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He releases me abruptly and steps back. I fight to keep my expression neutral, to not show how my heart is racing or how the room tilts again.
Wolfe straightens his already immaculate jacket. “Now then, shall we begin? I have so many questions for you, Mr. Hawkins. About your team. Your mission. Your—attachment to our dear Ember.”
I can’t entirely suppress a flinch at the mention of her name. Wolfe’s eyes gleam with triumph.
“Ah, there it is.” His voice drips with satisfaction. “You know, for a man in your line of work, you wear your heart quite prominently on your sleeve. It’s going to get you into trouble one of these days.”
He pauses, considering. “Oh, wait. It already has.”
Wolfe turns, moving to the cart in the corner. His fingers trail over the implements there, almost lovingly. “Last chance to make this easy on yourself, Mr. Hawkins. Tell me what I want to know, and we can avoid all the—unpleasantness.”
I take a deep breath, centering myself. Whatever comes next, I can handle it. I have to. For Ember. For my team.
I look Wolfe dead in the eye and say the only thing I can. “Go to hell.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Ember
The light overheadflickers like a faulty neon sign, and I struggle to focus in the dim light. The room is a blur of muted grays and browns.
Cracks spiderweb across the walls, splitting plaster like fractured bone, revealing the scars of a house long forsaken. The air hangs thick with the musty scent of decay, tinged with something sharper… Ammonia, maybe, or bleach.
It tickles my nose, threatening to revive memories best left buried.
My body aches, a symphony of pain caused by bruises and cuts I don’t remember receiving. The floor beneath me is cracked concrete, pocked with chips and fissures. Its cold, crumbling surface offers no comfort as I push myself up, ignoring the sharp ache in my sore muscles.
A ratty mattress occupies one corner. Empty bottles and cigarette butts litter the floor around it, a minefield of shattered dreams.
The scene is so achingly familiar that it steals my breath. This isn’t any room—it’s a mirror image of countless “homes” from my past.
“No,” I whisper, the word catching in my throat. “Not here. Not again.”
My heart races, each beat a desperate attempt to escape my ribcage. The walls seem to close in, years of carefully constructed defenses crumbling under the weight of resurfaced trauma.
I’m no longer Ember, the survivor, the fighter. I’m that scared little girl again, waiting for the next blow to fall.
A beam of sickly yellow light filters through a boarded-up window, dust motes dancing in its path. It illuminates a rickety table, its surface marred by cigarette burns and knife gouges. Atop it sits a single candle, unlit but achingly familiar.
My fingers twitch with an urge to light it and find solace in its flame, as I’ve done countless times before.
But I resist.
This isn’t real—it can’t be. It’s a carefully constructed illusion designed to break me down to my most vulnerable self.
I force myself to breathe, each inhale a battle against the panic clawing at my chest. I’m not that helpless child anymore. I’ve survived worse than this. I’ve outsmarted men like Wolfe before.
But as my eyes land on a set of rusty keys hanging just out of reach, a traitorous voice whispers in the back of my mind:
This time is different. This time, the cage is in your mind.
The door creaks open, the sound grating against my frayed nerves. Wolfe steps in, and it’s like watching oil mix with water.
His tailored suit, a deep charcoal that screams wealth and power, is painfully out of place against the room’s peeling walls and cracked floor. The pristine fabric catches the dim light, and the sharp lines of his jacket contrast with the decay around us, like he’s stepped into a world he doesn’t belong in but commands anyway.
Not a hair out of place, his salt-and-pepper locks are perfectly coiffed. The scent of expensive cologne cuts through the musty air, making my nose wrinkle.
“Comfortable, my dear?” His voice is as smooth as aged whiskey, with an undercurrent of amusement that makes my skin crawl.