Chapter 30
Ember
The city is different at night. It’s quieter, but it isn’t peaceful. It breathes, and watches. Waits.
Streetlights smear gold across slick pavement as engines growl through Whitechapel’s narrow lanes, the sound low and predatory, vibrating up through the soles of my boots and straight into my bones.
The rain turns the road into a mirror, reflections shattering beneath spinning wheels as we cut through the city like something feral.
Wraith rides point. His bike is a monster—custom-built, blacked out, brutal in every line.
The frame is widened, reinforced, the handlebars set higher to match his size.
It looks less like a motorcycle and more like a weapon with wheels.
The engine snarls every time he touches the throttle, a deep, aggressive sound that matches the man riding it.
He’s built for control—broad shoulders, heavy presence, every movement economical and lethal even in motion.
Saint rides just behind him, sleek and composed on a black Ducati that gleams even under rain and grime, the lines elegant and dangerous in equal measure. He looks like he belongs on something fast and expensive, coat flaring behind him like a fallen angel in motion.
And me?
I’m tucked in behind Wraith, arms around his waist, pressed to a body that feels solid and unyielding. The bike is too big. The seat too high. My boots barely reach the pegs, and every bump in the road reminds me exactly how small I am compared to the machines they command so easily.
Five-foot-nothing on the back of a European death wish.
The air smells like rain, gasoline, leather, and Saint’s cologne—clean, sharp, threaded with smoke. I catch myself breathing it in before I can stop.
“You’re quiet,” Saint says through the helmet comms, his voice low and melodic, ruined in that way that feels intentional.
“I’m thinking,” I reply, tightening my grip when Wraith leans into a turn.
“Dangerous habit,” he murmurs. “For someone in your position.”
Wraith’s voice cuts in, rough and unmistakably displeased. “Enough.”
Saint ignores him. Of course he does. “Rook shouldn’t have made us bring you. You’re a variable we don’t need.”
“Then maybe you should’ve stayed home,” I snap.
I feel the shift in Saint’s voice, and see the slight turn of his head. “Careful, little lamb. Wolves aren’t the only ones with teeth.”
I look away, watching the city blur past—the shuttered shops, broken streetlamps, figures slipping into alleys when the bikes snarl too close. The rain slicks my lashes, cool and sharp, mixing with the heat of Wraith’s body in a way that makes my skin hum.
“You don’t trust me,” I say. “I get it. But I’m not the one hiding secrets.”
His grip tightens fractionally on the handlebars in Wraith’s rearview. “You think I’m hiding something?”
“I think you all are.”
Wraith takes a corner hard, his massive bike leaning like it shouldn’t be possible, the motion pulling Saint and me with him. My shoulder presses into Wraith’s back, heat blooming where we touch.
He doesn’t move away. Neither do I.
The engines roar, the rain thickens, the night closing in around us as we drop two streets down from a crumbling warehouse—Syndicate territory. The kind of place where ghosts are made.
Wraith slows first, easing his beast of a machine into the shadow of an abandoned building. Saint follows, smooth and precise. I slide off the back of Wraith’s bike, boots skidding slightly on wet pavement, my hand catching his arm automatically.
His muscles flex under my grip.
The rain greets us fully now, misting and cold, soaking into my hair and jacket. The warehouse looms ahead—a hollow carcass of steel and broken light. Through a shattered pane, I catch movement. Men. Tables. The gleam of guns. Bottles. Laughter that doesn’t reach the eyes.
And faces.
Too many faces.
Wraith lifts two fingers. Silent. Commanding.
We move.
He’s all shadow and weight, every step deliberate. Saint stays close to me, his presence a quiet wall at my side as we slip behind the shell of a rusted van. I crouch, heart hammering, peering through flaking metal.
That’s when I see him. At the far end of the warehouse, flanked by Syndicate lieutenants and Russian muscle, stands a man I never thought I’d see again. Gray hair. Crooked nose. The faint scar under his right eye.
Damien. My handler, my tormentor… The word hits like ice in my chest. MI6. My old division. The man who fed me lies about my brother’s mission. The one who vanished the night everything collapsed.
I go still. My breath locks.
Saint notices instantly. Of course he does. “What is it?” he whispers.
“Damien,” I breathe. “My handler.”
Wraith turns, visor catching the dim light. “You’re sure?”
“I’d know that face anywhere. I can’t believe it… How could he?” My voice is steady even as my body shakes. “He’s the reason my brother’s dead.”
For a moment, no one speaks. Rain on rust. Voices inside. The low hum of engines cooling behind us.
Saint’s gaze darkens. “So this isn’t leverage,” he murmurs. “It’s betrayal.”
I nod, fury blazing in my chest like an ember begging to be unleashed. “And now we know who orchestrated it.”
Wraith mutters under his breath, binoculars lifting. “The Syndicate and the Russians. Together. Christ.”
“We need to go,” I say.
“Not yet,” Saint replies.
He moves before I can stop him. One hand wraps around my arm, pulling me deeper into shadow, away from Wraith’s line of sight.
“Saint—”
He doesn’t answer. His other hand comes to my jaw, thumb warm against rain-chilled skin, and suddenly his mouth is on mine.
It isn’t gentle. It isn’t soft. It’s control and challenge and something dangerously close to hunger.
His lips taste like smoke and sin, and for a heartbeat, the city disappears.
I should shove him away. I should stop him.
I don’t.
Because the fear stops. The noise stops. Everything stops except heat and rain and the press of him.
When he pulls back, his voice is low enough to vanish into the night. “Now you’re dangerous.”
“Was that a test?” I whisper.
His mouth curves faintly. “Maybe.”
Wraith’s voice cuts through the comms, sharp and sounding slightly irritated. “Move. We’re done.”
We retreat fast, slipping back to the bikes before the dark can remember us. Saint swings on first, then reaches a hand out as if asking me to ride with him. I grap hold of his hand, and he steadies me as I climb on behind him, my hands finding his waist without thinking.
Wraith’s engine roars to life, his massive machine surging forward. Saint follows, smooth and lethal. The rain chases us as the warehouse falls away, the city swallowing its secrets again.
I don’t speak until the skyline reappears, until the road stretches wide and fast beneath us, until my heartbeat finally slows.
But inside, I’m still shaking. Not from fear. From recognition. Because… I know that face.
And now I know who really sold my brother out.
When we reach the townhouse, the world feels too bright.
The rain hasn’t stopped—it’s a thin, silver curtain against the windows—but the lights inside burn gold, soft and deceptive.
Rook is waiting in the study, sleeves rolled to the elbow, posture all command and composure. The map from this morning is still spread across the desk, pins glinting under lamplight like tiny warnings.
He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at us—the mud on Wraith’s boots, the wet sheen of Saint’s coat, the mud on my sleeve I hadn’t noticed until now. “Well?” he asks finally, voice even.
Wraith drops the file onto the desk, the folder hitting the wood with a dull slap. “You got what you wanted. The Syndicate and Russians are working together. Meeting went smooth. We weren’t spotted.”
“Who led the exchange?” Rook asks, already flipping the folder open.
Saint answers, tone precise. “One of the Syndicate lieutenants. And a broker from Moscow. They were discussing distribution routes—south docks, East End. Not just weapons, either. We also found a familiar face we weren’t expecting.”
Rook glances up. “I don’t like that. What else? Drugs?”
“Information,” I say before either of them can. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “Files. Intel. Damien’s selling it to both sides.”
Rook doesn’t bother asking who Damien is, by now ’m sure he has every file under the sun pulled on me. It should surprise me. Or at the very least make me angry. It does’t.
Wraith’s brow twitches. “She’s right. They passed a case with British seals. Could be government-grade encryption.”
Rook’s gaze sharpens. “And you’re sure of that?”
I nod. “Positive.”
He studies me for a long moment. There’s calculation in his eyes, but something else, too—something I can’t quite name.
“And her?” he asks quietly, still watching me.
Saint steps forward, shaking the rain from his coat. His voice is low, almost careful. “Held her own.”
There’s a silence that follows, heavy as the thunder outside. Rook doesn’t thank him. Doesn’t praise anyone. He just opens the desk drawer and pulls out a sleek, black card, setting it on the map like an offering.
It gleams faintly under the lamplight. My name etched at the bottom—Ember Calloway.
“Credit card,” he says simply. “No limits. You’ve earned it.”
My eyes flick from the card to his face. “Why?”
He leans back in the chair, fingers steepled. “Because I reward results. And because I want to see what you’ll do with freedom—when you realize it’s conditional.”
The words land like a weight between us.
“Dinner tomorrow night,” he adds. “We plan after that.”
I take the card slowly, the metal cool against my fingertips. The letters feel carved, not printed. Permanent.
Behind me, Saint exhales. Wraith shifts, silent as ever. I can feel the weight of their gazes but don’t look up.
“Congratulations, Red,” Vale calls from the doorway, his tone a smirk disguised as a greeting. He’s leaning on the frame, cigarette hanging from his lips, the faintest curl of smoke rising to the ceiling. “Looks like you just got promoted.”
I glance at him, but I don’t rise to the bait.
Rook watches me pocket the card. His voice lowers, the kind that sounds calm but carries a threat in its undercurrent. “You did well tonight. Don’t let that make you reckless.”
I meet his eyes. “I’m not the reckless one here.”
Something flickers across his face—amusement, maybe, or warning—but he doesn’t answer.
He just waves me off, dismissing me like smoke in the air.
The others linger a moment longer before scattering, boots echoing down the marble hall.
When the door clicks shut behind me, the silence is suffocating.
The faint hum of the rain against the windows fills the room, and I stare at the card in my hand.
It gleams black and endless—like a hole I’ve already stepped into.
Freedom. That’s what it looks like. What it pretends to be. But freedom, in this house, feels like silk around the throat. Beautiful. Tight. Inescapable.
As I tuck the card into my pocket, the truth settles over me like smoke—sweet, suffocating, and impossible to escape.
I’ve earned my freedom.
So why does it feel like I’ve just lost it forever?