Silence. When I glance back, he looks wrecked. Not his usual composed mask, but something raw and barely held together. His silver eyes are too bright, his jaw set like he's grinding his teeth.
"Why are you really here?" I ask, turning to face him fully.
He doesn't answer immediately. Just moves closer, his gaze flicking to the mirror in my hands, then to my face. Something dangerous flickers behind his careful control.
"Where did you get that?"
"The garden. I found it earlier buried under the vines by the oak tree." I hold it up between us. "Do you know what it is?"
His expression goes carefully blank. "You shouldn't be touching it."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
I stand, frustration flaring. "I'm tired of people deciding what I can and can't handle. First Theo with his panic attack, now you with your cryptic warnings—"
"Theo was right to panic."
The words cut through my anger like ice water. I stare at him, processing the absolute certainty in his voice.
"What do you mean?"
Instead of answering, he steps closer. His hand lifts, hovering near my face like he wants to touch me but doesn't quite dare.
"You have no idea what you're dealing with," he says quietly. "What any of this means."
"Then tell me."
His fingers brush my cheek, just barely. The contact sends heat shooting down my spine, but there's something desperate in the way he touches me. Like he's trying to memorize the feeling.
I don't flinch. I should—contact like this usually makes my body freeze or pull away—but I don't. When did that change? When did I start feeling safe enough with him, with anyone, that my body doesn't brace for impact?
"I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
His thumb traces along my jawline, and I feel his control crack just slightly. "Both."
That's when his hand slips lower, fingers grazing the cluster of scars along my collarbone where my shirt has shifted. For a second, I'm amazed by how it feels—gentle, reverent, like he's touching something precious instead of damaged. The moment his skin makes contact—
The world explodes.
Not light. Memory.
I'm twelve years old, hiding in my bedroom closet. My father's voice drifts up the stairs, sickly sweet and patient.
"Bree, sweetheart, where are you? Daddy just wants to talk."
I press deeper into the closet, knowing he'll find me eventually. Knowing what happens when he stops using that fake-gentle voice.
I gasp, jerking backward, but the memory clings like smoke. Thane staggers, his hand falling away from my skin like I've burned him.
"What the hell did you just do?" My voice comes out shaky, raw.
He looks as shattered as I feel, silver eyes wide with something like horror. "I didn't—I don't know how—"
"You saw it." It's not a question. I can see the knowledge written across his face, the way he's looking at me like I'm broken glass. "You felt what I felt."
