Chapter 8 Wes
Wes
The smell of burnt toast hits like a punch to the gut.
Normally I'd make some crack about Jace's cooking skills. Today it just makes my stomach twist—not with nausea, but with something deeper. Hungrier. Like my body's been hollowed out and filled with static.
I'm hunched over the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that's gone cold while I wasn't paying attention.
The morning light streaming through the windows feels too bright, too sharp.
Everything does. Sounds are louder, colors more saturated, like someone cranked all my senses up to eleven and forgot to give me the manual.
"Seriously?" Jace mutters, waving smoke away from the toaster. "This thing hates me."
Theo glances up from his book, lips twitching. "Or you just don't understand the concept of moderation."
"Moderation is for quitters."
Their banter should be comforting. Familiar. Instead it scrapes against my nerves like sandpaper. I press my palms flat against the table, trying to ground myself in something real.
That's when I notice Gray watching me.
Not glancing. Watching. His storm-gray eyes track my movements with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. There's something in his expression I can't place—confusion mixed with something else. Something that looks almost like hunger.
"You good?" Theo asks, following Gray's stare.
I shrug, not trusting my voice. Because I'm not good.
Haven't been since the crown, since everything changed.
Sleep comes in fragments now, broken by dreams that feel more like memories bleeding through from somewhere else.
And this gnawing emptiness in my chest that food doesn't touch, rest doesn't ease.
"Yeah. Fine."
The lie tastes bitter.
Gray's jaw flexes, but he doesn't look away. If anything, his attention sharpens. Like he's trying to solve a puzzle I don't know I'm presenting.
I push back from the table, needing space, needing air. The fridge hums as I pull it open, cool air washing over my overheated skin. I'm not even hungry—not for food, anyway. But the emptiness claws at me, demanding something.
I grab the first thing I see. Cold chicken from last night. Take a bite standing there with the fridge door open.
The first taste is everything. Relief floods through me, warm and immediate. But it's not enough. It's never enough anymore.
A spoonful of leftover pasta. Better. A chunk of cheese. Bread with nothing on it. An apple, juice running down my chin.
The third bite doesn't even taste like food anymore. Just relief. Just the hollow ache finally, finally easing.
"Fuck," I breathe, head falling back as the tension I've been carrying for days starts to unravel.
The sound that slips out is involuntary—not sexual, but intense. Raw. Like I've been holding my breath for weeks and finally remembered how to exhale.
That's when I realize the kitchen has gone silent.
I turn around, apple juice still sticky on my chin, to find four sets of eyes staring at me. Jace is frozen with toast halfway to his mouth. Rhett's stopped mid-step, coffee mug suspended in air. Theo's book lies forgotten on the table.
And Gray... Gray's watching me like he's seeing something he recognizes but can't name. His pupils are dilated, lips slightly parted. There's a flush creeping up his neck that has nothing to do with embarrassment.
I close the fridge door like that'll somehow make this less mortifying. It doesn't.
"When did this start?" Theo's voice cuts through the silence, gentle but precise.
My hands clench at my sides. "It's not what you think."
"Then what is it?"
"I..." My throat works around words that won't come. "I don't know. But it's getting worse."
Theo's frown deepens, his gaze dropping to my chest. Following it, I catch a glimpse of myself in the microwave's reflection—and freeze.
There's light beneath my skin. Faint but unmistakable, tracing lines along my collarbone, my solar plexus. Right where Bree touched me after the crown.
I press my hand over it, trying to hide what's already been seen. But it's too late. They've all noticed now.
Shame floods through me, hot and immediate. Not just the hunger—though that's bad enough—but what it means. That I'm different. That I don't know what's happening to my own body. That Bree might see me like this.
I don't want her to see me like this. Not when I don't even know what I am.
I take a step toward the hallway, every instinct screaming at me to run. To hide. To pretend this isn't happening.
"Don't." Gray's voice stops me cold. Not commanding, just... certain.
I freeze, one foot already in the doorway.
"You're not the only one," Rhett adds quietly, lifting his hands. In the morning light, I can see the faint shimmer of heat rising from his palms.
The shame doesn't disappear. But it shifts, becomes something I might be able to carry instead of drown in.
"We don't tell her yet," Theo says, and there's steel beneath the gentleness. "Not until we understand what this is."
Rhett nods. "She's got enough to deal with."
"Unless it gets worse," Jace adds, his usual humor carefully restrained. "Then we make a grocery list."
The joke falls flat, but the intent behind it—the refusal to treat me like something broken—hits harder than any grand gesture could.
I sink back into my chair, hands still trembling. The cold ache in my chest hasn't disappeared entirely, but it's manageable now. Contained.
Gray is still watching me, but the intensity has shifted. Less confusion, more... recognition. Like he's seeing something that makes sense in a way it shouldn't.
Theo catches it too, his analytical gaze flicking between us with that quiet focus that misses nothing.
I don't sit right away. My hands are still shaking. My chest's still tight. That cold, empty ache still gnaws at the edges of everything.
But no one tells me to stop. No one pulls away.
They just... wait. Make room. And somehow that's worse and better all at once.
The hunger doesn't fade.
But it doesn't feel like a curse anymore.
It feels like something I might survive.