Chapter 14
Jace
The kitchen feels like a graveyard after everyone scatters. Theo's hunched over his laptop, typing like he's trying to escape through the keyboard. Rhett leans against the counter, staring out the window at nothing, his jaw working like he's chewing on words he can't say.
And me? I'm standing here like an idiot, trying to figure out how everything went sideways so fast.
"Well," I say, aiming for my usual lightness, "pretty sure they're gonna replace us with council guys who wear silk and smirk for a living."
The joke falls flat. Hits the floor and dies there.
Rhett doesn't even glance my way. Theo stops typing.
"Then stop acting like you're expendable."
The words slice through the air, sharp enough to draw blood. Theo doesn't look up from his screen, but there's steel in his voice I've never heard before. Cold and cutting and aimed right at my chest.
The silence that follows feels sharp enough to choke on.
I blink, caught off guard by the sudden venom. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know exactly what it means." Theo's fingers have gone still on the keyboard, but he still won't look at me. "You deflect with jokes every time something gets real. Like you're afraid if you stop being funny for five seconds, we'll realize we don't need you."
The words hit like a sucker punch. My throat tightens, but I force out a laugh that sounds hollow even to me. "Jesus, Theo. Tell me how you really feel."
That finally gets him to look up. His dark eyes are sharp with frustration, but there's something else there too. Something that looks almost like regret.
"Jace, wait—"
"Nah." I shake my head, already backing toward the door. "It's fine. Really. Message received loud and clear."
I'm out of the kitchen before either of them can say another word, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. The hallway feels too narrow, like the walls are closing in and I can't quite catch my breath.
Expendable.
The word echoes in my head, mixing with Theo's voice until I can't tell which one's worse—hearing it or knowing he's probably right.
I need air. Need space. Need to move before I do something stupid like punch a wall or break down in the middle of the hallway where anyone might see.
The back door slams harder than I mean it to as I step outside, cold air hitting my overheated skin like a slap. The yard is quiet, empty, just shadows and moonlight stretching across the grass. Better than the suffocating weight of concern inside.
I grab my throwing knives from where I stashed them by the door—old habit from when we were kids and I needed somewhere to put my restless energy. The familiar weight of the blades in my hands is grounding, real in a way nothing else feels right now.
If I can't be magical, I can at least be sharp.
The first knife flies true, embedding in the old oak with a satisfying thunk. The second follows, then the third. Fast, angry throws that dare something—anything—to come at me.
But as I settle into the rhythm, something starts to shift.
The fourth knife veers slightly midair, correcting its trajectory in a way that shouldn't be possible. I feel the air shift around me, just enough to raise goosebumps.
Weird.
I pull another blade, focus harder this time. The throw is perfect—too perfect. The knife hangs in the air for just a beat too long before embedding itself exactly where I aimed.
My breathing picks up, not from exertion but from something else. Something that makes my skin prickle and the air around me feel... different.
"Not now," I mutter, wiping sweat from my forehead. "Not tonight."
But even as I say it, I can feel something stirring in my chest. Like a door I didn't know existed has cracked open, and whatever's on the other side is trying to get out.
I throw the rest of the knives in quick succession, each one finding its mark with impossible precision. When I'm done, I stand there breathing hard, staring at the perfect pattern they've made in the bark.
That's not normal. That's not human.
But I don't have the energy to deal with whatever this is. Not tonight. Not when Theo's words are still echoing in my head, cutting deeper than any blade ever could.
I collect the knives in silence, shoving them back into their sheaths with more force than necessary. The house looms ahead, warm light spilling from the windows like a promise I'm not sure I deserve.
As I slip back through the door, the familiar sounds of home wash over me—the hum of the refrigerator, the creak of old floorboards, the distant murmur of voices from upstairs. It should be comforting. Instead, it just reminds me how easy it would be for all of this to disappear.
How easy it would be for them to realize they don't need me.
I'm halfway to my room when I hear it—Bree's voice, soft and muffled, drifting from behind her door. She's not alone. Theo's voice answers, too quiet for me to make out words but unmistakably his.
I should keep walking. Should give them privacy. Should mind my own damn business.
Instead, I slow my steps, drawn by the need to know something, anything about what's really going on.
"I called work," Bree is saying, her voice barely audible through the wood. "Told them I needed more time."
Theo says something I can't catch, his tone gentle but serious.
"I know," Bree replies. "But I can't ask them to come with me. I can't ask any of you to uproot your lives just because mine is falling apart." Her voice cracks slightly. "I've already taken enough from all of you just by existing."
The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. Taken from us? She thinks she's taken something from us?
Theo's response is too quiet to hear, but whatever he says makes Bree laugh—bitter and broken.
"Maybe. But that doesn't make it fair."
I step back from the door, my chest tight with emotions I don't want to feel. She's not trying to leave us behind. She's trying not to take us down with her.
But she doesn't understand. Doesn't realize that we're already gone. That we crossed that line years ago and there's no going back.
My fists clench at my sides as I retreat to my room, Theo's words and Bree's pain mixing together into something sharp and jagged in my chest.
Expendable.
Maybe I am. Maybe we all are, in the face of whatever's coming for her. But I'd follow her anyway. Into whatever mess she thinks she's dragging us toward.
Gods help me, I already have.