Then reality crashes back in. They're awake because of me. Because of whatever I've done to them.
I start down the stairs, each step careful and quiet. The voices become clearer as I descend—not words, just the rhythm of conversation that should be comforting but only makes my guilt sharper.
Three sharp knocks on the front door shatter the quiet.
I freeze halfway down the stairs, hand gripping the banister. The knocks weren't loud—more precise than forceful. But they echo through the house like gunshots, making the air itself vibrate.
The voices in the kitchen stop.
My heart kicks against my ribs, not with fear exactly, but with recognition I don't understand. Like some part of me has been waiting for this knock. Expecting it.
Dread pools in my stomach, cold and heavy. Because this is it, isn't it? The confirmation that something really has changed. That whatever’s been simmering under the surface—between me, the guys, the air itself—it’s not staying hidden anymore.
Whoever’s at that door... they already know.
I could call out. Let one of the guys handle this. They'd want to—would insist on it if they knew I was standing here. But something deeper than instinct keeps me moving down the stairs, bare feet silent on the hardwood.
This is for me. I can feel it in my bones.
The front door looms ahead, solid wood that suddenly feels thin as paper. My hand hesitates on the handle, cold metal biting into my palm.
I turn the handle and pull the door open.
Two men stand on the porch, and everything in me goes very still.
The one in front is tall—not just tall, but present in a way that makes the doorframe seem too small to contain him. Dark hair falls across his forehead in careless waves, and his coat hangs open despite the morning chill. He's solid in a way that speaks of strength, of power held in careful check. Every line of his body suggests control, like he's used to being the most dangerous thing in any room.
His eyes find mine and hold—silver-gray and sharp enough to cut. There's assessment there, calculation, but not cruelty. Just the steady gaze of someone taking my measure and finding me... interesting.
I can't tell if he's here to judge me, fight me, or claim me. The thought makes heat crawl up my neck, and I hate how much my body reacts to it.
Behind him stands another man—leaner, smaller, but no less compelling. Where the first radiates controlled power, this one feels like a blade wrapped in silk. His pale hair is styled with deliberate carelessness, and his coat hangs open at the collar, revealing layers that speak of money spent without thought.
He's beautiful in the way that makes you forget to breathe—not soft, but sharp. Dangerous. Like looking directly at something that might burn you if you're not careful.
He's watching me too, but differently. Not assessing—more like I've already answered a question he asked hours ago.
"Who are you?" The words slip out before I can think better of them.
The man in front—the tall one with the predator's stillness—tilts his head slightly. When he speaks, his voice carries an accent I can't place, formal and precise.
"We're here for the one who woke the crown."
Recognition slams into me like a physical blow. That voice. I know that voice. It's the same one that echoed through my bones when I touched the crown, the words I've been replaying endlessly in my mind: Welcome home, Queen of the Mist.
The dread in my stomach crystallizes into certainty. This is real. The crown was real. And now the consequences are standing on my doorstep.
"That's me."
Footsteps echo across the hardwood behind me just as the words leave my mouth. I don't turn around, but I feel them arrive like a wall at my back—Rhett first, then Gray, then the others. They come from the kitchen fast and instinctive, drawn by my voice, by the silence that followed the knock.
The pale man's gaze flicks from me to the protective wall of men behind me, then back to my face, and I catch the ghost of a smile.
Their presence surrounds me, not loud but undeniable. The air shifts, charged with a tension that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with five men ready to stand between me and whatever waits on the other side of that threshold.
The tall stranger's eyes take us all in with clinical precision. When his gaze returns to me, there's something that might be pity in his expression.
"You don't even know what you are, do you?"
