Page 34

THIRTY-FOUR

Ember

My surrender sets things in motion with dizzying speed. Wolfe snaps orders, and suddenly, I’m whisked away from that grimy cell and led through a maze of corridors that smell of bleach and antiseptic.

The contrast is jarring—sterile white walls replace crumbling concrete, and bright fluorescent lights that burn my eyes after the many hours I spent in dim shadows.

Two guards flank me, their grips professional but firm. No chances are being taken with Wolfe’s new prize. We pass through what looks like a medical wing, the sharp scent of disinfectant making my head spin.

Or maybe that’s the concussion.

A doctor appears—a man with cold hands and colder eyes. His lab coat is pristine, and his movements are precise as he catalogs my injuries. There’s no sympathy in his gaze as he prods my broken ribs and my split lip.

“Multiple contusions, two cracked ribs, possible concussion,” he reports clinically. “No serious internal damage.”

“Fix it,” Wolfe instructs from the doorway. “She needs to look presentable.” His presence fills the room, making it feel smaller and more confined. “But leave the split lip. It suits her.”

The doctor works with mechanical efficiency, cleaning wounds and applying bandages. Each touch is impersonal and clinical, like mending a broken doll. An ice pack appears for my swollen eye, and painkillers are offered, but I shake my head.

I need to stay sharp.

“Strip,” the doctor orders.

I hesitate, my fingers trembling at the hem of my blood-stained shirt. Wolfe’s eyes bore into me from the doorway. Another test.

Slowly, I peel off my clothes, letting them fall to the floor. The doctor documents every bruise, every old scar. Wolfe’s gaze travels over my exposed skin. He is not lustful but possessive, cataloging his property.

Fresh clothes appear—expensive, tailored things that make my skin crawl. Black slacks that fit perfectly, a silk blouse the color of dried blood. Even the underwear is new, delicate things in black lace that turn my stomach. Every inch of me is being remade in Wolfe’s image.

“The hair.” Wolfe gestures dismissively.

A stylist materializes—where do these people come from?—and attacks my tangled mess of hair with professional determination. Water runs black with dirt and blood as she washes it, then cuts and styles until I barely recognize my reflection.

“Sir.” A guard appears in the doorway, tablet in hand. “The package is ready for transport.”

Blaze ?

My heart stutters, but I keep my face carefully blank. I focus on the snip of scissors and the pull of the comb.

“Excellent.” Wolfe’s smile is all teeth. “Ensure our friend receives the best medical attention. I want him functional when he’s released.”

When .

Not if.

The first test of Wolfe’s word.

The stylist steps back, and the woman staring back is a stranger—polished, professional, deadly. My eyes are the only thing unchanged—hard and cold as sea glass.

“Beautiful,” Wolfe murmurs, approaching to stand behind me. His hands rest on my shoulders. “Like a phoenix rising from the ashes.”

Our eyes meet in the mirror.

Predator and prey.

Master and weapon.

Creator and creation.

“Come.” He extends his hand, ever the gentleman. “We have much to discuss.”

I take his hand, ignoring my instinct to run. His fingers close around mine, warm, strong, and terrifying in their gentleness. These are the hands that have ordered countless deaths and orchestrated untold suffering.

We move through the building, and guards snap to attention as we pass, eyes carefully averted. We ascend in a glass elevator, the facility sprawling below us like a concrete maze. Each floor reveals a different facet of Wolfe’s empire—training rooms filled with men sparring, communications centers buzzing with activity, and what looks like a high-tech surveillance hub.

This is so much more than I imagined. I thought he was a small-time bully, but Damien Wolfe manages an empire of brutality. The elevator climbs higher, and the view of the city expands. From up here, the streets where I once scraped by look tiny and insignificant.

Is this how Wolfe sees the world?

Like a god looking down on his creation?

Finally, the elevator opens directly into his office, a space that screams power and privilege. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of his kingdom. The transition from prisoner to protégé complete.

I’m no longer in a cell, but I understand my new reality as Wolfe leads me toward his desk. My cage has not only grown larger, it’s become infinitely more dangerous. I walked into it willingly, accepting my chains with open eyes and a bleeding heart.

The city glitters beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a web of lights and shadows stretching to the horizon. Wolfe’s office reeks of power—leather, aged whiskey, and the harsh tang of fear. My freshly styled hair feels foreign against my neck, the silk blouse a mockery of normalcy.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Wolfe’s hand settles on my shoulder, heavy and possessive. “All those lights. All those lives. Each one a potential asset.”

My muscles coil beneath his touch, but I force myself to stay still. To play the part. The fabric of my borrowed clothes whispers against my skin, a constant reminder of my captivity dressed up as luxury.

“This was always meant to be your destiny, little flame.” His fingers trail down my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “From the moment I first saw you, I knew. Such raw potential. Such—fire.”

His other hand gestures to the wall of screens, each displaying different angles of the city. Red dots pulse like open wounds across the digital landscape.

“Look at them all.” His breath tickles my ear, cologne suffocating in its sweetness. “The forgotten ones. The throwaways. Just like you.”

My throat tightens, memories of dark alleys and empty bellies clawing at the edges of my mind. “I don’t understand what you want from me.”

A low chuckle rumbles through his chest. “I want you because you survived. Because you fought. The strongest flames are forged in the hottest fires.” His grip tightens, bruising. “And you, my dear, have been burning since the day you were born.”

He spins me to face him, his winter-gray eyes boring into mine. The predatory grace of his movements sends ice through my veins.

“That night at St. Catherine’s—watching you lead those children through the smoke, seeing the way they followed you without question…” His lips curl into a cold smile. “It was magnificent. You turned my own plan against me and used my tools for your escape. I knew then that you were special.”

My heart pounds against my ribs; each beat a desperate prayer that he can’t see through my mask of submission.

“How many years you’ve evaded me.” His fingers trace my jawline, his touch a twisted mockery of affection, analyzing every micro-expression. His eyes are dark, penetrating, dissecting me like a specimen. “I thought you were lost to me, but you survived and built your little candle empire. Such poetry—the girl who played with fire, making light her salvation.”

He steps closer, the air thickening between us, until his presence blots out everything else, his breath hot against my skin. My stomach twists, bile rising as his scent—sharp cologne mixed with something rotten, something wrong—overwhelms me. His hand lingers on my face, and I want to pull away, to scrub my skin clean of his touch, but I stay still, refusing to let him see my fear.

“But now it’s time to fulfill your true purpose,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with an arrogance that makes my skin crawl. He tilts his head, his gaze almost tender, like he’s bestowing some twisted gift upon me. “Under my guidance, you’ll help me identify the perfect candidates. The ones with that same spark, that same—potential.”

The implications crash into me, a sickening weight settling in my chest. He wants me to help him find more victims.

More children to break.

My knees almost buckle as revulsion coils inside me like a snake, its fangs biting deep.

“Candidates for what?” My voice comes out hoarse, barely a whisper, the words trembling between us.

He smiles, a cold, predatory curve of his lips. “Come now, my little flame. Don’t you understand?”

My pulse pounds in my ears, my skin clammy with fear. I shake my head, the motion small, almost involuntary. “I understand none of this.”

His laugh is soft and sinister, a sound that raises the hair on my arms. He leans in, his lips brushing against my ear.

“You will.”

The promise in his words sends a shiver down my spine, and I swallow hard, trying to push down the panic clawing its way up my throat. The walls feel like they’re closing in, his presence suffocating, and I realize there’s no escape—not from him, not from what he’s planning.

He wants to corrupt me, twist me into something monstrous, and the worst part is the quiet, sinking realization that he believes he’s doing me a favor.

I barely manage to pull in a breath, my chest tightening painfully. His gaze is unwavering, a dark expectation lurking in his eyes. He’s waiting for me to understand, to relent. The horror of his vision, the twisted purpose he sees in me, presses in, filling every crevice of my mind.

“Your street sense, your insight into their psychology—it’s invaluable. You understand their fears, their hopes.” His voice drops to a silky whisper. “You’ll help me mold them into something greater. Just as I’ll mold you.”

The wall of screens flickers, security footage replacing the city maps. The image freezes my blood—Blaze, still strapped to that chair, his face a mask of defiance despite the bruises. My heart clenches painfully, a wave of panic and guilt crashing over me.

I agreed to this—to whatever Wolfe wants—to save Blaze. I can’t bear to see him like this; can’t let them keep torturing him because of me.

“Of course, your cooperation ensures his continued well-being.” Wolfe’s thumb brushes my lower lip, the gesture almost tender, a vile parody of affection. “I’d hate to waste such a valuable asset. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I swallow, my voice cracking under the weight of my desperation. “You said you’d free him.”

Wolfe’s smile widens, a cold glint in his eyes. “In time, my little flame. But first, you need to prove yourself. Show me that your loyalty lies with me. Then, and only then, will I consider releasing him.”

The ground seems to drop out from beneath me, the room tilting as his words sink in. Prove myself. He never intended to keep his word, not without twisting me into something he could use. My breath shudders, but I force myself to nod, swallowing down the fear.

For Blaze, I’ll do anything.

Even if it means losing myself in the process.

Every instinct screams to pull away, to fight, to run. Instead, I play the role of the broken weapon, accepting its master’s hand.

Wolfe’s hand.

“What do you want me to do?” The words taste like ash.

His smile widens, triumph gleaming in those winter eyes. “That’s my girl. We’ll start small—a few select targets. You’ll help identify the ones with the most promise and guide them through the transition.”

He turns to the screens, his arm sliding around my waist like a steel band. “Together, we’ll build something extraordinary. An empire of the forgotten turned into weapons of the finest caliber.”

The city stretches before us, unknowing, and unsuspecting. Each light represents a life, a potential victim. And I’m being molded into the monster who’ll help destroy them.

“Welcome to your new home, little flame.” Wolfe’s grip tightens possessively. “It’s time to show the world what you were meant to become.”

In the window’s reflection, I catch a glimpse of us—the elegant predator and his prized possession, but beneath my carefully crafted mask of submission, beneath the designer clothes and styled hair, a different truth burns.

He thinks he’s taming my fire.

He doesn’t realize he’s giving it fuel to burn.

“I still don’t understand what you want from me.”

“Your knowledge, your, shall I say, unique perspective, makes you invaluable.” Wolfe’s approval slithers down my spine like ice water. “It’s simple, really.”

“Then spell it out to me. What exactly do you want from me?”

He circles the chair, and each step is measured and precise. “You understand these children because you were one of them. Lost. Forgotten. But under my guidance…” His hand cups my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You’ll help me give them purpose. Structure. Just as I’ll give you purpose.”

My skin crawls where he touches me, but I force myself to remain still. To play my part. Every piece of information I give him is another nail in my conscience, another crack in my soul.

But it buys time. And time is all I need.

His thumb traces my lower lip, the gesture almost tender. “You and I, we’re going to reshape this city. One lost soul at a time.”

The monitors cast shadows across his face, turning his smile into something monstrous. In the screen’s reflection, I glimpse myself—hollow-eyed, pale, a ghost of who I used to be—but a spark still burns behind that mask of submission. Let him think he’s breaking me. Let him believe his mind games are working.

The flame he’s so obsessed with isn’t dying.

It’s just waiting to burn everything down.