Chapter 23
Vale
Ember doesn’t hear me at first. She’s still staring at the door Rook slammed, one hand pressed to her mouth like she can erase what just happened.
I stay in the shadows a little longer, enjoying the rare sight of her off balance. Then I step forward. “You really should lock the door after a scene like that, Red.”
She jumps, spinning. “Vale—what the hell—”
“Relax.” I lift my hands. “I was only making sure the King didn’t break you.”
“I don’t need you checking on me,” she growls.
“Sure you don’t.” I move closer, slow enough that the air tightens between us. “But humor me.”
She tries for anger, and it falters halfway. “You were watching.”
“Observing,” I correct, smiling. “Someone’s got to look out for the cracks in our perfect little empire.” I study her a moment. “And you, mi reina, look like a very interesting crack.”
“Stop calling me that,” she grouches with a heavy sigh.
“Which part offends you—the ‘my’ or the ‘queen’?” I ask.
“Both.”
“Liar,” I counter.
The word lands between us, and she goes still. I can almost hear her heartbeat, quick and uneven.
“You’ve got him spinning,” I say softly. “Rook. Wraith. Even Saint’s saying prayers again. You know what that means?”
“That I’m winning?” She asks smugly, a cheeky little smirk tugging at the corner of that delicious mouth.
“That you’re dangerous.”
I reach out, tracing a strand of her hair behind her ear. She doesn’t move away. Her breath catches instead.
“Vale—”
“Shh.” My fingers slide to her jaw, my thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “You’ve been pretending you don’t want any of this. But every time one of us gets close, you stop breathing.”
“I should hit you for that,” she bites out.
“You should.” I step in until we’re a breath apart. “But you won’t.”
The air breaks before either of us does.
I tilt my head, just enough for her to meet me halfway.
The kiss is inevitable—slow at first, then hungry, sharp, like testing a blade’s edge.
She tastes like defiance and adrenaline.
I grip the back of her neck, deepening it once, twice, and then a devastating third time before pulling away with a low laugh that sounds more like surrender.
“There,” I whisper, foreheads still touching. “Now I know what all the fuss is about.”
She blinks, dazed, trying to steady her breathing. “You—”
“—should go before I decide I need another taste,” I finish for her. I step back, smoothing the grin back into place. “Tell the King his control’s contagious. I might be losing mine.”
And before she can answer, I turn and walk out, the echo of her pulse still thrumming against my lips.
The hallway feels colder when I leave her. I keep walking, slow and steady, because if I stop, I might turn around—and I don’t want to see what I’ll do if I do. The taste of her still lingers, bright and wrong. Like a sin I can’t quite spit out.
She shouldn’t have been able to get under my skin like that. None of them ever do. I’ve had lovers, victims, marks—every kind of creature you can name—and not one of them’s ever made me hesitate.
But she did.
That mouth, that look in her eyes when she realized I wasn’t teasing this time—it wasn’t fear. It was something darker. Like hunger, or recognition. I drag a hand through my hair, laughing under my breath. “Fuck,” I mutter, the sound too soft to echo.
I can still see her in my head. Flushed, lips parted, caught between fighting me and wanting me. That perfect little contradiction.
And then there’s the worst part—the guilt.
Not the real kind, no. Not moral guilt. I burned that out of me years ago. This is something different.
A memory of Rook’s expression when he stormed out of that room. The way he looked at her like she’d crawled under his skin and started living there rent-free.
He’d kill me if he knew. Which makes it hard not to smile. Because I can feel it—how fragile this all is now. How one kiss can set an empire on fire.
They think she’s our captive, but I know better. They’re wrong. She’s the fucking match, and every one of us is waiting to burn.
I roll my shoulders, shove my hands in my pockets, and head for the courtyard. Maybe the air will clear my head. Maybe not.
But as the wind cuts through my shirt and the scent of her still clings to me, I know one thing for sure—whatever game she’s playing, I just joined it.