Chapter 7
Jace
Sleep is for people who don’t have thoughts ricocheting around their skull like pinballs at three in the morning.
I’ve been staring at the ceiling for two hours, listening to the sanctuary’s quiet hum and trying not to think about everything that’s been building tension in this place lately.
Theo’s weird visions. Bree avoiding everyone like we’ve all got the plague.
The way Thane showed up and suddenly the air tastes different—sharper, more electric.
And then there’s whatever’s been happening with Wes.
He’s been… different. More awake somehow, like he’s been sleepwalking for years and only just noticed. The way he looks at people now, like he’s seeing layers beneath the surface. It should be unsettling.
It is unsettling.
But not in a bad way, which is maybe the most unsettling part of all.
I roll out of bed with a frustrated sigh. When my brain won’t shut up, there’s only one solution: make something that requires just enough focus to drown out the noise but not so much that I actually have to think.
Pancakes.
Perfect chaos food. Flour, eggs, milk, heat—simple enough that even I can’t screw it up too badly.
And if I’m being honest, there’s a tiny part of me that wants to show up Mairen.
Sweet woman, incredible cook, but she’s been making breakfast for everyone like it’s her personal mission to feed the entire magical world.
Time to prove that the sanctuary’s resident knife-throwing disaster can handle a skillet without setting anything on fire.
Pancake supremacy, here I come.
The kitchen is dark when I pad down the hallway, bare feet silent on cool stone. One of the many perks of growing up learning to move without sound—midnight snack raids become an art form.
I flip on just enough lights to see what I’m doing, then make a beeline for the massive pantry.
The sanctuary’s version of food storage is about as subtle as everything else here—carved wooden doors that could double as castle gates, shelves that stretch up toward a vaulted ceiling, enough supplies to feed an army.
Or a bunch of magically awakening twenty-somethings with supernatural metabolisms.
I’m already mentally cataloging what I need—flour, baking powder, maybe some vanilla if this place runs fancy—when I swing open the pantry door.
And stop dead.
What the hell—
Wes and Gray are inside.
Not just standing close. Not just having a conversation.
Making out.
Gray’s back is pressed against the far wall, Wes’s hands braced on either side of his head, and they’re kissing like the world might end if they stop.
Wes’s dark curls are messed up from Gray’s fingers, and Gray’s usual careful control is completely gone, replaced by something raw and hungry that makes my breath catch.
I just stand there. Staring. Like my brain has completely forgotten how to process what my eyes are seeing.
We all freeze at exactly the same moment.
Three pairs of eyes. Complete silence except for the sound of someone’s ragged breathing—might be mine.
I slam the door shut.
Stand there in the hallway like an idiot, heart hammering against my ribs.
Nope. Nope nope nope. Did not see that. Definitely did not see Gray looking like that. Definitely did not notice the way Wes—
I crack the door open again.
They’re both still there.
Because really—where the hell would they go?
And now they’re staring at me. Gray’s face is flushed, lips slightly swollen, looking guilty but also… not. Like he’s been caught but isn’t particularly sorry about it.
Wes just looks amused.
I take a deep breath—trying to look like I’m just getting my bearings and not like I’m drowning in whatever the hell this feeling is—and push the door open wider.
“Uh.” The word comes out like I’ve forgotten how language works. “Don’t mind me. Just… pancakes.”
Of course the flour is right there on the shelf. Right between them. Because the universe apparently has a sense of humor and it’s terrible.
“The flour is…” I gesture vaguely, hoping one of them will just grab it and toss it to me so I can disappear back to the kitchen and pretend this never happened.
Instead, Wes steps back just enough to clear a path, and the smile that curves his lips is pure trouble. Like he can see right through my casual deflection to whatever is churning underneath.
“Go ahead,” Wes says, voice low and still slightly breathless. “We’re not stopping you.”
I have to step into the pantry. Have to reach between their bodies, close enough to catch the heat radiating off Gray’s skin, close enough to see the way Wes’s pupils are dilated in the dim light.
My fingers hover for just a second—this is inevitable, but that doesn’t make it easier—before I grab the flour. The brush against Gray’s arm as I pull back is soft, brief, electric.
Gray inhales sharply. When I glance up, Wes is watching me with something that looks almost like recognition. Like he knows exactly what that accidental contact did to my pulse.
“Sorry,” I mutter, backing toward the door with the flour clutched against my chest like armor. “Didn’t mean to… interrupt.”
“You didn’t,” Gray says quietly, but there’s something in his voice I can’t quite identify.
Wes doesn’t say anything. Just watches me retreat with that small, knowing smile that makes my stomach flip in ways I don’t want to think about right now. Maybe ever.
I escape back to the kitchen and immediately throw myself into mixing batter with way more enthusiasm than the task requires. Whisk clattering against the bowl, measuring cups banging against the counter—anything to make enough noise to drown out the replay loop my brain seems determined to run.
It’s fine. Totally fine. So what if Gray and Wes are… whatever that was. So what if Gray’s hands were in Wes’s hair and Wes was looking at him like he wanted to devour him whole. So what if they both looked at me like—
Nope. Not going there.
I focus on the batter. Flour, eggs, milk, a splash of vanilla.
Simple. Straightforward. Nothing complicated about pancakes.
Nothing emotional. Just flour, eggs, milk.
Breakfast, not a breakdown. Nothing that requires me to think about the way Gray’s shoulders looked pressed against that wall, or the sound Wes made when I brushed past him, or the fact that I apparently have opinions about both of those things.
When did that happen?
The whisk moves faster. Probably too fast. I’m definitely overmixing, but stopping means thinking, and thinking is not on the agenda right now.
I don’t hear the pantry door open again. Don’t hear footsteps on the kitchen floor.
The first sign I’m not alone anymore is the heat against my back—body warmth close enough to feel but not quite touching.
Then Wes’s voice, low and intimate, right by my ear:
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
I freeze, knuckles going white around the whisk handle. Every muscle in my body locks up like I’ve been struck by lightning.
“What secret?” I manage, trying for casual and missing by about a mile.
“The one you liked.”
The words hit somewhere deep inside, sending heat racing through my veins and making my pulse stutter. I want to spin around, want to face him, want to demand what the hell he thinks he’s talking about.
Instead, I stay perfectly still, staring down at the batter like it holds the secrets of the universe.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, and even I don’t believe it.
Wes chuckles, soft and knowing. “Sure you don’t.”
When I finally work up the nerve to turn around, he’s already walking away. Casual as anything, like he didn’t just turn my entire world sideways with a handful of words.
He pauses in the doorway, glances back over his shoulder.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, “Gray’s a good kisser. But I think you already figured that out.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me standing there with half-mixed batter and a heart that’s beating so fast I’m surprised it doesn’t crack a rib.
I stare at the bowl, trying to process what just happened. Trying to figure out what the hell Wes thinks he saw, what he thinks he knows about me.
Trying to figure out why the idea of Gray being a good kisser makes something tight and hungry unfurl in my chest.
The batter is definitely overmixed now. Probably ruined. But I keep whisking anyway, because stopping means admitting that everything just changed, and I’m not ready for that.
I’m not ready to think about Gray. Or Wes. Or the way they both looked at me like they could see straight through every wall I’ve ever built.
The pancakes are going to burn, and it won’t be the batter’s fault.