Chapter 46
Ember
By midday I’m sure something’s wrong. No one’s said it out loud. No one’s slipped. No sirens, or shouting, not even mess. No sudden rush of bodies and guns and orders. But there’s a static in the house.
It’s in the way footsteps move, how voices sit low and tight, how the air feels charged like storm static.
And Wraith hasn’t left me alone. Not once. That’s the tell.
He’s always been protective. That’s not new. But today it’s turned into a kind of orbiting that steals my breath.
If I stand, he stands. If I sit, he sits.
If I go to the bathroom, he waits outside the door, shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, pretending not to be listening to every sound I make.
If I make tea in the kitchen, he leans on the counter and “helps” by being the one to pour the water like suddenly I’m too delicate to handle a kettle.
And if I try to wander — not leave, just wander — his palm ghosts low on my back and steers me somewhere he clearly already decided is “acceptable,” which today means… The library, the lounge off the back terrace. Nowhere with a direct door. Nowhere near the front of the house, or downstairs.
It’s subtle if you’re not paying attention. Unfortunately for him, I pay attention.
We’re in the solarium now, only because I annoyed him until he caved. It’s all glass and lush green and heat. Plants creeping up trellises. A faint misting system built into the ceiling. Soft chairs. Old stone underfoot still warm from the brief flash of weak sun that broke through earlier.
I’m in one of the chairs curled up with my legs folded under me, sketchbook in my lap. He’s sitting opposite, too big for the delicate little wrought-iron thing he’s crammed himself into, like some bored guard dog pretending he’s furniture.
He looks… calm. Too calm.
He’s in black joggers and a fitted charcoal tee, hair a little messy from sleep.
He shaved, but not clean — rough stubble cuts along his jaw, and the metal in his lip glints when his mouth moves.
There’s a bruise blooming faintly along his throat, like someone’s thumb pressed just a little too hard there and didn’t apologize for it.
“What happened?” I ask.
He doesn’t even pretend not to know what I mean. He just says, “Nothing,” in that deep, even voice, and tips his head back against the chair, watching me instead of the ceiling.
Liar.
I narrow my eyes. “You’ve been breathing down my neck like a human restraint harness all morning.”
His mouth ghosts into a smile. “You say that like it’s new.”
“It’s… more,” I say tentatively.
He lifts a shoulder. “Last night we talked about rules. I’m following them.”
God, he’s good. He’s not rattled, or even twitchy. His pulse is steady in his throat. His attention never leaves me for more than a couple seconds at a time.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was relaxed.
But he hasn’t checked his phone once.
Wraith is always scanning. Always running mental routes. Today, his eyes never leave me long enough to do a full perimeter check. Like he doesn’t trust the room if I’m not in it.
That’s not protective. That’s combat alert.
The realization slides slow and cold down my spine. “Wraith,” I murmur. “What happened?”
His eyes flick to my mouth, then back to my eyes. He leans forward, forearms on his thighs. That close, I can smell him — smoke, leather, cedar, something deep and male. The kind of scent that feels like being pulled into warmth and held there.
“I told you we’d keep you safe,” he says quietly. “That doesn’t stop because it got harder.”
My heart kicks. “Where are the others?”
“Handling it,” he answers, jaw clenching.
Not helpful. “What’s ‘it’?’”
His jaw flexes, and I can practically hear his teeth grinding from over here.
He’s not going to tell me. Not because he doesn’t want to.
Because he promised. To Caelum or to himself, it doesn’t matter. “You’re doing the quiet version of lying,” I tell him.
His mouth curves into a slow smile, like he can’t help himself. “Am I?”
“Yes. You do this thing,” I answer.
“What thing?” He asks.
“This thing with your face.”
His brows lift, amused. “My face.”
“Yes.”
“What’s my face doing, little fox?”
“Trying not to flinch,” I say, not bothering to hide the bite in my words.
That knocks the amusement out of him. His eyes darken. For one breath, I see it—the anger. Not at me. Around me.
Then, it’s like a switch is turned off, mask sliding back into place. “You’re safe,” he repeats.
I swallow. “That wasn’t the question.”
“I know,” he says softly. “It’s the answer anyway.”
He stands then, big and unhurried, and offers me his hand. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Lunch.”
I blink. “It’s barely eleven.”
“Then call it brunch,” he says. “Or a snack. Or a worship session. You’re going to eat.”
“Are you actually—”
“Yes,” he says.
I stare at him. “You cannot physically force me to eat like I’m a hostage toddler.”
One corner of his mouth tugs. “I can physically force you to sit on my lap while I hand-feed you strawberries until you behave.”
Heat hits my cheeks so fast it pisses me off. “That’s manipulation,” I mutter, standing quickly, throat suddenly too dry.
He looks pleased. “It’s effective.”
He walks me to the kitchen. Not rushes. Walks. Slow, steady, and calm, with one palm at my back. He doesn’t touch my neck. He doesn’t crowd. He just stays with me at all times, never more than an arm’s reach away.
The kitchen at the manor still doesn’t make sense to me.
It’s all stone and ash-dark wood and brushed brass, like an old country estate threw itself at a Michelin-starred restaurant and said “fine, let’s be pretty and lethal at the same time.
” There are copper pans hanging over the island and a steam espresso machine that could pay off student loans.
There’s also a second industrial fridge in the back pantry that I think is just for meat.
He leaves me to get settled on a stool at the island and starts moving through the kitchen. Like it’s his. Like he’s done this a hundred times.
He pulls down bowls, reaches into the fridge, sets fruit, cured meat, cheese I couldn’t name if you paid me, olives, thick slices of bread still warm. He brings me water and tea without asking how I take it — and he gets it right, which is maybe the most unsettling part.
The whole time, he keeps his body angled so he’s between me and both doors.
“Wraith,” I try again, softer. “Please.”
He looks up then. The softness in his eyes almost undoes me. “Red,” he says, just as soft, “I’m not keeping you out. I’m holding you together so they can finish what they started. That’s all.”
They.
My stomach drops, all sorts of scenarios running rampantly through my mind.
“Are they okay?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer immediately. That’s when the fear really punches in.
“Ronan,” I say, voice laced with worry.
He exhales, jaw tight. “No one died.”
Something hot and dizzying hits behind my ribs. It takes me a second to realize that’s relief. “No one died,” I echo.
“No one died,” he repeats, firmer. “We’re still in play.”
That… is not a normal breakfast phrase. My voice is thin when I finally manage, “And me?”
His gaze goes hard. “No one touches you. Ever.”
It lands in me like a brand. I probably shouldn’t like that as much as I do.
I also know I’m not getting more than that out of him, not now. His shoulders won’t come down until he can physically put me in a room with all of them and count bodies. And I’m not getting out of this kitchen without that happening first.
So I eat. I eat because he’s watching me with that low intent like if I don’t take care of myself after whatever just happened, he’ll take it personally. Because even pissed off and scared, I know one thing… If I fall apart, they’re going to blame themselves.
I don’t want them blaming themselves for breathing.
We spend hours like this, and he keeps me occupied.
We play chess in the lounge. He pretends to let me win the first game and I call him on it. He grunts and we play again. He beats me the second time. By the third game, I can see his focus coming back online, pieces settling in his head. He relaxes half an inch.
“Better,” he mutters.
“What,” I say.
“You’re normal again.”
I arch a brow. “Define ‘normal.’”
“Pissed off, mouthy, plotting,” he answers.
“Ah,” I say. “So my baseline.”
A corner of his mouth lifts but he doesn’t say anything else.
We read in the library. He doesn’t read. He watches me read. I pretend not to notice. I let him do it because I can tell it settles him, like counting my breaths is proof I’m still here.
At some point he goes down the hall and murmurs into his comm so low I can’t hear, then comes back and sits a little closer, like whoever he spoke to told him to expect trouble.
By late afternoon, my nerves are stretched tight enough that I could vibrate.
And by the time the sun starts to sink and the manor shifts into evening mode — low lighting, doors locked, shadows going soft and gold around the edges — I’m done pretending I don’t feel the tension crackling through the place like exposed wire.
“What happens if they don’t make it back for dinner?” I ask.
Wraith goes still, and I catch him flicking toward Rook’s study.
“Wraith,” I say slowly.
He doesn’t answer.
I stand, planting my hands on my hips. “You aren’t going to tell me?”
Now he looks at me. “They’ll be here soon. We are going to walk you in.”
“We? As in… everyone?” I ask.
“Yes.”
That’s not ominous or anything. “Are they hurt?” I ask, trying to ignore the way my stomach twists.
His jaw works. “They’re breathing.”
“Ronan.”
“They’re fine,” he says finally. “Saint’s annoyed, has a broken wrist, but otherwise he’s fine. Mateo’s loud. Caelum’s feral.”
My stomach twists, wondering about Lysander. “And Ash?”
“Ash is Ash.”
I blow out a breath. “Okay.”
He studies me for a long beat. “You good?”
“Do I have a choice?” I ask, snark fully back in place.
An unbearable moment passes between us. Then, quietly, “No.”