Chapter 27
Ember
The house feels quieter after the shouting stops, but not calmer. Silence here is never peace. It’s pressure.
When I finally step out of my room, the air tastes like storm aftermath—ozone and whiskey, something burnt underneath. I follow it down the hall until I reach the living room.
Rook’s there.
He’s alone, still standing where the argument must have ended, one hand braced on the back of the couch. The light from the window paints him in sharp lines—jaw tense, sleeves rolled, knuckles scraped.
For a second, I think he doesn’t hear me. Then his voice cuts through the quiet. “You shouldn’t be down here.”
“I heard you.”
His head lifts slightly. “Heard what?”
“All of you. The fight.” I hesitate. “I didn’t mean to cause that.”
He huffs out a breath—something between a laugh and a sigh. “You didn’t. We were already cracked. You just made the fault line visible.”
I step closer. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes flick toward me, and for once there’s no anger there—just exhaustion, the kind that comes from carrying too much for too long. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t ask to be here.”
“No,” I say quietly, “but I’m the reason you’re all unraveling.”
That earns a small, bitter smile. “We were unraveling long before you showed up, Ember.”
He says my name like it costs him something.
I should leave, but my feet don’t listen. “You don’t have to keep pretending I’m just a problem you need to solve,” I whisper.
His jaw flexes. “And what should I pretend instead?”
“That I’m human. Same as you.”
The space between us feels electric. I can smell rain on his shirt, leather, a trace of blood on his knuckles.
He studies me for a long time. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like you don’t know who’s more dangerous.”
“I already do.”
The words come out before I can stop them.
His eyes darken, and something in him gives—just a fraction, but enough.
He moves closer, slow and unhurried, until there’s barely a breath between us.
I can feel the heat of him, the tension rolling off his shoulders.
The silence stretches so thin it could snap.
“I told myself to stay away from you,” he says softly. “That if I didn’t, I’d destroy everything I built.”
“Maybe it’s already destroyed,” I whisper.
He exhales through his nose, and for a moment, I think he’ll step back. Instead, his hand lifts, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. His fingers linger near my jaw, tracing the edge of it, slow enough that I forget how to breathe.
The touch isn’t rough. It’s careful. Reverent, even. My pulse trips. His thumb grazes the corner of my mouth. “Rook…”
He shakes his head once, like he’s warning both of us. Then, finally, he leans in. The kiss isn’t angry or claiming. It’s the kind that feels like a secret neither of us meant to share—slow, inevitable, undoing every line we drew between right and wrong.
When he pulls back, it’s only by an inch, his forehead resting against mine. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he murmurs.
“Maybe I do,” I counter, smirking softly.
He laughs, though, there’s no humor in it. “Then you’re worse for me than I thought.”
“Maybe you deserve worse,” I say, and it earns me the faintest smile.
The tension doesn’t break—it lingers, thick and humming, a promise neither of us is ready to make.
In the end, it’s me that breaks.
I move, kissing him—quick, hard—grabbing him by the back of the neck and fusing my mouth to his like my life depends on it. It’s like a lightning bolt has struck, or shifting sands in the hourglass of time. I’m not sure which, but it doesn’t fucking matter.
All that’s left is him and me—the scent of smoke, and something darker, like whiskey. I taste it with every stroke of his tongue against mine, feel the way his body tightens as he pulls me closer, like he’s struggling to get enough of me, too.
It’s maddening. Suffocating. I shouldn’t want it, but God, I fucking do.
His hands wind in my hair, jerking my head back. Rook leans in close, teeth grazing the sensitive skin at my neck. The sensation is too much, not enough. It’s everything I shouldn’t want—but do.
He pulls back, crystalline gaze locked onto mine, both of us breathless.
“We should stop…” he says, trailing off—leaving it open, in case I want to continue.
God, I fucking do. But I need to say something first. “I want to help you figure out who betrayed you. Because they not only betrayed you—they betrayed my brother, and me. I don’t give a fuck if you want my help.
I don’t give a fuck if you think this is going to go any other way than how I want.
Because it’s not. You’re going to let me help you.
And in exchange… I’m going to be honest. About everything. Even if it scares me.”
For a second, he just stares at me—like he’s not sure if I’m serious or if this is another game I’m playing. His chest rises and falls, slow but uneven, and I can see the pulse at his throat hammering against the collar of his shirt.
“Ember,” he says finally, my name rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “You don’t get to make demands.”
“I just did.”
His jaw tightens. I can see him fighting himself—command against curiosity, the soldier versus the man. It’s strange watching him come apart so quietly.
“You think this is that simple?” he asks. “You tell me what I want to hear and suddenly you’re part of this?”
“No,” I say, steady. “I think you’ve been chasing ghosts so long you forgot what trust feels like. You don’t have to give me all of it, just enough.”
He exhales, long and slow, like he’s bleeding out patience. “You’re asking me to gamble with everything I’ve built.”
“I’m not asking.”
That gets to him. I can tell by the flicker in his eyes—like I’ve struck something raw beneath all that control.
He takes a step closer, and the air changes.
I can feel it vibrate between us, heat curling through the space that should be safe but isn’t.
“You have no idea what kind of men you’re dealing with,” he says quietly.
“I know exactly what kind of man you are.”
The words hang there, and he doesn’t move for a long time. I can see the thoughts racing behind his eyes—anger, suspicion, something dangerously close to admiration. Then, softer—like he hates to admit it. “You shouldn’t want to help me.”
“Maybe not,” I whisper. “But I do.”
Rook’s hand lifts, almost involuntary, like he’s reaching for me before he realizes it. He stops short, fingers curling into a fist. “You’re going to get yourself killed, Red.”
“Then I’ll take a few devils down with me.”
He laughs once—quiet, disbelieving. “You really don’t scare easily, do you?”
“Should I?” I ask, arching a brow.
His eyes darken, and for a heartbeat, I think he’ll kiss me again.
Instead, he takes a step back, running a hand over his face, muttering something I can’t catch.
When he looks at me again, some of the edge is gone, replaced by something reluctant.
“You’ll tell me everything,” he says finally. “No half-truths.”
“I said I would,” I agree.
“And you’ll stay in my sight. No more disappearing acts,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Fine.”
He nods once, like he’s trying to convince himself this is the right decision. “You wanted to help, Ember? Congratulations. You just made yourself indispensable.”
I smile faintly. “Then you better start getting used to it.”
Rook doesn’t smile back, but I catch the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth before he turns away—just enough to tell me I’ve rattled him.
And maybe, for the first time, I’ve won something that actually matters.