Because I remember the exact moment it happened—the way she stepped back when the crowd pressed closer, the way her face went carefully blank when that woman touched my arm. She saw everything. Heard Jace laugh about it. Watched us all treat it like entertainment instead of violation.
And I let her.
I need to get out of this hallway, away from their voices and their easy dismissal of what just happened. Away from the way none of them seem to notice that the most important person in the room has vanished. I retreat to my bedroom, close the door, and lean against it like it might keep the shame from seeping in through the cracks.
The hunger gnaws at my ribs, sharper tonight than it's been in days. Like it's feeding on my guilt instead of fading, growing stronger with every breath I take that doesn't include her presence to ground me.
I remember the way she looked at me when she found me in the attic that afternoon—not curious or afraid, just… present. Like my company was enough. Like I was still just Wes.
But that was before the hunger started gnawing at the edges. Before I started hiding it. Before Gray noticed. Before Stellan stepped in like he already knew what I was becoming.
She doesn’t know what I am. Not really. Not yet.
She never looked at me like she was afraid—but that’s only because I’ve made sure she never had a reason to.
And that’s the part I can’t breathe around. Not the hunger. Not the magic. The possibility that the moment she does see it—see me—she’ll pull away.
And tonight I let strangers treat me like a prize while she watched from the sidelines.
A knock at my door interrupts the spiral. I expect Jace, maybe Theo coming to check on everyone. Instead, it's Stellan leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, expression serious in a way that makes my stomach drop.
"You smell like panic," he says without preamble.
"Thanks for the pep talk," I mutter, but he's already stepping into the room without an invitation, closing the door behind him with that grace of his that already makes the space feel smaller.
"Breathe slower," he says, voice calm but firm. "Feed later. Or not at all. But don't lie to yourself about what this is."
"Easy for you to say." The words come out sharper than I intended, raw with frustration I've been swallowing for weeks. "You've had centuries to figure out control. I've had two weeks and a target painted on my back by magic I didn't ask for."
"She's not a target," Stellan says, and something in his tone makes me go still. "She's a mirror."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He steps closer—not seductive, not feeding, just present in that unnerving way that makes it impossible to hide behind deflection.
"What do you want, Wes?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications I'm not ready to face. I think about deflecting, making a joke, brushing this off like I always do when things get too real. But the hunger is clawing at my chest and Stellan's steady gaze won't let me retreat into comfortable lies.
"I want her to look at me like she used to," I admit, the words scraping my throat raw. "Before I became something she has to worry about."
Stellan studies my face for a long moment, then steps back with something that might be approval flickering in his expression.
"You're not dangerous to her," he says quietly. "You're dangerous to yourself. Decide which one matters more."
He moves toward the door, pauses with his hand on the handle.
"Figure it out—before she realizes someone already has."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone with the weight of his words and the ache that won't fade no matter how I try to breathe through it.
I sink onto the edge of my bed, chest heaving with the effort of keeping myself together. The hunger hasn't faded—if anything, it's sharper now, more focused—but the noise in my head has shifted from panic to something that feels almost like clarity.
I think about the way Bree said my name that time in the attic, soft and careful like it mattered. The way her presence grounds me even when everything else feels like it's spinning out of control. The way she sees me as Wes instead of whatever I'm becoming, like the person I've alwaysbeen is worth preserving even as magic reshapes me into something I don't recognize.
And I let today make me forget that. Let strangers' attention distract me from the one of the only people whose opinions actually count.
If she doesn't come back, it'll be because I didn't try hard enough to make her want to stay.
