Chapter 21
Rook
The door clicks shut behind her—a soft sound that does nothing for the tension in the room. The silence she leaves behind feels like a detonation.
Six chairs. Six plates. Five men and a ghost.
Wraith’s the first one I look at. He hasn’t moved since she left. His glass of whiskey sits untouched, condensation dripping down the sides onto the table. He’s staring through it like it holds answers.
I set my knife down, slow and precise, letting the sound slice through the quiet. “What the fuck is your problem?”
He blinks once. “My problem?”
“Yes, your problem.” I lean back in my chair, folding my arms. “You’ve been off since this morning, and tonight you can’t even look her in the eye. So, tell me the truth—are you slipping, or is she getting to you?”
Wraith’s gaze lifts, sharp and dangerous. “Nothing happened.”
Across the table, Vale snorts, lazy and loud. “Oh, something happened.” He leans back, grin spreading like oil. “Our wolf looks like he got a little too close to the fire.”
“Vale,” I warn.
He raises his brows, feigning innocence. “What? Just saying what we’re all thinking. The man’s sweating guilt like perfume.”
Wraith’s chair scrapes across the marble as he stands. “You want to repeat that?”
Vale’s smile widens. “Gladly.”
“Sit down,” I order, voice sharp enough to draw blood. Neither moves to do so and I find myself growing more murderous by the second.
Saint exhales through his nose and pushes back from the table. “I’m not sitting through another pissing match.”
“Sit,” I say without raising my voice.
He freezes mid-step, jaw flexing. “Caelum—”
“Sit.”
It’s not a suggestion. He lowers himself again, muttering something under his breath that sounds like a prayer and a curse wrapped in one.
Across from me, Ash sits perfectly still—hands folded, green eyes cutting between us, cataloguing everything like data points. The man rarely speaks unless he’s dissecting you.
Finally, he does. “You’re wasting energy,” he says softly.
“Explain,” I reply.
“She’s not cracking because she’s scared,” Ash continues. “She’s waiting, watching, calculating her options and testing weak points. You can feel it.”
Vale grins. “That’s what makes it fun.”
Saint’s glare could strip paint. “You find this fun?”
“Of course,” Vale says smoothly. “Pain’s just truth in another language.”
“Then you speak it too fluently,” Saint snaps.
“Better than choking on morality,” he counters snidely, sneering at Saint.
My hand hits the table—not hard, but hard enough to shut them all up. The sound echoes, sharp and final. “Enough.”
The silence after that is immediate, heavy. I turn to Wraith, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’re sure nothing happened.”
His jaw tightens. “I said nothing happened.”
Vale chuckles under his breath. “You’re a terrible liar, brother.”
Wraith’s hand curls into a fist, but I don’t let it go further. “Stop,” I order. “Both of you.”
Vale raises his hands in mock surrender. “Whatever you say, Your Majesty.”
I ignore him. My focus stays on Wraith. There’s a tension in him that doesn’t belong to guilt—it’s hunger. A kind he doesn’t understand yet. And that’s somehow worse.
“You let her get under your skin,” I say quietly. “If that continues, she’ll destroy this crew from the inside out.”
“I haven’t let her do anything,” Wraith bites out. “You think I don’t see what she’s doing? She’s trying to divide us.”
“She doesn’t have to try,” I murmur. “You’re doing it for her.”
His nostrils flare. “Watch it.”
“I am,” I reply. “That’s the problem.”
No one speaks. The sound of the clock ticking in the corner suddenly feels too loud.
“She’s not what she says she is,” Ash says finally, breaking the silence. “Not just a thief, or a witness. She’s trained, I can feel it in my fucking gut. The way she studies us, the restraint, the silence—it’s deliberate. She’s been coached for interrogation, and I want to know by who.”
Vale’s smirk returns, sharp as a blade. “Then maybe it’s time we oblige her.”
Saint’s voice turns cold. “You’re talking about torture.”
“I’m talking about answers,” Vale argues.
“I won’t bless that.”
Vale’s grin deepens. “Didn’t ask you to, Father.”
I let them argue for another breath, then stand. The motion alone is enough to silence the room.
“Tomorrow,” I say evenly, “we begin formal interrogation.”
Ash’s brow lifts. “All of us?”
“All of us,” I agree. “Together. She’s already playing one side against the other. I won’t give her the chance to pick us off individually.”
Saint leans forward, voice low. “And if she doesn’t talk?”
“Then we find out how far she’s willing to go not to.”
Vale’s smile is wicked. “Finally.”
Wraith mutters, “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“And you’re not enjoying it enough,” he scoffs.
“Enough,” I snap, growing tired of the fucking bickering.
The word hits like a gavel. I look around the table — at the men I built this empire with. My devils. My monsters. And I can see it already — the hairline fractures forming, spreading outward from the smallest center.
Her. Ember Calloway. The girl who wasn’t supposed to matter. The girl who’s already starting to.
I drag my hand down my face, the scent of her perfume still lingering in the air — smoke and citrus, like a warning.
“She wants to play games,” I say finally, my voice quieter now, almost to myself. “Then we’ll play.”
Vale raises his glass in a mock toast. “To the girl who thinks she can outsmart the King.”
I stare at the empty doorway where she’d stood only minutes ago.
“She’s not trying to outsmart us,” I murmur to myself. “She’s trying to survive us.”
And for the first time in years, I’m not entirely sure which of us deserves to win.