Chapter 12
Gray
The kitchen feels hollow after Wes leaves.
Not empty—the others are still here, voices drifting in muted conversation as they process whatever the hell just happened.
Thane sits like carved from stone, radiating the kind of controlled power that makes my teeth ache.
Bree hovers near the table, her fingers tracing patterns in the wood grain while the mist curls restlessly around her ankles.
But something's missing. Someone's missing.
And it's not just that Wes walked out.
It's the way he walked out. Like something was clawing its way under his skin. Like he was one breath away from breaking apart in front of all of us.
I've seen Wes afraid before. Seen him angry, hurt, lost. But I've never seen him look like prey.
My hands flex against my thighs, an restless energy building in my chest that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with instinct. The kind that says something's wrong. That says I should move. Should follow.
Should hunt.
The thought stops me cold.
Hunt?
Where the hell did that come from?
"Gray?" Theo's voice cuts through the fog in my head. "You okay?"
I blink, realizing I've been staring at the doorway where Wes disappeared. The others are watching me with varying degrees of concern—even Thane's silver gaze has sharpened slightly.
"Fine," I mutter, pushing back from the table. "Need some air."
It's not entirely a lie. The kitchen suddenly feels too small, too crowded. Like the walls are pressing in and I can't quite catch my breath.
I move toward the hallway, telling myself I'm just going outside. Getting space. Not following Wes like some kind of—
The scent hits me before I reach the hall.
Not blood. Not fear. Something deeper. Richer. Like emotion distilled into heat. Like hunger given shape.
My vision sharpens without warning, the dim hallway suddenly crystal clear. Every shadow, every dust mote, every—
There.
The glow isn't visible, not exactly. But I can feel it radiating from beneath the stairs where Wes has crumpled against the wall. Heat and need and something that makes every protective instinct I've ever had roar to life.
He's not just hungry.
He's starving.
And he's trying so hard to hide it that he's tearing himself apart from the inside.
"—you'll figure it out. Or you'll break trying."
Stellan's voice drifts from the shadows, followed by the soft sound of footsteps retreating. I catch a glimpse of pale hair and that trademark smirk as he disappears around the corner, leaving Wes alone in the dark.
I should go back to the kitchen. Should give Wes space to process whatever just happened between him and Stellan. Should mind my own damn business.
Instead, I step into the hallway.
Wes doesn't look up when I approach. Just stays curled against the wall, head in his hands, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding himself together.
"Hey," I say quietly, settling onto the floor beside him.
He flinches. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit."
That gets me a look—sharp, defensive, raw with something that might be shame. "Gray, I can't—I don't want to—"
"Breathe," I cut him off gently. "Just breathe."
We sit in silence for a moment, and I try to make sense of what I'm feeling. The sharpness in my vision has faded, but the awareness remains. Like I can sense the tension radiating from his skin, the way his pulse hammers against his throat.
Like I'm tuned into something I've never noticed before.
"Stellan told you what you are," I say. It's not a question.
Wes nods without lifting his head. "Feeder. Like him." His voice cracks on the words. "I don't want to be like him."
"You're not."
"You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do." I lean back against the wall, mirroring his position. "Because you're sitting here hating yourself for being hungry instead of taking what you need."
Wes finally looks at me, confusion flickering across his face. "What's that supposed to mean?"
I study him for a moment—the shadows under his eyes, the way his hands shake slightly where they rest on his knees. The careful distance he's maintaining even though every line of his body screams for contact.
"How long have you been starving, Wes?"
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. The truth is written all over his face.
"Take what you need," I say quietly.
He goes rigid. “I don’t even know how.”
"I know." I shift slightly, close enough for him to feel the warmth between us. "That’s not what I’m offering."
He blinks. “Then what?”
"Permission." I let the word settle between us. "To stop fighting it. To stop hating yourself for something you never asked for. To figure this out… with someone who isn’t afraid of you."
Something flickers across his face—hope mixed with terror. "I don’t know what I am. What I need. What any of this means."
"Doesn’t matter." I meet his eyes, steady. "Bree wouldn’t want you to starve. And I’m not going to let you do this alone."
The mention of her name hits him hard. His breath catches, and for a moment, I see through the careful walls he's built. See the guilt, the fear, the bone-deep certainty that he's becoming something dangerous.
"She's not here," he whispers.
"So?"
"So how can I—" Wes stops, his throat working around the words. "How can I want this when she's not here? When I don’t even understand what the hell I’m becoming?"
There’s something unraveling in him—not fear exactly, but grief twisted into guilt.
"And because," Wes says, voice rough, almost bitter, "I'm scared."
He swallows, like the words hurt to say.
"Scared I’ll lose control. Scared I’ll take too much. Scared that just... wanting from her makes me dangerous. After everything she’s already been through."
His voice breaks—just slightly.
"Gods, Gray." A whisper. A confession.
"Gods, how I want her."
It lands like a punch to the chest. Not because it’s new. But because he finally said it.
Finally said what we've all been afraid to say.
I let the silence breathe between us. Let him feel it, instead of running from it.
"That’s not weakness," I say. "It’s restraint."
He shakes his head. “But what if it’s not enough?”
"Then you get better. You learn control. You do the work now—so when she’s ready, you’re not afraid of yourself."
He stares at me, raw and exposed. And I know that look, because I’ve worn it.
"You think I don’t feel it too?" I say quietly. "You think I haven’t imagined what it would be like to touch her and not have her flinch? To kiss her without holding back?"
Something flickers in Wes’s eyes. Not challenge. Not jealousy.
Recognition.
"You're not afraid of me," he says, and there's wonder in his voice.
"Should I be?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implications I'm not sure either of us is ready to name. But I don't take it back. Don't look away.
Because the truth is, I'm not afraid. If anything, I feel... drawn. Like there's something in him calling to something in me, and I've spent years pretending not to hear it.
The hunger doesn't disappear from his eyes. But it shifts. Becomes something softer. More human.
"Gray," he starts, voice rough with emotion.
I don't know what he's going to say. Don't get the chance to find out.
Because suddenly he's moving, closing the distance between us with desperate urgency. His mouth finds mine—fast, intense, not practiced or polished. Just need made real.
The kiss is electric. Not in the cheesy, romance novel way. In the way that makes my vision go white at the edges, makes something deep in my chest roar with satisfaction. Like puzzle pieces clicking into place. Like coming home.
He pulls back almost immediately, eyes wide with panic.
"I'm sorry—fuck—I shouldn't have—"
"Hey." I catch his wrist gently, anchor him before he can spiral. "You're not the only one trying to figure it out."
The words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise him. But they're true. Whatever this is—this pull between us, this awareness that's been building since the crown changed everything—I'm feeling it too.
"I don't know what I'm doing," Wes admits, his voice small.
"Neither do I." I brush my thumb over his wrist, feeling his pulse race under my touch. "But I know you're not broken. And I know you don't have to figure it out alone."
Something in his expression cracks open. Relief, maybe. Because he finally heard me this time.
The hunger is still there—I can feel it radiating from his skin like heat. But it's different now. Acknowledged instead of denied. Shared instead of hidden.
"What happens now?" he asks.
I don't have an answer for that. Don't know what any of this means or where it leads. All I know is that sitting here with him feels right in a way nothing has since Bree disappeared.
"Now we go back," I say finally. "And we figure out how to help her. Together."
Wes nods slowly, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders. When he stands, I follow, and for a moment we just look at each other in the dim hallway.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
I want to tell him he doesn't need to thank me. Want to explain that I'd do it again in a heartbeat, that something in me wants to keep doing it until he never feels empty again.
Instead, I just nod.
Because some things don't need words yet.
Some things just need time.