I watch it all with cold precision. The systematic suppression of doubt. The way guilt replaces suspicion the moment her power touches them. How perfectly she’s turned their protective instincts against their better judgment.
And Thane’s immunity—whatever caused it—proves she can be resisted. The question is how, and why him specifically.
I wait for it to reach me, but nothing comes. No tendril seeking, no threads testing. She didn’t just fail to influence me, she never tried at all. Whether by mistake or instinct, she knows I won’t bend.
I keep my expression neutral, give no sign that her influence failed. Better to let her think she’s won completely. Let her think I’m simply uninterested. Uninvested in their domestic drama.
“There,” she says, settling back against Jace with a satisfied smile. One hand strokes his hair while the other traces patterns on his chest—a double claim of ownership. “Better?”
Jace’s arm tightens around her waist, and he glares at us with protective fury. “You scared her for nothing. She’s been through enough.”
The others begin to shuffle, embarrassed by their suspicion. Rhett clears his throat, fire extinguished completely. Theo runs a hand through his hair, looking confused. Wes wraps his arms around himself, radiating shame.
“We should let you rest,” Gray says quietly. “Sorry for… barging in.”
They file out one by one, expressions confused and slightly guilty. As if they can’t quite remember why they were so certain something was wrong. The Ether has done its work perfectly—not erasing their memories, but making their instincts feel cruel and unworthy.
I linger in the doorway, arms crossed, studying the woman who wears Bree’s face. She meets my gaze with cool triumph, one hand still moving through Jace’s hair in slow, possessive strokes. Thinking she’s fooled us all.
Her smile is razor-sharp. Victorious.
“Sweet dreams,” I say mildly, and turn to follow the others.
The hallway is silent except for their retreating footsteps. As I step into it, my eyes catch Thane’s. His expression is carefully neutral, but something passes between us—a flicker of recognition. Understanding.
He felt it too. Whatever just happened, we both know.
The smallest nod. Barely perceptible. An acknowledgment that we’ll talk later, away from listening ears and manipulative mist.
I return it just as subtly, then follow the others down the hall.
I can’t stop thinking about what I witnessed. The clinical precision of her manipulation. The way she turned their love for Bree into a weapon against their own instincts. How she made Jace into her shield and the others into her unwitting accomplices.
The others may forget their doubts, mist-touched and guilt-ridden.
I will not. And I don’t think Thane will either.
And when her mask finally slips—as it inevitably will—I’ll be ready.
For now, I simply wait. And watch. And remember everything.
Some games are not won by the first move. They’re decided by the last cut.
Chapter 8
Thane
I’ve been avoiding her all evening.
Not difficult when she’s surrounded by the others—Rhett hovering close with protective tension, Wes trailing after her like a lost puppy, even Gray keeping her in his line of sight despite the unease I saw flickering across his face earlier. They orbit her like moths drawn to flame, and none of them see the wrongness.
Or maybe they do see it, and that black mist has already convinced them it doesn’t matter.
I lean against the doorway to the common room, far enough back that I’m barely visible in the shadows. Watching. Cataloging the small tells that confirm what I already know.
The way she moves through space—too confident, claiming territory rather than navigating it carefully. The laugh that comes too easily, without the hesitation Bree always carried like armor. How she touches them—possessive rather than tentative, marking ownership instead of seeking connection.
But those are observations. Behavioral tells that could be rationalized away as growth, confidence, trauma response.
