Chapter 32
Ember
Morning arrives soft and deceitful.
The storm has passed, but the air still carries that faint metallic scent of rain and ash. Light filters through the townhouse’s high windows in pale ribbons, catching dust motes that drift like tiny ghosts above the breakfast table.
Everyone’s already there.
Saint sits in near-silence, eyes half-lidded behind his coffee, jaw tight in a way it wasn’t yesterday.
He doesn’t look at me. Not once. Which is new.
And irritating. Vale sprawls in his chair, spinning a butter knife between his fingers as though the table were a stage and he were the chaos meant to fill it.
Wraith leans against the counter, arms folded, expression unreadable.
And Rook—always the picture of control—reads the morning paper like the rest of them aren’t armed and dangerous.
I take my usual seat. The china clinks too loud when I touch it, my nerves already strung tight. I feel every pair of eyes in the room, though none of them stay long. Saint’s shoulder is rigid. Wraith’s jaw flexes once. Vale’s grin lingers a second too long.
Rook folds the paper once, sets it down, and looks at me. “You’ll need something appropriate for this evening,” he says simply.
I blink. “Appropriate?”
“We’re dining at Aureline’s,” he replies. “Private reservation. High-profile clientele. You’ll need a dress that doesn’t make the hostess faint.”
“Or make her faint for the right reasons,” Vale adds, grinning.
I cut him a look, then turn back to Rook. “And this is necessary because…?”
“Because presence matters,” Rook says. “And so do impressions.”
I lean back slightly, frustration weaving through my chest at the audacity of Rook. “I’m not a fucking prop.”
His gaze sharpens. Not angry. Interested. “No. You’re a statement.”
“That’s not comforting.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “It’s honest.”
Saint shifts beside me, the movement subtle but tense. I feel it like static along my arm. Last night flashes in my mind — his mouth, his breath, the way he said divine like it was a sin he meant to commit. He still doesn’t look at me.
Rook continues, unbothered. “Wraith will take you. Get what you need. Try not to start an international incident.”
I arch a brow. “Is that a possibility?”
“With you,” he says dryly, “it always is.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter. “Nothing like being warned and underestimated in the same breath.”
Vale laughs. Saint exhales through his nose. Wraith’s mouth tightens.
The scrape of chairs follows as the others rise to leave. Saint murmurs something under his breath that I can’t catch, already turning away. Vale whistles low and amused. Only Wraith lingers.
He doesn’t say anything, just nods toward the door. “Let’s go.”
London’s streets glitter after rain, every puddle a mirror of the morning sky. The city hums in low tones—cars, conversation, the rustle of umbrellas snapping open along the row of boutiques.
Wraith walks beside me, long strides measured, silent. He’s dressed down—black slacks, dark shirt, coat undone—but there’s nothing casual about him. He moves like someone who’s used to being watched and prefers it that way.
We visit store after store. Silk. Satin. Lace. Dresses I can’t imagine ever wearing. Each fitting room smells like perfume and privilege. Sales attendants hover like I might steal something, then fawn the moment Wraith’s voice cuts through the air—low, commanding, expensive.
I lose track of the number of gowns I try until the last one.
Emerald green.
The kind of color that would look too bold on anyone else, but when I slip it on, it feels like it’s been waiting for me. The fabric hugs every curve, draping low at the back, high at the thigh. It gleams when I move—liquid light, decadent and dangerous.
When I step out, Wraith looks up from his seat, and the world narrows. His eyes drag over me—slow and possessive. The kind of look that burns without touching. For a moment, he says nothing. Then his jaw flexes, and he stands. “It fits you well,” he says, voice rougher than it should be.
I swallow. “You think so?”
He takes a step closer, and then another, until I can smell the faint trace of smoke and metal that always clings to him. “Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on mine. “I think it’s perfect.”
The silence stretches. I can feel the weight of it—thick, trembling, waiting to break.
Then he reaches out, fingers brushing the edge of the dress at my shoulder.
His knuckles graze skin. A spark waking embers with every touch.
A dare waged as a question. I should probably pull away, put an end to this, but I don’t.
Instead, I breathe him in, close enough now to see the molten honey flecks in his brown irises, to feel the faint heat of his breath when he speaks again.
“Rook won’t like this,” he says quietly.
“I don’t care,” I say, before I can stop the words from slipping through my teeth.
And before either of us can decide who’s in control of the moment, his mouth is on mine—heat, restraint, and danger all colliding in the space between heartbeats.
The dress rustles as I lean into him. The boutique falls away, the world shrinking to the sound of rain against the window and the pulse in my throat.
He breaks the kiss, grabs me by the throat, and backs me up until we’re inside the dressing room. The door clicks shut behind him, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Shut up and fucking kiss me,” I snap—then groan when he does exactly that.
He’s not gentle. He’s claiming me. Like a wolf claims his mate. It’s possessive, searing—everything I can’t help but want. They’re all finding their way beneath my skin, but Wraith does it in a quiet way that leaves me in this ungodly chokehold.
He devours me slowly—with every stroke of his tongue, with his body pressed hard against mine, with the scrape of my back against the wall as he takes what he wants.
What we both want.
When he breaks apart from me, I almost cry out in frustration. That kiss was so fucking good my head is spinning, the room tilting… until he drops to his knees in front of me.
My breath hitches in my throat when his fingers skim my bare legs beneath the slit in the dress. “So… fucking… perfect,” he murmurs, brown eyes locked on mine.
“Wraith,” I mutter—breathily, quietly, reverently. The sound surprises me, and somewhere along the way I realize I’ve forgiven him for everything that’s happened. I want this. No. Need it. I will combust and die right here if he doesn't do something… now.
“Yes, little fox.”
“I need…” I trail off, afraid to ask for what I want.
Wraith doesn’t make me beg, he doesn’t make me ask, he gives without hesitation. His fingers slide higher, removing my lacy thong in one swift motion. He pockets the underwear, before hoisting a leg over his shoulder, burying his face into my wet heat.
I tilt toward him. My fingers knot in his hair before I can stop myself.
His tongue flicks mercilessly, hands holding me in place while he devours every inch of me.
I grind my hips against his tongue, loving the friction, the way it makes me feel—powerful and in control.
He laps at me like a starving man, alternating between feather light strokes, and deeper licks that send tiny shockwaves through my body. Gods, he feels so fucking good!
When he inserts a finger into my core, curling it deliciously, I detonate, stars bursting behind my eyes. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, slapping a hand over my mouth when the moans become too unbearable to hide.
“You taste exactly like I thought you would,” Wraith says, pulling back from me, rising to his feet, and righting me all in one motion.
My knees still feel weak, and I hate that he knows it. He offers me his hand, the faintest smirk ghosting across his lips when I take it. His fingers linger a beat too long before he lets go.
“Come on,” he murmurs, his voice rough but steady again. “We’ve still got things to find before Rook decides to send a search party.”
“Right,” I breathe, trying to sound casual, like my world hasn’t just tilted off its axis.
I smooth the dress down, my skin still tingling everywhere he touched, and step out into the boutique again. The music feels louder now—something soft and romantic that makes it worse. The clerk glances up, smiling politely, completely unaware of what just happened behind that door.
Wraith leads the way toward the front of the shop, his hand brushing the small of my back as we move. It’s protective… or possessive. I can’t tell which. Maybe both.
We stop at a display of jewelry near the counter.
Gold and emeralds gleam under the lights, reflecting back in the green silk of my dress.
Wraith studies me for a moment, then plucks a delicate necklace from the stand—a fine chain with a single stone, surrounded by tiny glittering diamonds that catch the light like a captured flame.
“It suits you,” he says simply.
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
He hands it to the clerk before I can argue. “Add it to the purchase.”
I want to tell him no—that I don’t need him to buy me anything—but the words don’t come. Because maybe I want to keep something from this moment, even if it’s just a piece of glass pretending to be precious.
Once everything’s bagged, he takes the parcels and gestures toward the door. Outside, the evening’s turned damp again, the city’s pulse echoing through the wet streets. The car waits at the curb, headlights glowing against the drizzle.
I slide into the seat, the soft rustle of tissue paper filling the silence between us. Wraith joins me, setting the bags in the back and gripping the wheel. The tension from earlier still hums beneath the surface, too alive to ignore, too dangerous to touch again.
“You should get some rest when we get back,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long night.”
“Dinner with all of you usually is,” I agree.
That earns the faintest smirk. “You’re not wrong.”
The drive back to the townhouse is silent except for the rain. London blurs past in streaks of gold and gray, and I can’t tell if the warmth spreading through my chest is from the heater—or him.
When we pull into the drive, Wraith kills the engine but doesn’t move. For a moment, we just sit there, the quiet thick enough to drown in. He finally turns to me, eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. “Thank you for today, Ember.”
He doesn't say the rest, but I feel it all the same… For not hating me, for what I did.
I nod once, fingers tightening on the shopping bag in my lap. “Thank you, Wraith.”
His lips twitch in something that might be a smile before he looks away. “Go on. Get ready. You’ll want to impress the King tomorrow.”
I open the door, stepping into the chill night air, his words still echoing in my head long after I’m gone.