Chapter 29
Rook
Morning breaks gray over London. The rain has finally eased, but the fog still clings to the city—heavy, wet, and watchful.
It curls through the wrought-iron rails of the balcony like smoke from a dying fire.
The air smells faintly of gasoline and cold stone, the remnants of last night’s storm still whispering through the streets.
The house is awake early. I can hear them before I see them—voices, low and sharp, ricocheting off the marble halls. The kind of arguing men do when they’re too tired to fight and too proud to stop.
The kitchen hums with tension when I step inside.
Wraith leans against the counter, broad shoulders taut, the steam from his mug rising between his hands like an omen.
Vale, of course, has claimed the table—boots planted where the plates should be, spinning a knife lazily between his fingers.
Saint sits at the far end, posture deceptively relaxed, his half-finished tea still steaming.
And Ash—Ash looks like hell. Pale. Eyes ringed in sleepless shadows.
Then there’s Ember.
She stands by the window, framed in weak morning light. Her hair catches the gray glow, bleeding gold and copper through the strands. The reflection of the rain-slick glass mirrors her face—soft, indecipherable, dangerous.
When she turns, even briefly, it’s enough to still the room.
Vale breaks first, of course. “Morning,” he drawls, grin slicing through the quiet. “Or is it judgment day? I lose track.”
“Sit down,” I tell him.
He smirks but obeys, knife flashing once before he tucks it away.
The chair at the head of the table creaks beneath my weight.
I rest my hands on the old wood, feeling the grain, the faint vibration of the others’ tension traveling through it.
“We have a problem,” I say finally, voice cutting through the low hum. “And a possible lead.”
Wraith’s eyes flick up, sharp. “Her brother?”
“Maybe.” I nod once. “One of our contacts in Whitechapel finally passed along a name. Claims they saw him a week before he went missing. If they’re right, Owen wasn’t working alone.”
Ash straightens, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He gives me a look that all but outright spells the question. What the fuck are you doing? Have you forgotten she still has the drive? “And you think dragging her into this is the answer?”
His tone slices like a blade—controlled, but brittle. Ember doesn’t move. She just stares out the window, her reflection ghosting over the city.
“She’s part of this now,” I say evenly.
“She’s leverage for this,” Ash counters. “Not backup.”
Saint exhales slowly, setting his cup down with a soft clink that sounds too final. “I’m inclined to agree. Sending her out there is reckless. If she’s caught—”
“She won’t be,” Wraith interrupts, voice low and certain. “Not with me.”
The words land heavy. Ember glances over her shoulder, eyes locking with his. Something passes between them—silent, dangerous.
Vale laughs under his breath. “Now this is getting interesting.”
“Shut up,” I snap.
He grins wider, raising his hands. “Just saying. I love a good domestic.”
Ash looks between us all, his restraint thinning. “She’s not ready,” he says again, quieter now. “She doesn’t know what’s waiting out there.”
Finally, Ember turns. Her gaze is calm, too calm. “You don’t think I can handle myself?”
Ash doesn’t flinch as he tells her the truth. “I think you’ve been lucky so far.”
The hurt flashes in her eyes before she hides it behind that steel composure. I can feel the temperature in the room drop. The fog outside presses closer to the windows, the air thick with the smell of wet pavement and tension. “Enough,” I say, the word echoing harder than I mean it to.
Silence settles—uneasy, expectant.
“She goes,” I continue. “Tonight. Wraith and Saint will take her. It’s recon only—nothing more. If she passes, she earns her place.”
“Her place?” Vale echoes, tilting his head with mock reverence. “What are we calling her now, boss? Queen of the damned?”
I ignore him.
“She’ll have limited freedom after this,” I say instead. “She’s proven herself useful. But I’m not handing her a crown yet.”
Ember’s brow lifts, and the faintest hint of challenge crosses her lips. “And if I fail?”
“Then you prove me right,” I say, though the words are bitter on my tongue.
“And if I don’t?” She asks, smirking in amusement.
I shrug, like this costs me nothing. “Then you prove me wrong.”
Her mouth curves into something sharp—almost a smile. “Sounds like you’re betting against yourself.”
Vale chuckles. “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea how right you are.”
Saint pushes his chair back with a sigh, the scrape of wood on tile cutting through the tension. “If we’re truly doing this, I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Do it quietly,” I tell him. “I want no eyes on us until we know what we’re walking into.”
He nods, already moving.
Wraith straightens, jaw tight as he lowers his voice a fraction. “You sure you trust me to take her out there?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be saying this out loud,” I answer plainly.
His eyes flash—pride, maybe something darker—and he nods. Ash says nothing. But the way he looks at Ember—conflicted, almost haunted—says everything. The others start to disperse, chairs scraping, boots echoing down the hall.
I stay behind.
Ember doesn’t move. She lingers at the table, tracing a finger along the edge of a knife Vale left behind, her expression caught somewhere between defiance and curiosity. “You didn’t have to defend me,” she says softly.
“I wasn’t defending you.”
She looks up, lips curling. “Could’ve fooled me.”
For a second, I almost smile. But it fades before it reaches my mouth. “Don’t mistake strategy for sympathy,” I say.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She turns back toward the window, light haloing her in gold. I let my eyes linger a moment longer than I should, memorizing the outline of her against the fog.
She’ll have her chance tonight. If she passes, she’ll earn her freedom—at least the illusion of it. What she doesn’t know is that the moment she proves herself, she’ll never truly walk out of this house again.
Because queens don’t leave the throne once they’ve taken it.
And I’m not about to let mine go.
By the time the others scatter, the air still hums with friction—like static clinging to the walls.
I linger in the study, the old room still carrying the scent of gun oil, smoke, and leather. The rain outside has turned thin and silvery, streaking down the tall windows, blurring the city beyond. London looks half-dead in weather like this. It suits us.
Footsteps approach—steady, heavy. I know who it is without even looking.
Wraith doesn’t knock. He never does. He enters with that quiet weight of his, all coiled muscle and shadow, moving like the room should brace for him.
He shuts the door behind him and folds his arms. “You wanted to see me before we head out,” he says simply.
“I always want you when something’s about to go wrong,” I answer, motioning to the map spread across the desk.
Pins dot the streets of Whitechapel, small black marks tracing routes, safehouses, and syndicate activity.
“I already told you that one of our Syndicate contacts finally decided to talk, but I don’t know how well I trust it. ”
Wraith arches a brow. “Seems to good to be true, if you ask me.”
I nod, “I was thinking the same thing. Three weeks of silence. And now all of a sudden he’s eager to tell us about Owen Calloway and a supposed meeting with a Russian broker.”
Wraith leans in, scanning the map. “You think it’s bait.”
“I know it’s bait,” I say. “The Syndicate never offer information for free. And they never do it without an audience.”
He nods slowly, eyes tracing the red line across the map. “So we watch their next exchange.”
“Exactly. Recon only. No confrontation, no interference. I want eyes, not bodies.”
Wraith hums low, the sound rough in his chest. “And her?”
“She needs to see the world she’s stepped into. Let her understand what happens when people think they can play both sides.”
There’s silence for a long moment. The rain ticks against the windows, filling the space between us. Then he asks, “You trust her?”
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I trace one finger over the map, to the district marked with a single black circle. “I trust results,” I say. “And I trust you to keep her alive long enough to deliver them.”
He smirks faintly. “That’s not an answer.”
“No,” I agree, “but it’s the only one you’re getting.”
For a while, neither of us speaks. The clock ticks on the far wall, steady and precise. The faint scent of burnt coffee lingers from earlier, mingling with the smoke curling from the ashtray on the desk. Then I shift, tone flattening. “There’s one more thing.”
He looks up, wary. Like he knows exactly what I’m about to say.
“This mission,” I say, “has to stay clean. No distractions. No attachments. Whatever’s been happening between you and her—it ends tonight.”
Wraith’s expression doesn’t change, but his jaw tightens just enough to confirm what I already know.
“She’s part of the team now,” I continue. “That means discipline. You touch her again, and it’s not her neck on the line—it’s yours.”
A long silence follows. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rise to it, but I can see the storm in him—the wolf barely leashed. Finally, he says, “Understood.”
I lean back in my chair, studying him. “I mean it, Wraith. Whatever you think this is, it’s not. We don’t get to have softness in this world. It always costs too much.”
His gaze flicks toward the window. “You saying that for her or for you?”
The words hang there, heavy and unwanted. I don’t answer. When he finally turns to leave, I say, “Bring her back in one piece.”
He pauses at the door. “That part’s not negotiable.” And then he’s gone, leaving the room colder, quieter.
I look back at the map, tracing the red lines, the pieces already moving on the board. The city feels alive outside—breathing, waiting, promising ruin.
The Syndicate’s bait. The Russians’ hand. Owen’s ghost. And now—Ember.
The wild card I can’t control.
If this works, we’ll get what we need.
If it doesn’t… well, queens and pawns burn the same in the end.