Chapter 46 #2
I laugh, sharp, humorless. “Then I’m good.”
He should smirk. Throw back some filthy line. Drag tension to heat and use that to distract me again, like he’s been doing all day.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he steps in. Big and slow. One hand comes up and cups my jaw, thumb brushing under my cheekbone. He leans down. I feel his breath first, then the faintest press of his lips to my forehead.
It’s not sexual. Not even soft, not really.
It’s a mark.
“You’re ours,” he says quietly, like he’s searing it into my skin. “Keep your head up when you walk in.”
Bile hits the back of my throat, but I swallow it down. Now isn’t the time to lose it. “Okay,” I whisper.
He nods once, satisfied, and leads me out.
The dining room in the manor isn’t like the townhouse.
There, it was close. Low-lit and intimate and expensive. Here, it’s old blood dressed in new money.
High ceilings with exposed dark beams. Deep green walls, hung with old oil portraits whose eyes track you like they’re judging your life choices.
Long table of heavy wood, scarred in places, polished in others.
Candles instead of overhead light. The kind of room where powerful men have probably planned very illegal things for a very long time.
Tonight, all four are there, waiting.
And the second we cross the threshold, my stomach drops.
Saint’s at the far end, to Caelum’s left.
He’s in a black button-down, sleeves rolled — and his left wrist is splinted and wrapped in rigid black. The kind of brace you only put on after something was set and iced hard, fast, and not gently. The skin around it is faintly swollen. I frown.
The tendon at his throat jumps when he sees me, but he gives me that soft, almost amused smile anyway, like I’ve just walked into his church. “Little lamb,” he says, warm.
Mateo is across from him.
He’s slouched in his chair, one ankle up on his knee, fork twirling idly in his fingers like a knife.
There’s a dark bruise flowering along his temple, a little too high to be from anything soft.
It disappears into his hairline, but I can see the edge of it already purple at the rim.
He looks bright-eyed, sharp, and a little unfocused around the edges — like there’s a thread of static buzzing behind his smile.
“Hey, trouble,” he purrs when he sees me. “Miss me?”
I stare at his head. “What the fuck happened to you?”
He grins wider. “You should see the other guy.”
That is so Mateo that my chest actually loosens for a second despite the panic climbing my spine.
Then my eyes land on Caelum. He’s at the head of the table, of course.
He’s in black. Black shirt, sleeves rolled, top button undone.
No jacket. There’s a faint smear along his collar that looks like it was wiped clean but not entirely.
His knuckles are split. Not badly. Just enough to sting when he flexes his hand around the crystal tumbler in front of him.
But it’s not the damage that hits me. It’s his energy.
Caelum is usually composed rage. All control. Coiled leash.
Right now, he’s electric. Alive in that way that makes the air around him feel dangerous.
Like he’s mid-hunt. His eyes lock on me the second I step into the room.
He doesn’t smile. He just goes softer around the edges in this way that makes my skin flush and my pulse stutter. “Ember,” he says quietly. “Come sit.”
And Ash. Ash is at Caelum’s right.
He’s the only one without visible injury. He’s clean. Fresh shirt. Hair damp like he showered recently. No blood. No bruises.
But his eyes. His eyes are fever-bright.
He’s thinking. Hard. Running through chains.
Setting things in motion I can’t see yet.
He’s not on his tablet for the first time since I’ve known him, which tells me he’s already finished whatever he needed to do and now he’s in the math space.
He’s here, but part of him is still somewhere else pulling strings.
His gaze flickers over me. Cataloguing. Assessing. Relief. Then guilt. Then anger. “Red,” he says, voice low. “Hi.”
My chest tightens a fraction, relief slowly threading through me. “Hi,” I manage.
Wraith’s hand is on the small of my back, guiding me forward.
He doesn’t take a seat until I’m in one.
He puts me to Caelum’s immediate right — between Caelum and Ash.
Wraith takes the chair beside me on the other side, crowding in so close his thigh presses against mine under the table.
Mateo whistles low at that, amused. Saint just arches a brow and takes a slow sip of his wine with his good hand.
Ash leans back a fraction in his chair like he’s making room for me in his orbit without thinking about it.
Caelum rests his forearm on the back of my chair, hand ghosting along my shoulder like a claim.
It should feel suffocating, but it doesn’t. It feels like being braced.
“Okay,” I say, heart pounding. “Someone talk.”
Rook lifts his glass. “Eat first,” he says simply.
I stare at him. “I’m not—”
“Red,” Ash says softly.
I look at him, really look at him.
He doesn’t blink, pleading with his eyes. “Please,” he says.
Something in my throat almost breaks.
“Fine,” I mutter. It’s petty and resentful, but I pick up my fork anyway.
There’s real food in front of us. Saint’s influence, obviously. Roasted chicken, tender and golden. Potatoes with rosemary. Slow-cooked greens slicked in oil and garlic. Bread still warm, torn into hunks, steam curling up.
I take a bite because they’ll lose their minds if I don’t. The second I chew, I realize how hungry I actually am. Which is infuriating.
I eat, and no one talks for the first few minutes. It’s not awkward. It’s… loaded. All of them watching, all of them pretending they’re not, all of them letting me get through a few mouthfuls before they start whatever this is.
When I finally set my fork down, Wraith refills my glass without asking. I scowl at him. He looks pleased.
“Now talk,” I say again, turning to Rook.
His eyes hold mine. For a long few breaths, he doesn’t answer. Then he leans in, and says the words I’ve been dying to hear. “Damien is here,” he says.
Everything in me goes cold.
I blink, brow furrowing in confusion. “Here… where.”
“Here, in the manor…”
My mouth goes dry. “You’re joking.”
“No,” he says.
My heart is beating too hard now. “You— you brought him here?”
Saint answers, voice smooth. “Correction, little lamb. We collected him.”
Vale snorts into his wine. “Snatched that rat straight off his leash.”
My eyes flick to Vale. “You hit your head… Snatching the rat off his leash?”
He grins. “Direct correlation.”
I look at Saint. “Your wrist—”
“Collateral,” he says simply. “Nothing I cannot manage.”
“You drove home one-handed with a shattered joint,” Ash mutters without looking at him. “Which, for the record, you’re never doing again.”
Saint smiles faintly at the rest of us. “Noted.”
I’m still trying to catch up. “You went after him without telling me.”
Rook’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t deny it. “Yes.”
Anger flashes hot. “You said I’m part of this. You said this is my war too. You said—”
“I know what I said,” he cuts in, voice low.
We glare at each other, and the table goes still. I don’t look away. I could strangle him, I’m so furious. He holds for a beat longer, then exhales slow. When he speaks again, his voice is still quiet, but it’s different. Rawer.
“We took him because he came for you,” he says.
“We took him because he sent men to our gate to drag you out of your bed. We took him because the Syndicate is either stupid enough or desperate enough to think they can put hands on what’s ours without losing fingers.
We took him because he looked you in the face and pretended not to know your name.
That alone is insult enough, but then… he sold Owen and called him dirty.
We took him because he crossed the line and then pissed on it like it wasn’t painted in blood. ”
My breath hitches, angry tears welling in my eyes. “He’s downstairs now,” Rook says. “Alive, but contained.”
My pulse is a drumbeat. Alive means—“What are you going to do to him?” I ask.
Rook doesn’t answer. Saint does, gently. “Whatever you want, little lamb.”
Heat surges up my throat. Not desire. Not fear. Something uglier, and cleaner.
“It’s your call,” Vale says, voice low now, no mockery. He’s leaning forward, forearms on the table, eyes dark and steady. “That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’re at this table. That’s why you’re in this house. Queen’s choice.”
Queen.
The word lands in me like a blade sliding home. It still feels unreal on my skin.
I look to Ash. He’s watching me, green eyes bright and sharp and so full I can’t name what’s in them. Pride. Anger. Possession. A kind of reverence that makes something in my chest ache. He nods once. Just once.
Like, yes, this is yours. I trust you not to break.
I swallow thickly.
Wraith’s thigh presses harder against mine.
“Show me,” I say.
Rook goes still. The others don’t react with surprise. It’s like they were waiting for that. Wraith lets out the breath he’d been holding. Saint smiles, slow and sinful. Vale laughs, delighted. Ash’s gaze flickers — there and gone — with something that looks almost like relief.
Rook leans back in his chair and studies me. He looks hungry… Proud… Furious… And mine, all at once.
“You’re sure,” he says softly.
“I’m not some porcelain thing you wheel out for moods,” I say, voice steady. “You said it yourself. I’m the fucking motive. You don’t get to tuck motive in a tower and feed her fruit while you go do the ugly parts. I’m not a painting, or a symbol. I’m a weapon. So… Use me.”
The words hang between us, and there’s a pulse in the room when I say them. Like the energy is shifting right before my eyes.
Wraith makes a low sound in his chest. Vale whispers, “Fuck,” like a prayer. Saint exhales like somebody just poured sacrament over his tongue. Ash?
Ash closes his eyes for a second. Just one second. When he opens them again, I see it—decision.
Rook’s knuckles flex around his glass. “Very well,” he murmurs.
Then, to the room, voice calmer, colder — King mode snapping into place like a blade being drawn.
“If you’re finished eating. We’re going downstairs.
” He looks back at me. “And Ember,” he says quietly, blue eyes burning into mine, “from this point forward, there’s no going back to pretending you’re just the girl who painted a wall and saw too much.
You walk through that door, you’re in. All the way in. Understand?”
My heart is trying to crawl out of my throat, but I square my shoulders. “I’ve been in,” I whisper.
Something like a smile flickers across his mouth.
“Good,” he says.
He rises, and chairs scrape. Glasses clink. The air shifts.
Wraith pushes back from the table and takes my chair with him so I don’t have to move it.
His hand finds my hip, steady, and stays there.
Saint stands slow, carefully, cradling his wrapped wrist to his chest. Vale rolls his neck and stretches his jaw like he’s shaking out leftover impact.
Ash doesn’t rush, doesn’t posture. He just stands and adjusts his sleeves, like we’re about to sit down at a computer instead of go downstairs and face the man who ruined my life.
I stand last. My knees are steady, but my hands aren’t.
Rook sees anyway. He steps in close — not touching, not quite — and drops his voice low enough that only I hear: “One more thing.”
I look up at him. His gaze goes razor sharp, but not cruel.
“Understand this, Red,” he says. “He doesn’t get to speak to you however he wants.
He doesn’t get to tell his version. He doesn’t get to twist Owen dirty and spit it at you and hide behind title and rank.
You don’t live in his story anymore. He lives in yours. ”
My throat burns, but I say it anyway. “I know.”
He nods once. “Good,” he says softly. “Because tonight, he learns that too.”
We leave the dining room together.
And I realize, as we head toward the east wing—toward the stairs—that for the first time since this all started, I don’t feel like I’ve been stolen.
I feel like I’m being escorted.