Page 99 of Rescuing Ember

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 bestowingsome 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 voicedrops 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.

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