Chapter 26
Rook
The second she leaves the room, silence follows like smoke after gunfire.
The credits roll. No one moves, we’re all still as statues.
I can still smell her perfume—warm citrus and fear she’s learned to wear like armor. The way Wraith’s hand shifted beneath the blanket, how her breath caught, the way she tried and failed to hide it. He thinks I didn’t notice, but I fucking did.
“Interesting choice of movie,” Vale drawls at last, his grin slow, poisonous. “Didn’t know we were screening live entertainment.”
Wraith doesn’t answer. His jaw works, his eyes on the black screen.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “You want to tell me what that was?”
He looks at me then, brown eyes steady, unflinching. “No.”
Vale whistles. “Oh, this’ll be good.”
“Shut up,” I say, not taking my eyes off Wraith.
Saint chuckles quietly from the corner, swirling the last of his drink. “Don’t look at me. I’m as disgusted as I am fascinated.”
“Bullshit,” Vale mutters.
“Language,” Saint replies, all mock reverence, but there’s a glint in his eyes.
Ash shifts where he’s sitting, posture rigid, hands clasped tight. He won’t look at anyone. “This isn’t productive,” he says. “We all knew she’d test limits. Now we’re just proving she’s good at it.”
“She’s not the one being tested,” I say.
That lands hard. The room goes quiet again.
Wraith stands, shoulders squared. “You going to hit me for it?”
“No.” I rise too. We’re nearly the same height, but the energy between us is a hair trigger waiting for fire. “I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“You planning to chain her up?” Wraith asks, scoffing a laugh. “She’s not yours.”
“She’s under my protection,” I snap.
Vale laughs, dark and delighted. “Protection. That what we’re calling it now?”
“Bloody fools,” Saint says, voice mild but warning.
Wraith takes a step closer. “You don’t get to talk about protection when you can’t even protect her from yourself.”
The hit comes before I decide to throw it. My fist connects with his jaw, the crack echoing off marble and glass. He stumbles back, not from pain—Wraith’s built for worse—but from surprise.
“Feel better?” he growls.
“No,” I say, shaking out my hand. “But I’ll live.”
Vale claps once, mock applause echoing. “Boys, boys, please. If you break the furniture, at least let me film it.”
Ash stands suddenly, voice sharp. “Enough!”
Everyone looks at him, confusion written all over our faces. He’s the stronghold, the stony front. The quiet one that never raises his voice.
He glares at us both. “She’s tearing us apart, and you’re letting her. You think this is about control? It’s not. It’s already gone.”
For a moment, no one speaks. Then Vale laughs again, low and certain. “Oh, it’s gone all right.” He leans back in his chair, eyes gleaming. “Question is—who’s going to admit they like it that way?”
Wraith wipes the blood from his lip. I stare at him, still breathing hard, the taste of adrenaline thick in my mouth. No one admits anything. But we all know the answer.
The others clear out one by one. Vale goes first, whistling low under his breath, muttering something about “sexual tension and shattered egos.” Saint follows, glass in hand, tossing me a look that’s equal parts pity and amusement.
Ash lingers in the doorway for a second, expression unreadable.
He doesn’t say a word—just leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
Wraith’s the last to go. He holds my gaze for a beat too long, his jaw bruised, pride darker still. Then he turns and stalks out.
And just like that, it’s quiet again.
I drag a hand down my face, my knuckles throbbing where they met his jaw. The sting feels good. Reminds me I’m still in control, or at least pretending to be.
The couch sits there like a crime scene. The blanket, the faint scent of her perfume—citrus and smoke—clings to the leather. It hits me harder than the fight did.
What the hell am I doing?
She’s supposed to be leverage. A liability. A problem we’re meant to solve, not touch. But she’s wormed her way into the cracks between us, and I let it happen.
I drop into the chair opposite the couch, elbows on my knees, staring at the space where she sat. The memory plays back too easily—the flicker of her throat when she swallowed, the faint tremor in her breath. The way her body reacted when she thought no one could see.
And I did see. That’s the problem. I see too much.
Always have.
It’s what keeps me alive—and what’s going to ruin me this time.
I lean back, exhaling slow, watching the ceiling light flicker like it’s pulsing with the same rhythm as my heart. The fight didn’t fix anything. It only confirmed what I already knew.
The control’s… gone.
Wraith wants her. Vale wants chaos. Saint wants redemption, or maybe just distraction. And Ash—God knows what Ash wants, but I can see it forming behind those quiet eyes.
And me?
I want her out of my head. Out of this house. Out of us.
Instead, I picture her walking down the hall right now, still flushed from earlier, still caught somewhere between shame and hunger. I can’t decide which expression suits her better. The worst part is—I’m not sure I’d stop it if she walked back in.
I close my eyes, jaw tight. The room smells like her—temptation dressed as trouble.
And somewhere deep down, I know this is the beginning of the end.