Chapter 36
Ember
The house is quiet again. Not the tense, waiting kind of quiet it used to be, but something steadier. Something that feels almost like rhythm.
A week. That’s how long it’s been since the mission. Since Damien. Since the ground I’d been standing on split open and I learned that Owen wasn’t dirty after all. That he was the one being buried under someone else’s lies.
A week since Wraith’s hands and mouth and the kind of fire that burned something in me clean.
And in that week, I’ve started to learn the strange heartbeat of this house.
The way Vale hums when he’s thinking, off-key and dark.
The way Saint mutters scripture under his breath when he’s pretending not to watch me.
The way Ash moves like a ghost through the halls, always near but never seen.
The way Wraith’s shadow lingers at my door just long enough to make sure I’m safe before disappearing.
And Rook… he’s everywhere and nowhere. Commanding without speaking. Watching without letting me catch him doing it.
I’ve started to understand that’s how they all work—silence, proximity, presence. They don’t have to tell me where I stand. I can feel it.
I’m not a prisoner anymore. Not exactly free either.Something in between.
The rain outside hasn’t stopped since that night. It feels like London is stuck in the same loop as me—drenched, but still standing. The city hums beyond the windows, all slick streets and muffled horns, the kind of noise that feels like it’s breathing.
I lean against the cold window and let it soak through my skin. My reflection stares back at me—barefoot, hair unbound, wearing one of Rook’s shirts I stole from the laundry because it smells like smoke and soap and something that makes my chest ache.
I shouldn’t feel at home here.
But I do. That’s what scares me.
I used to wake every hour, waiting for a sound that meant escape—a lock turning, a guard shifting, a door left ajar.
Now I wake and listen for them instead. The low murmur of Vale’s laughter down the hall.
The clink of glass in Saint’s study. The soft mechanical hum from Ash’s office when he thinks everyone’s asleep.
The steady tread of Wraith’s boots outside my room before dawn.
It’s not captivity anymore. It’s protection. And I don’t know when the difference happened.
I still tell myself I’m here because I need answers. Because Owen deserves the truth, and I can’t dig it up alone. But that isn’t all of it. There’s something else I can’t name—something heavier, quieter.
Belonging.
It’s ridiculous. I know it is. These men have blood on their hands, secrets stitched into their skin, and every reason in the world to ruin me if I double cross them. But they haven’t. They’ve done the opposite. They’ve built walls around me and called it safety.
And I’ve stopped trying to climb them.
I think of Wraith’s hand at the small of my back, grounding me without words.
Saint’s voice when he calls me little lamb—mocking, but not cruel.
Vale’s grin that hides the fact that he’s watching everyone else for danger.
Ash’s quiet nods when I walk into a room, like he’s cataloging my presence because it matters.
Rook’s eyes, always on me, daring me to be more than what I was before.
Each of them claiming some piece of me I didn’t know was available to claim.
And somehow, I’m letting them.
I trace the rim of the window with my fingertip, breath fogging the glass. I tell myself it’s strategy. That it’s easier to work from the inside, to make them trust me, to find what I need and get out clean. But the truth is simpler and far more dangerous.
I don’t want out. Not yet...
Maybe not ever.
I think about Owen, about the way he used to tell me not all cages have bars. That some just feel like safety until the door closes behind you. He was right. But maybe this is one I’m willing to step into.
Because here, at least, I’m not invisible. They see me—the way I think, the way I fight, the way I stand my ground. They don’t flinch when I speak or soften when I argue. They meet me there, every single time.
MI6 taught me to be a tool.
The Riders are teaching me how to be a weapon.
And I think, for the first time in my life, I like the sound of it.
I turn from the window, eyes catching on the small details of the room.
The black leather chair Rook put there after I said the bed was too soft, the stack of books Vale left without saying why, or the perfume Saint ordered for me, still sealed.
Even, the cup of tea cooling on my nightstand that I didn’t make but Ash definitely did.
They all leave pieces of themselves here.
Like I’ve become something worth leaving pieces for.
The thought makes my throat tighten.
I move to the bed and sit, pulling my knees to my chest, staring at the faint glow of the city through the curtains. The emerald around my neck catches the light again, a pulse of green fire. Wraith’s gift. His mark. I touch it lightly, feeling the warmth of skin underneath.
Every gesture, every glance, every unspoken thing they do feels like gravity now. And I don’t know how to fight gravity.
I don’t even think I want to.
Maybe this isn’t about escape anymore. Maybe it’s about choosing where I land. I lie back slowly, eyes tracing the faint lines of the ceiling. The air smells like rain and smoke and something warmer—something that feels like home.
For the first time since Owen died, I’m not haunted by the sound of running footsteps.
I’m haunted by stillness. By the possibility that I’ve already stopped running. And the terrifying thing is…
It doesn’t feel like surrender. It feels like peace.
By morning, the house is already moving.
I wake to the sound of voices in the hall. Low, controlled, threaded with that specific kind of tension that means business, not danger. I know the difference now. That alone is new.
Sunlight pushes through the curtains in that washed-out London way — more suggestion than light. The air still smells faintly like rain and last night’s whiskey. I sit up slowly, the sheet sliding over bare legs. Rook’s shirt is still on me. I still haven’t given it back.
For a second, I just sit there and breathe.
It’s quiet in my head.
That never used to happen.
I stand, stretch, and pad to the wardrobe.
Someone—Ash, if I had to bet my life—has already laid out clothes for me on the chair.
Black jeans, a fitted black tank, a leather jacket that’s definitely not mine and fits like it was bought for me anyway.
Boots. Everything practical. Everything that moves with the body.
Today isn’t silk and emerald—it’s armor.
I pull it on piece by piece and watch myself in the mirror. No makeup except a line of dark kohl. Hair in a loose knot at the base of my skull. My bruises have started healing, but I still look like trouble.
There’s a knock at my door. I don’t jump anymore when that happens, which is maybe the most dangerous change of all.
“Come in,” I call.
The door opens and Rook fills the frame. He never rushes. Not physically. He’s the kind of danger that walks. Slow, certain, absolute. Dark slacks, dark shirt, sleeves rolled to expose forearms veined in control. Watch at his wrist. Jaw clean-shaven. Blue eyes too sharp for this early.
He looks at me once. Top to bottom. Not hungry, just assessing—and approving. “Ready?” he asks.
I huff a little. “For what, exactly?”
“For your day,” he says, like it should be obvious. “We’re moving. You’re with us.”
My stomach tightens. “With you,” I echo.
“With me,” he corrects, voice lower.
The way he says it shouldn’t make warmth curl in my blood. It does.
He nods once, like that’s settled — because with him, it always is — and steps back so I can pass. When I do, his hand settles brief and firm at the small of my back. Not to guide. To claim. I should hate that. I don’t.
The house is awake in a way I haven’t seen before.
Saint is already in a dark jacket and black shirt, sleeves buttoned to the wrist, rosary chain just visible at his throat.
Vale is leaning on the railing like a devil in a cathedral, smirking around a lollipop of all things, tattoos everywhere, eyes lit with trouble.
Wraith’s by the front door, broad shoulders filling half the entry, arms crossed, eyes already scanning for threats that haven’t happened yet.
Ash is nowhere obvious, which tells me he’s already ahead of us.
“Field trip?” Vale asks lazily as we approach, like this is an amusement, like today’s agenda is brunch and sin instead of whatever this is.
“Introductions,” Rook says.
At that, every one of them looks at me. The air shifts, and I feel it down my spine.
Introductions—not interrogation. Not test, or their leverage. Introduction.
Like I’m being presented. Like this is the part where they stop hiding what they are.
Saint gives me a soft little smile. It doesn’t belong on his face, which is probably why it hits. “Stay close,” he says quietly.
“Don’t touch anything sharp unless you’re told to,” Vale adds, amused.
“You can touch me,” Vale adds with a wink.
“Mateo.” Rook’s tone is a warning with teeth.
Vale just grins. Wraith opens the door, not for Rook—for me.
The morning air is cold and damp and tastes faintly like salt and petrol.
London always tastes a little like machinery when it’s wet.
The car waiting in the drive is black and expensive and forgettable in the way only the most expensive cars manage to be.
Rook takes front passenger. Wraith drives.
Vale and Saint take the back. I move to slide in between them out of pure habit, but Rook stops me with two fingers around my wrist.
“No,” he says.
I blink. “No?”
“You ride with me today,” he says simply.
I don’t argue. Not because I accept it, but because I know he’ll win if I try and I don’t feel like losing right now.