine. Dark. Hungry. Lit with something sharp and electric.
“Competition makes things… creative,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing my lower lip. Once. Just once, and I swear my knees nearly give.
“Wraith may play gentle,” Vale murmurs, his voice a sin-soaked promise, “but I don’t.” His hand at my waist tightens—just a little. Not enough to hurt. Enough to remind me he’s here. “And I really like knowing you’ll think about me when he touches you.”
The words slide through me like smoke. I swallow, hands bracing against his chest. Solid. Warm. Unmoving. “You’re dangerous.”
He grins. “That’s the point.”
Then—just like that—he releases me. Steps back. The air rushes in where he was, cold and unforgiving.
But the damage is done.
He gives me one last look, dark and entirely too pleased. “Get some rest, Red.”
Then he turns and disappears down the hall like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just reach inside me and twist something loose.
I stand there, pulse racing, skin humming, breath shallow.
I hate that I want him. I hate that I don’t hate it. And I really fucking hate that this house is starting to feel less like a cage… And more like a den.