I stay under the spray long after I’m clean. Just stand there, feeling the heat soak into my bones, washing away months of cold and dark and hunger.
When I finally step out, wrapped in one of those impossible towels, I feel almost human again.
Almost.
There’s an outfit laid out on the counter.
I stop, staring at it.
Pale leather pants and a fitted top, soft as butter. Leather straps designed to hold weapons at my thighs. And on the chest of the top, embroidered in silver thread that catches the light—
I stop breathing.
A daisy. Impossibly beautiful with radiating petals that look almost crystalline.
The same ones I planted by the oak tree in the backyard—from seeds I found scattered beneath that door in the attic. The same symbol that was carved into the doorframe itself. Back then, it was harder to see clearly, like my eyes kept sliding off it.
I don’t know how I know this is the same, but I can feel it deep in my bones. And now? Now I can see every detail. Every petal, every line.
What does that mean?
My hands shake as I reach for it. The moment my fingers brush the embroidery, the petals flicker to life—silver light blooming outward like my Ether recognizes something it’s been searching for.
This wasn’t made for me.
The leather is worn in places, softened by time and use. The stitching is old but perfect. This is an heirloom. Something that’s been waiting.
Brought for me.
How?
I touch the daisy again, watching the light pulse under my fingertips. It feels like coming home to something I didn’t know I’d lost.
I never thought I’d have something like this. Something passed down, chosen, meant for me.
Not with my mother leaving when I was seven. Not with Kevin, who never saw me as a daughter—just another thing he owned, another object to use however he wanted.
But this was waiting anyway.
I dress slowly, feeling the weight of the clothes settle against my skin. They fit perfectly—like they were always meant to be mine. The leather is supple, the straps secure. Even without weapons, I feel… ready. Strong.
I look at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman looking back.
She looks like someone who could wear a crown.
I leave the bathroom to find the bedroom empty—Wes and Stellan must have gone downstairs already. The house is quiet except for the low murmur of voices somewhere below.
I follow the sound down the stairs and through a hallway until I reach what looks like a sitting room.
A man I don’t recognize stands near a window, coffee cup in hand, talking quietly with Thane. He’s older—maybe mid-forties—with dark hair threaded with silver and amber eyes that catch the morning light.
When I step into the doorway, conversation stops.
Every head turns.
Jace whistles—low and appreciative. “Well damn.”
Thane’s eyes track over the leather, the straps, the glowing daisy embroidered on my chest, and he chokes on whatever he was about to say. His hand goes to his throat like he’s forgotten how to breathe.
