Chapter 33
Rook
The townhouse is alive with movement. Footsteps on polished floors, the low murmur of conversation bleeding through from the hall, the clink of glass as Saint pours himself a drink he doesn’t need.
I’m at the head of the long mahogany table, jacket draped over the chair behind me, cuffs rolled. The air smells like cologne and rain, expensive whiskey and anticipation. The others filter in one by one, dressed sharp, all pretending not to care that tonight’s dinner isn’t really a dinner at all.
It’s a test. And everyone knows it. For us, for her. Will she fit into our world, and can we maintain composure in her presence? Then she walks in, dressed in Emerald.
The kind of green that catches light and bends it. The dress fits her like sin tailored in silk—elegant, precise, meant to draw attention. It does. Every head turns, including mine.
For a heartbeat, I forget to breathe.
Then I see it—the necklace. Gold chain, a single stone surrounded by tiny diamonds catching the chandeliers’ light. It’s too delicate to be anything from the estate. Too new to have come from me.
My jaw tightens.
She doesn’t notice. Or she pretends not to. She moves with that careful grace she’s learned to weaponize, all poise and hidden defiance, until she’s standing across from me.
“You clean up well, Red,” I say, voice husky with a longing I’m growing tired of pretending isn’t real.
Her eyes flick over me, cool and assessing. “You don’t look half bad yourself, King.”
A smirk ghosts across my lips. “Half bad? I’m wounded.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she says, sliding into the chair beside mine.
The room hums faintly around us—the scrape of chairs, Vale’s low whistle, Saint’s muttered curse in Greek. But it’s background noise. It’s always background noise when she’s in the room.
I clear my throat, pushing a small black box across the table toward her. “For you.”
Her brows lift. “What’s this?”
“Open it.”
She does, cautious, fingertips brushing the velvet interior. Inside is a ring—thin, understated, gold band with a small emerald set in the center. It’s not about beauty. It’s about belonging.
Her expression flickers—surprise, suspicion, something else. “What’s the occasion?”
“Tonight’s dinner.”
She looks up sharply. “You’re giving me jewelry for a meal?”
“For cover.”
Her lips part, but I go on before she can argue. “We’re meeting a Syndicate contact. I need you to play a part.”
Her voice goes cold. “What part?”
I meet her gaze evenly. “Mine. My fiance’.”
The silence that follows is sharp enough to draw blood.
Vale lets out a low whistle. “Didn’t see that one coming.”
“Shut it,” I say without looking his way. My attention stays on her.
“You’re serious?” she asks.
“As a bullet.”
Her jaw sets. “And what exactly does that entail? Sitting pretty while you talk business?”
“Exactly that,” I say. “You’ll smile when required, keep your ears open, and give them no reason to suspect a thing. You’re our eyes disguised as a pawn tonight, Ember. I don’t like it, but it’s necessary.”
She stands, slow and careful, hands flat on the table. “I’m not anyone’s pawn.”
The words come out low, but they hit like a strike.
“I know,” I say quietly. “But I need you to be—just for a few hours.”
Her eyes flash. “I may play a part out there, but I will not choose in here. You won’t make me choose between what’s mine and what’s yours.”
I rise, closing the space between us until we’re eye to eye. “Who said they’re different?”
For a long beat, no one moves.
Then she exhales, a sharp sound that’s half a laugh, half a dare. “You really don’t care what they think, do you?”
“Not in the slightest,” I murmur. “Never have.”
The corner of her mouth curves—not a smile, exactly, but something close. “You’re impossible.”
“Good,” I say. “Then I’m doing my job.”
London glitters outside the car windows, all wet glass and reflections. The restaurant sits in the heart of Mayfair, a place that smells like money and old secrets.
Inside, the lighting is low, the walls paneled in black and brass. The Syndicate’s contact waits in a corner booth—a man too well-dressed for his own safety, all polished cufflinks and expensive whiskey poured too early in the evening.
We make an entrance. That’s the point.
Ember walks beside me, arm looped through mine. Her perfume is something dark and sweet that crawls under my skin, her emerald dress gleaming like a secret in the dim light. Heads turn, but I’d be surprised if they didn’t. Just look at her.
Jonas Whitlock’s eyes flick toward her, then back to me. “Didn’t know you were bringing company, Voss.”
I don’t care for his tone. Never have. Like the way he’s staring at her even less. “She’s with me.”
A pause. Then a smirk. “Lucky man.”
I don’t answer. My hand tightens slightly over hers, a silent command to hold her composure. She does—flawlessly.
The waiter leads us to a secluded table. Booth-style seating, velvet and shadow. Ember slides in first, the hem of her dress whispering against her legs, then I follow, crowding her close until the contact raises a brow.
“Didn’t realize you were so possessive,” he says, tone half-amused.
“Only when it matters,” I reply, voice even.
He chuckles, swirling the amber in his glass. “Always admired that about you, Rook. Ruthless. Focused.” His gaze lingers on Ember. “And apparently, sentimental.”
Before I can respond, Ember shifts deliberately, crossing one leg over the other, her heel brushing my ankle. Her body fits neatly against mine—an unspoken answer to the challenge.
I let it happen. Hell, I encourage it. My arm settles around her waist, a show of ownership and warning all in one.
Jonas grins wider. “Ah. I see. A statement piece.”
That earns him a smile from me—a slow, cold thing that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Careful. You don’t have enough men in this city to backup that kind of talk.”
The grin fades, replaced by an uneasy laugh. “Relax. Just business. Speaking of which—” He gestures for another drink. “Word is, the Russians are buying passage through the south docks again. Not their usual ports. Someone’s giving them clearance they shouldn’t have.”
“Someone from your end,” I say.
His jaw ticks. “Could be. Could also be a ghost in your own house. You’ve made enemies.”
“Enemies don’t bother me.” I take a sip of wine. “Betrayal does.”
Ember’s fingers trace the rim of her water glass, delicate but purposeful. “So which is it?” she asks softly. “An enemy or a betrayal?”
The man studies her like she’s a puzzle he wants to take apart. “You’ve got sharp teeth for decoration, sweetheart.”
“She’s not for decoration,” I say.
Her hand rests on my thigh, subtle, grounding. I know it’s part of the act, but it doesn’t feel like one.
“Fair enough,” Jonas concedes, leaning back. “If you’re looking for your leak, check the manifests out of Canary Wharf. Someone’s been clearing shipments through there under different names. Russian codes. British handlers.”
I trade a glance with Ember. She’s listening, filing every word away like ammunition.
The man smirks again, eyes dropping briefly to where she’s settled in my lap. “You train all your assets this well?”
The room goes quiet.
I set my glass down carefully, my voice dropping low. “One more word like that and I’ll make sure your assets start turning up in the Thames.”
The smirk disappears. “You’ve lost your sense of humor, Voss.”
“Didn’t bring it to dinner,” I snarl.
He shifts in his seat, awkwardly clears his throat, and tosses back the rest of his drink. “I’ll send what I find.”
“Do that.”
He leaves not long after, the click of his shoes fading into the ambient hush of the restaurant. For a long moment, neither of us moves. Ember’s still in my lap, still pretending it’s part of the performance, but her pulse betrays her—fast, steady, too aware.
Finally, I murmur, “You can stop pretending now.”
She doesn’t move. “Was I pretending?”
My gaze drops to her mouth. “You tell me.”
She leans in slightly, her voice a quiet blade. “You can’t use me as a pawn and expect me to stay where you put me, Rook.”
I almost smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Her eyes flash—defiant, alive. “Good. Because I’m done letting men decide where I belong.”
She slides off my lap with a grace that’s infuriating and magnetic all at once. I stand with her, straightening my jacket.
“Then I guess you’ll have to decide for yourself,” I say softly. “Just remember what happens to queens who forget the board they’re playing on.”
She doesn’t look back as we walk toward the exit, the world outside already waiting with its fog and lights and unspoken promises.
The Syndicate man’s warning rattles around in my head, but it’s her words that stay.
Because she’s right… I made her my pawn.
But somewhere along the way, she started moving like a queen.