Chapter 15
Ember
The walls in this house aren’t as thick as they think.
Sound carries — softly, like secrets. I learned that the first night, when I heard footsteps above my room and realized no one ever truly slept here.
Tonight, it’s worse.
The rain’s heavier, a slow percussion against the windows, and I can’t sleep. My head’s too full — of Saint’s quiet voice in the garden, of Rook’s stare in the hallway, of the way they orbit me like I’m some bright, dangerous thing they don’t know how to touch.
I tell myself I’m imagining the shift. The tension. The way their conversations falter when I walk into a room.
But then I hear it — low voices, down the hall. Rook’s office door isn’t fully shut. Curiosity’s a vice I’ve never been able to kick.
I slip closer, barefoot, the old floorboards muffling under my weight.
The air smells faintly of rain and smoke, the kind that lingers in velvet and skin.
I press my ear just close enough to catch the cadence — Rook’s voice, smooth and steady, and Wraith’s lower growl threading through it like thunder.
“…you’ve been off,” Rook says.
“Define… off,” Wraith answers.
“Distracted. Less disciplined. Less loyal.”
There’s a pause — long enough that I imagine them facing each other, the tension thick enough to taste.
“You’re paranoid,” Wraith says. “That girl’s got your head twisted.”
That girl.
I freeze.
Rook’s voice drops, quiet but sharp enough to cut through the rain. “My head is fine.”
“Then why are you asking me questions you already know the answers to?”
The tone changes — harder now, deeper. This isn’t a disagreement. It’s something older. Worn. Familiar.
I lean closer, careful not to breathe too loud.
“Because I don’t like loose variables,” Rook says. “And she’s becoming one.”
My heart stutters.
“You think she’s dangerous,” Wraith mutters.
“I think she’s not what she claims to be.”
There’s silence again, and then Rook’s voice — colder, heavier. “You’re the one who pulled the trigger. You sure you got the right man?”
Wraith’s answer is a quiet snarl. “Owen was dirty. We had proof.”
Proof. The word tastes like bile in my throat.
I press my hand against the wall, fingers trembling.
They’re talking about Owen, and Wraith is the one who pulled the fucking trigger.
My head spins, my stomach recoiling at the thought. How am I supposed to move forward with that knowledge?
I have got to get the fuck out of here.
The thought hits me like a thunderbolt. They already know I’m lying. They’re close to finding out just exactly who I am.
I back away slowly, careful not to make a sound, every muscle coiled tight. My pulse beats fast enough that I swear they’ll hear it. I don’t stop until I’m back in my room, the door shut, the darkness closing around me.
For a long time, I just stand there. Listening. Waiting. The quiet is worse than their voices.
Because now I know — they’re already doubting me.
And doubt kills faster than bullets in a house like this.
I pace, fingers in my hair, breath shaking. My mind runs through contingencies — what I have, what I’ve hidden, what I can trade. Information isn’t enough anymore. I’m running out of leverage. Fear makes people irrational. Fear makes people do things they swore they’d never do.
Like this.
This place is locked down so tightly that I'll never make it out the front gate. But maybe… maybe there’s another way. The thought creeps in slow, unwelcome but seductive…
If I can get one of them to want me enough, I’ll be safe.
They protect what they claim. I’ve seen it. Mateo would be the easiest — all flirt and fire. Wraith, maybe, if I pushed the right buttons. Even Rook, under the right light, when control starts to slip.
I hate that I know this. I hate that I’m even considering it.
But logic and desperation aren’t enemies. They just speak different languages.
I move to the window, pressing my palm to the cool glass. The rain blurs the world outside into smears of gray. Somewhere out there, London keeps turning — fast, loud, oblivious.
Here, everything’s still. So fucking quiet, and I hate that, too.
If I play this right, I might live. If I don’t…
I exhale, sharp and unsteady.
No. Not yet. Not like that.
Once I start using my body as a weapon, I’ll never stop. I’ve got to find another way.
And I’ve already lost enough of myself to survive.
I crawl into bed, dragging the covers up, the chill biting through cotton. The walls feel closer now. I can still hear echoes — voices, footsteps, the faint hum of the house breathing.
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
But as I drift toward it, one truth anchors itself in the dark:
They’re right to be afraid of me.
Because if I’m going down, I’ll make damn sure I take them with me.
Rain still ghosts the windows when I wake, dragging the world into gray smears.
For a long stupid second I lie there, eyes open, counting ceiling cracks because counting is a thing you do when your head is a hive of bad thoughts.
The bed smells faintly of him—Caelum—like soap and smoke, and that smell still crawls under my skin.
Last night’s panic tastes metallic in my mouth.
I remember the door ajar, their voices in the hall, the way Rook and Wraith sounded like two men trying to decide whether to set a house on fire.
I remember hearing Owen’s name on their lips, and the knowledge that came after.
I remember how I felt—how I still feel. The fire raging through my veins at the thought of his killer sleeping in a room somewhere in this house.
I remember the words they said. Proof. Like that somehow makes his death justifiable. Nausea churns in my stomach.
And then, like a nightmare… I remember standing at the edge of a choice that has always lived at the intersection of my body and my shame.
I sit up and stare at the drawer under the vanity like it’s a safe I have to crack.
My palms are still a little damp from the too-cold shower I took to scrub whatever fingerprints of fear remained.
I tell myself the seduction idea was just that—a thought born of desperation, a math equation I ran in the dark and rejected—but the part of me that learned to survive remembers how leverage works.
It remembers how men rearrange their priorities when a thing belongs to them.
That part of me is pragmatic. Clinical. Terrifyingly efficient.
I sigh heavily, and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, then pad to the wardrobe.
The men bought me clothes. They said it was “decency” and “image”.
I call it inventory. I pull open the door and the clothes they thought I’d like spill out.
Black tailored pieces Caelum would approve of, soft cashmere scarves that feel like hospitality smothered in wealth, an absurd satin slip that belongs in a different life.
I hold the slip by the strap and scoff—my throat flips at the performative vulnerability of it.
I am not soft. Not really. Not for sale.
But I also know what a look can do in the right light.
I riff through the pile until I find things with edges.
A dark blouse that sits like armor, a skirt that hits the thigh in a way that reads deliberate without apologizing, boots with a heel that’s enough to shift posture but not cripple me.
I change in the small bathroom and catch my reflection in the mirror—red hair, bruised mouth, tattoos like maps up my arms. I feel ridiculous and somehow dangerous all at once.
On the sink line, tucked between the house-brand soap and an antiseptic pack, is a paper bag. I hadn’t noticed it before. It was small and folded, the kind of careful smallness someone uses when they don’t want to make noise.
Inside is a selection of toiletries—tampons, a proper razor, the kind of face cream I remember seeing in glossies when I was nineteen and thought I’d have a life that smelled like linen.
Concealer that could hide the faint purple on my lip.
A perfume sample that tastes of warm citrus and something sharp and mysterious underneath. Someone snuck must’ve them in.
That sliver of kindness is weird. Unnerving.
I scan the hallway with a sudden, absurd paranoia.
Cameras. Ash’s monitors. Wraith’s unnatural closeness.
But the bag is real and so is the relief that follows like a small, hot thing through my chest. Whoever left it watched me with a softness I’m not used to. Whoever left it risked trouble for me.
Gratitude is a slippery thing.
I place the items back in the bag, close it, and tuck it into the hollow in my wardrobe where small things live—tickets, names, a folded photocopy of a face I don’t trust. The toiletries will be useful.
They’ll buy me confidence and a way to control the narrative I feed them.
If I’m going to manipulate the room, I’ll want to present myself on my terms, not theirs.
I shuffle back to the bed, sit, and feel the weight of choices like stones in my pocket.
There’s no courage in seduction that isn’t carefully plotted.
If I use my body, I must use it with rules and fallback plans.
If I don’t, I might keep my line of dignity, and die sooner.
If I do, I live and lose pieces of myself one by one.
I close my eyes. The plan refuses to settle into anything pretty. It is cold, practical, and merciless.
Finally, I stand, wash my face—dab the concealer gently over the bruise—and dress in the armor I picked. The blouse, the skirt, the boots. I braid my hair back in a tight plait that keeps it out of my face. I inhale once, sharp and controlled.
I’m not giving anyone my throat today. Not yet.
The bag of toiletries tucks under the mattress. If someone’s been kind, they’ll know why it matters. If they were testing me, I’ll test them back. Either way, the day begins and I walk out to eat with the men like I’ve never considered the possibility of bargaining with bone.