"That she's been becoming something too. And she's been doing it alone."
The truth of it settles over us like the mist—quiet, inescapable, undeniable.
We can figure out the magic later. The glowing, the dreams, the hunger—all of it can wait.
But Bree can't.
Not anymore.
Chapter 7
Jace
Three a.m. tastes like burnt coffee and unspoken truths. I'm already on my second pot when footsteps creak down the hallway. Not surprised—none of us have been sleeping much since Bree started avoiding us. The house feels wrong with her hiding upstairs, like we're all walking on eggshells, waiting for something that might never come.
Wes appears in the doorway, moving with that careful quiet he's perfected over the years. He slides into his usual spot at the table without a word—same chair he's claimed since we moved in here. But something's different tonight. He looks like hell, dark circles under his eyes, hair a mess. But there's something else too. Something I can't quite put my finger on.
His face looks... sharper somehow. More defined. Like someone adjusted the contrast on a photo.
"Coffee?" I ask, already reaching for another mug.
He nods, not looking up from where his hands are folded on the table. I pour, add the ridiculous amount of sugar he pretends he doesn't want, and slide it across to him.
"Rough night?"
Another nod. The kind that saysyou have no idea.
I settle across from him, cradling my own mug like it might contain answers instead of caffeine. The silence stretches, but it's not uncomfortable. Wes has always been quiet—it's one of the things I've always liked about him. No need to fill every moment with noise.
But this quiet feels different. Heavier.
"Rhett nearly set the kitchen on fire a few days ago," I say, testing the waters. "Not on purpose. Just... couldn't touch anything without it heating up."
Wes's eyes flick to mine. Dark, confused. "What do you mean?"
"Coffee filters. They started browning before he even touched them. And when he grabbed the pot..." I shake my head. "Steam rising off his skin like he was a damn radiator."
Wes goes very still. "That's not normal."
"No shit." I take a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitter burn. "The man looked terrified of his own hands. Can't blame him."
"Is he okay?"
"Physically? Yeah. Mentally?" I shrug. "About as okay as any of us right now."
Wes is quiet for a long moment, staring down into his coffee like it might show him something. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"Gray had a dream the other night. One of hers, I think."
I set my mug down carefully. "How do you know?"
"He said it felt like... I don’t know. Like he was inside her skin. Woke up shaking, said Claire’s name like it was his mom's.
Something cold slides down my spine. "He just told you that?"
"Didn't have to. I could see it in his face. The way he looked at me like he'd just lived through something that wasn't his to live through." Wes meets my eyes, and there's something raw there. Vulnerable. "It hit him hard."
I don't question it. Should, maybe. A week ago I would have. But we're past the point of disbelief now. Past the point where any of this makes sense in normal terms.
