Chapter 40
Ember
By dinner, the mood in the manor has shifted.
It’s not the usual tension — not the “which one of you is going to snap first” hum that’s lived in the air since the night they dragged me here. It’s tighter now. Focused. It feels like the whole house is leaning forward over open flame.
The dining room looks like power.
High ceilings traced in dark molding. Walls paneled in deep, polished wood.
The long table is solid, heavy, old. Not pretty, not delicate.
Built to survive impact. Built to be leaned over, fought across, planned on.
Candlelight throws gold across glass, across hands, across faces.
The storm outside licks rain against the tall windows in a steady hush.
I sit at Caelum’s right.
That’s new.
Four weeks ago I wouldn’t have been at this table at all. A week ago, I would’ve been at the other end, a guest, a subject, an investment.
Tonight? I sit within reach of him.
If left is protection and right is visible, then this is something else entirely.
Claimed.
Wraith sits on my other side, broad shoulders blocking part of my view of the room beyond him.
He’s calmer than usual — not relaxed, but settled.
There’s a possessive simmering under his skin that’s quieter now, like a satisfied animal guarding a meal.
He keeps brushing his thumb in slow circles against my thigh under the table.
No one comments on it.
Saint’s across from me, lounging in his chair in that deceptively lazy sprawl that still manages to look like penance.
His ice-pale eyes catch candlelight and gleam silver-blue.
Vale’s across and down, one elbow on the table, lip curled in a half-smile that’s been dangerous since I met him.
Ash sits at the far end, but it’s not distance.
It’s position. He can see all of us from there. He likes angles.
Rook stands, and that alone quiets the room. He hasn’t even spoke yet, and already the room tightens in anticipation.
There’s food on the table — steaks, charred and bleeding. Roasted vegetables glossy with oil, still-warm bread I know Saint baked himself because he’ll deny it if asked. A bottle of something expensive Wraith opened like it was nothing. I ate. I made myself eat.
Ground yourself before you go to war. Owen always said that.
My chest twinges painfully, and I shove the hurt down.
I reach for the crystal in front of me filled with water.
Rook sets both hands on the table, leaning in just enough to anchor our attention without posturing.
He’s in black like alway. Black shirt open at the throat, black trousers that fit too well, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looks like sin given structure.
“We’re talking Damien,” he says.
Excitement threads through me, weaving brightly in my chest like a kernel of hope. This. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
Wraith goes still beside me. Ash looks up sharply, green eyes cutting toward Rook.
“I have a lead,” he continues.
The way he says it makes the hairs lift on the back of my neck. Calm. Controlled. But not casual. There’s risk laced into it.
“Not ‘we,’ then,” Vale says lazily. “You.”
Rook gives him a brief look. “It came through one of mine.”
Saint raises a brow. “Trustworthy?”
“Yes,” Rook says. Then, with a grudging tilt of his head, “Mostly.”
Vale laughs, obviously delighted with Rook’s squirming.
“Who,” Ash asks quietly.
Rook’s gaze flicks his way. “Anton Ruskin.”
Saint whistles under his breath. “You’re joking.”
I look between them. “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”
Saint answers, voice mild like he’s discussing weather and not organized crime. “He’s ex Syndicate. Logistics. Docks, trucks, customs. Retired himself three years ago and vanished before someone could ‘retire’ him louder. If he’s talking, he’s scared.”
“And men like that,” Vale says, drumming his fingers lightly on the wood, “don’t get scared unless something bigger than us is chewing up ground.”
Something flickers in Rook’s eyes. Something ugly. Something old. “He says Damien met with a Syndicate middleman near Canary Wharf three days ago. There was a NATO contractor ID on the table.”
My stomach turns.
“NATO contractor ID,” I repeat softly, like I’m testing the weight of the words on my tongue.
Ash exhales, jaw tight.
Rook nods once. “According to Ruskin, Damien’s selling or trading something. Or moving something he shouldn’t have access to. And if he’s doing it with Syndicate blessing and foreign contractors in the mix, then we’re past internal rot. We’re in open betrayal.”
My pulse is a drumbeat now, steady and hot.
“What does that have to do with me?” I ask.
Rook’s gaze slides to mine. “They listed you as inactive—four weeks of no chatter. You went dark. That changes how he’ll react when he sees you.”
I swallow. Right. Of course, how could I forget.
“So we use you,” Vale says, and it should sound cruel — it doesn’t. It sounds like strategy.
“Careful,” Wraith growls.
Vale flicks him a look. “Not like that. Calm your wolf.”
Wraith bares his teeth, almost-smile, not friendly.
Rook keeps speaking like neither of them exist. “We show him something he can’t ignore and watch how he reacts. His face, his tells, who he calls, who moves. We lift the cover and see what’s rotting underneath… And prepare for the worst.”
I feel Saint’s gaze on me. Assessing. Measuring. “You mean to walk her into it.”
“Yes,” Rook replies, unflinching.
The room ripples, and angry words start spilling from the men.
“No,” Wraith says.
“Absolutely fucking not,” Ash says flatly.
Saint exhales through his nose, like he’s already bracing for the argument.
Vale just smiles wider. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun.”
I set my glass down very carefully, knowing this is about to be a shit show.
“Everyone breathe,” Rook says, voice still level. “We’re not storming the building guns out. We’re not kicking his teeth in. I said watch, not bleed.”
“You said Canary Wharf,” Wraith bites out. “That’s open. Too many sightlines. Too many places to put a rifle. That’s a kill box, Rook and you bloody well know it.”
Rook’s eyes flick to him. “It is if you walk in blind.”
“I don’t walk blind,” Wraith snaps.
“Enough,” Rook says quietly.
The room answers to that word. Always.
Silence.
I inhale. Exhale. My hands are steady. My heart is not.
“Say it,” I tell him.
His gaze shifts back to me. “Say what.”
“The part you’re not saying,” I answer.
That earns me a flicker of mouth from Vale, like, that’s my girl.
Rook’s eyes narrow — not in anger. In approval.
“You want to be in,” he says. “You said it this morning. You said you’re done waiting for other people to move for you. You asked to stand with us, not behind us. I’m giving you that. I’m giving you what you asked for.”
I feel Wraith tense beside me like a pulled wire. “She didn’t ask to be bait.”
“I’m not bait,” I say quietly.
That shuts him up. For a second, no one moves. I feel all their eyes on me, but I don’t look away from Rook. “You wouldn’t make me bait,” I say softly. “That’s not what this is. You’d make me leverage. You’d make me message. You’d make me prophecy and consequence wrapped in one. But not bait.”
Rook’s jaw works once, and he nods. A brief confirmation, but one the room needs nonetheless.
Saint mutters, almost amused, “And people say I’m dramatic.”
“It’s accurate,” Vale says.
Rook leans in over the table, palms flat against the wood.
The candlelight cuts his face into shadow and gold.
“Damien thinks he’s safe. If he’s arrogant enough to feel that way, he’ll react on instinct.
I want to see his instinct. I want to see if it’s guilt or rage or calculation.
I want to see who he’s afraid of. That tells me where to cut. ”
“And what if his instinct,” Ash says softly from his end of the table, “is to shoot her in the face the second he sees her?”
The temperature of the room drops.
Wraith’s chair scrapes against the floor. “Then I tear out his throat and everyone he’s ever spoken to and salt the fucking—”
Rook raises a hand.
Wraith goes silent, breathing hard through his nose.
“And,” I say evenly, like we’re talking about weather, “if that happens before you can react? Because Damien is a snake, not a blunt instrument. He won’t lunge. He’ll smile. He’ll lean in. He’ll press a gun to my ribcage and keep talking in full sentences.”
The silence that follows that is heavy. Saint is no longer lounging. Ash’s hands are white-knuckled on his glass. Vale’s grin is gone. Rook watches me, ever exasperating and unreadable.
There. Good. We’re past posturing now.
I lift my chin. “Then I’ll need to be armed to the teeth.”
Ash makes a sound like he’s about to choke. “Absolutely—”
“Done,” Rook says at the same time.
My brows lift.
Rook doesn’t even look at Wraith. “Ronan fitted her last night, in case you forgot Ash.”
Wraith exhales, slow. I feel the heat of him beside me, almost smug. “Correct.”
That pulls Saint’s mouth into something like a smirk. “Then, it’s decided.”
Vale tips his chin toward me. “Show him, little queen. Make daddy proud.”
I roll my eyes but pull the edge of my jacket back just enough for Rook to see the leather rig snug against my ribs, the handle sitting exactly where my fingers fall.
Wraith’s work. His palm, his fit. It’s intimate.
I feel a pulse of satisfaction off him when Rook’s gaze lands there, and realizes I’ll never walk without protection again.
Ash leans forward slightly, voice low. “Do you know how to use it if someone’s already on you? Not at a distance. I mean close. Point-blank.”
“Yes,” I say.
He watches me for two long beats, then nods. “You’re with me when we’re done here,” he says. “We’re drilling that until I say stop. I know you’re trained, but I want to see how quickly you move.”
A warmth hits low in my chest that has nothing to do with the wine. It’s not lust. Not exactly.
It’s… being kept. Being sharpened. Being prepared.