She hasn’t slept alone since.
Not because she asked.
Because I couldn’t let her.
Sometimes she calls for Jace when I’m already there with her. The old Bree would have asked me to give them privacy, would have been embarrassed about wanting someone else while I was right there.
But now she just pulls Jace into bed with us like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When I try to leave—give them space, give myself space to breathe—she tells me to stay.
“I need you both,” she says, and her voice carries that new certainty that makes it impossible to argue.
Because the first time I tried to insist, she looked at me like I’d ripped out her heart and stomped on it. So I sit and I watch as she touches him, kisses him, moves with him. My fire magic spikes undermy skin—heat that has nowhere to go. Heat crawls up my neck, settles in my chest like a weight I can’t shift.
Jace doesn’t seem bothered by it—he never has cared much about who’s watching. But the way she looks at me while she’s with him, making sure I see everything, like my discomfort feeds something in her…
My hands clench against the sheets.
This is what sharing means, right? That jealousy is something I have to work through? She deserves whatever makes her feel whole after everything she’s survived.
Maybe she’s testing me. Testing how loyal I am, how much I really love her. Making sure I meant it when I said I’d share her with the others.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments, I miss the way she used to flinch when the wind moved the curtains too fast. How she’d curl inward at night, reaching for me like I was her anchor. All those little tells that meant she needed me—they’re gone now.
She doesn’t startle anymore. Doesn’t check over her shoulder for threats. Doesn’t grip my hand too tight when we walk past strangers.
I should be happy about that. I am happy. It means she’s healing, right? That she finally feels safe.
So why does it feel like I’ve lost something?
She still reaches for me now, but it’s not the same. She doesn’t whisper my name in her sleep. Doesn’t look at me like she used to when I would touch her cheek. But she still calls me hers.
And gods help me, it’s tearing me apart inside.
But I push it down. Like I always do. Like I did when I passed Jace in the hall last night—shirt wrinkled, hair a mess, walking like he’dforgotten where his feet were. He didn’t say a word. Just nodded once, eyes wide and dazed, like he’d seen something that rewrote his understanding of the world.
I didn’t ask.
There’s been a lot of that lately. People not saying what they should. Me not noticing what I don’t want to see.
The morning light filters through the sanctuary windows, casting everything in gold. I’m already awake—have been for an hour, just watching her sleep. The way her dark hair spreads across the pillow, the peaceful expression on her face. No nightmares. No terror.
She’s safe. Finally, completely safe.
“Morning,” she murmurs without opening her eyes, and the sound goes straight through my chest like an arrow.
“Morning, firefly.” The nickname slips out naturally now. She never used to let me call her that—too intimate, too presumptuous. Now she melts when I say it.
She stretches against me, all warmth and soft curves, and I have to bite back a groan. Three weeks of this—of her trusting me, choosing me, needing me—and I still can’t quite believe it’s real.
“Stay with me a little longer?” she asks, and there’s something in her voice I can’t identify. Not the old hesitation, not fear. Something else. Something that makes my fire magic stir restlessly under my skin.
“As long as you want,” I tell her, meaning it completely.
She turns in my arms, green eyes finding mine in the morning light. There’s a confidence there that still catches me off guard sometimes. The old Bree would have looked away, would have doubted her right to ask for what she wanted.
But now she knows she’s wanted. Knows she’s mine to protect.
“Will you make tea?” she asks, fingers tracing patterns on my chest. “That blend Theo brought back from the market?”
