Chapter 2
Ember
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I hiss, pacing back and forth like I have for the last hour.
I failed—miserably.
It was supposed to be simple. An easy entry point. A quick search. In and out before anyone realized I’d been rifling through their drawers. At least, that was the plan.
I never imagined I’d stumble across a man already dead—or find a vault full of weapons and drugs. I was looking for information. Not… that.
Shivering, I pad to the kitchen and put the kettle on, rummaging for my favorite blend of tea. That’s exactly what I need right now—something to keep my hands busy and my nerves from unraveling completely.
I’m not stupid.
I know The Masked Riders will come for me.
Everyone in London knows who they are. The biggest mafia in all of London, with five devils at the helm.
Five devils that don’t have the word mercy in their vocabulary.
And now I’m certain they’ll be coming to claim my life—just like they claimed my brother’s three years ago.
It’s only a matter of time.
The kettle whistles, dragging me back to the present. My hands tremble as I pour the tea, nerves fraying with every creak and shuffle above or below me. That’s the thing about living in a flat—the walls are thin. I can never tell if the sounds are real, or if my mind’s playing tricks again.
I carry my cup to the couch and sink down, the cushions sighing under me.
The television flickers on, filling the silence with noise.
A news anchor talks about the royal family, a fire in Lambeth, a local play premiering at the London Theatre.
I scroll through my phone while half-listening, but it’s useless. After a few minutes, I shut it all off.
Nothing can distract me tonight. Nothing can numb the fear clawing at the back of my mind.
That familiar ache starts up in my chest—the one that tempts me, that whispers about an easier way to breathe. That damnable itch festers under my skin, calling to me from the void. Whiskey to chase the pain and fear away. Nausea burns the back of my throat.
I’d promised myself—and Owen—that I’d never touch it again. He’d promised too…
Three years ago, I made that promise but he broke his. Right before the Masked Riders took him from me.
I exhale heavily and rise from the couch, fingers trailing across the cracked faux leather. It’s old and worn in places, proof of a life lived long before it came to me. I’ve never owned anything new. Always second hand. Always given away.
I don’t know how long I stand here, my right hand curled around the couch, the other holding the cup of tea like it’s my last lifeline.
By the time I finish my tea, it’s gone cold. The rain outside softens to a whisper, a steady pulse against the glass that almost lulls me into believing I’m safe.
Almost.
I rinse the mug, flick off the kitchen light, and move through the flat in darkness. The air feels thicker than usual, charged with that strange stillness before a storm. My nerves are threadbare, humming beneath my skin.
They won’t come tonight, I tell myself. They wouldn’t risk it. Still.
In the end… The lie doesn’t even sound convincing in my own head.
I strip down to a threadbare T-shirt, crawl into bed, and pull the blanket over my shoulders. My eyes are heavy. I’m teetering on the edge of sleep when—a floorboard groans.
My eyes snap open, every muscle locking in place. Another creak. Closer. Much closer. My breath catches. The sound is wrong—too deliberate, too heavy to be pipes or neighbors. Someone’s inside.
I roll silently from bed, bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. My mind races, cataloguing the room—the open window, the hall, the faint glimmer of the streetlight cutting across the living room. I move like I’ve practiced this before—because I have.
The first thing my hand lands on is a curtain rod I never hung after the last move. I pull it free from where it leans against the wall, its metal cold and solid in my grip. Not ideal. But it’ll do.
The shadow shifts in the hallway—then steps inside.
I swing.
The rod connects with a skull, a dull, satisfying crack crashing through the air. The man stumbles, curses, and rams into the dresser. I don’t wait. I pivot and jam the end into another one’s ribs as he charges. He folds over with a strangled gasp.
Adrenaline tears through me. For a second, I almost think I can get out—then the air changes.
He steps out of the dark. Massive, broad shoulders, black jacket, the glint of a mask catching the thin slice of moonlight—a wolf’s skull, all bone and shadow. The presence radiating off him is colder than the rain outside.
Wraith. A name I've only heard spoken in hushed tones, a reputation that precedes him. I gulp, and my stomach drops to my ass.
He’s taller than I expected. Still. Calculated. No wasted movement.
“Little fox has claws,” he murmurs, voice low, rough velvet that crawls beneath my skin.
“Get the fuck out of my flat.”
He doesn’t answer. Just studies me from behind that mask, head tilting like a predator fascinated by its prey.
“You hit my men.”
“They broke in.”
“That’s fair,” he says, almost amused. “But it ends here.”
He moves, and he’s fast. I swing the rod again, a desperate arc, but he catches it mid-strike, twists in fluid motion, and the metal clangs to the floor.
I spin, throwing a punch that connects with his jaw.
He grunts—more surprised than hurt. I aim for his throat next, but he blocks it with ease, grabbing my wrist and pinning me against the wall in one single move.
His mask hovers inches from my face. I can smell the rain on him, the faint metallic tang of the street.
“Stop fighting,” he says softly. “You’ll only make me want to keep you longer.”
“Let. Me. Go,” I growl, enunciating each word with more force than the last.
He leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “Can’t. King’s orders.”
I struggle, twisting, nails scraping against his gloves, but his grip is iron. Something cold presses against my neck—a sharp sting, some kind of chemical, deliberately meant to force me under. The world starts to spin.
The last thing I hear before everything fades is his quiet murmur…
“Sleep, Red.”
And the thought that echoes as darkness swallows me—
They found me.