Chapter 27 Bree
Bree
I wake up alone in the circular bed, and for a moment, I forget where I am.
The room is soft with morning light filtering through the dome above. The walls still hold their gentle glow, silver script pulsing faintly like a sleeping heartbeat. The bed itself seems to exhale around me.
When I sit up, I notice things that weren't there last night.
A mug on the bedside shelf—my favorite mug, the chipped blue one from the apartment I don't want to remember. Soft slippers beside the bed that I definitely didn't pack. Rhett's sweatshirt draped over a chair, though I don't remember him leaving it there.
The Ether is still building for me. Still paying attention to what I need before I know I need it.
It should be unsettling. Instead, it feels like being held.
I pad across the room in the gifted slippers, pulling on Rhett's sweatshirt from where he left it draped over the chair. It's perfectly oversized, perfectly soft, and smells like him—cedar and warmth and something indefinably safe.
It hangs low on my thighs, brushing just past the tops. I know I'm wearing shorts underneath, but it doesn't exactly look like it. And I don't bother fixing that.
The old me would've covered up. I'm not sure I feel quite like old me anymore.
The sanctuary hallway opens before me as I walk, doorways revealing themselves with warm light. I don't question it anymore. This place knows me, and I'm starting to know it back.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the polished metal panel by the hall—bare legs, Rhett's sweatshirt, hair still sleep-tousled. I should go back and grab pants. I don't.
Let them look. I don't think my scars are meant to be hidden anymore.
The kitchen, when I find it, steals my breath.
Gray's already there—leaning against the counter, mug in hand.
His eyes lift at the sound of my footsteps... and then lower.
They linger, just for a second, on my bare legs.
Then flick up too fast, like he's ashamed to have looked at all. Like he caught himself breaking a rule.
Something flickers in my chest. Not anger exactly. Not shame. Just... something sharp.
He looked, and then he looked away. And somehow that hurts more than if he hadn’t looked at all.
I don’t know what I expected. Maybe nothing. Maybe just... not that.
“Morning,” he says, suddenly fascinated by the inside of his coffee mug.
I don’t answer. Not right away.
Something folds tight in my chest, and I don’t know how to name it.
So I breathe in. Look around. Anchor myself to what’s real.
Sunlight pours through tall windows wrapped in flowering vines.
The counters are smooth gray stone, warm to the touch.
An old hearth glows with gentle flame that doesn't seem to need fuel.
A large island sits in the center—familiar in its proportions, like the sanctuary remembered how we used to gather around the kitchen table back home.
Everything is beautiful in that way that feels both ancient and perfectly maintained.
And the pantry is full.
Baskets of fruit that look like they were picked this morning. Loaves of bread that smell like they just came from an oven I can't see. Fresh eggs in a bowl, milk in glass bottles, herbs hanging in bundles that fill the air with green scent.
I should question where it all came from. Should worry about magic I don't understand providing things I didn't ask for.
Instead, I just feel grateful.
I decide to make breakfast. Something simple—toast and eggs for whoever wakes up hungry. It's the least I can do after... everything. After they followed me here, after they saw the bed the Ether built and didn't run away.
But the toaster, when I find it, doesn't look like any toaster I've ever seen. It's made of the same warm stone as the counters, with symbols carved into its surface that glow faintly when I touch them.
I put bread in anyway. Press what looks like it might be the right symbol.
The bread disappears in a flash of silver light.
"Okay," I say to myself. "Not that one."
I try again with new bread, a different symbol. This time the bread comes back... black. Smoking. Definitely not edible.
The eggs don't go much better. The magical stove seems to have opinions about temperature that don't match mine. What should be a simple scramble turns into something that might generously be called abstract art.
I’m standing there with a smoking pan and the distinct smell of culinary failure when I realize Gray hasn’t moved.
He’s still leaning against the counter, mug in hand—but he’s watching me now.
Eyes tracking the mess I’ve made like he’s trying to decide whether to intervene or let me work it out myself.
Then his gaze drops again.
Not by accident this time.
It lingers—not long, not leering, just... held.
Like he’s not fighting it as hard this time. Like some part of him is tired of pretending not to look.
When his eyes meet mine again, there’s something unsteady in them. A quiet apology, maybe. Or regret for hiding it the first time.
I don’t look away.
He meets my eyes and clears his throat. “Need a hand?
Before I can answer, he crosses to the toaster, reaching around me to press a different symbol.
His chest brushes lightly against my back—barely a touch, but enough to feel the heat of him.
It lights something sharp and unfamiliar under my skin.
He doesn’t move right away. Just stands there, close and careful, like he’s trying not to spook me.
Almost too careful.
The toaster chimes softly, and a perfect slice of golden toast pops up.
“I didn’t mean to crowd you,” he says quietly, voice low and close to my ear.
“You didn’t.” I swallow. “I just... I’m not used to this.”
“To what?”
I turn in the small space between him and the counter, hand still on the pan, and suddenly we're closer than we've ever been.
Close enough to see the gold flecks in his green eyes.
Close enough to notice the scar along his jaw I’ve never asked about.
Close enough that my pulse forgets what it’s supposed to do.
“To help,” I admit. “To someone stepping in when things go wrong.
Something shifts in his expression. Something gentle and fierce all at once. "You don't have to do everything alone anymore."
He reaches past me again, this time for the pan of experimental eggs. His fingers brush mine on the handle, and I don't pull away. For a moment, we're both still—his hand covering mine, the morning light catching the gold in his eyes.
"I've got it," he says simply.
Then he takes the pan gently, scrapes the disaster into the waste bin, starts fresh.
I should move. Give him space to work. Instead, I lean against the counter and watch his hands—steady, sure, careful with everything he touches.
My mom used to make eggs like that," I say, nodding toward the pan where he's building something that actually looks like breakfast. "Fluffy. Perfect."
Gray doesn’t answer right away. Just stirs the eggs, careful and precise.
Then, quietly—almost like it isn’t meant to be heard—
"She taught me."
I blink. "My mom?"
He nods. Still not looking at me. "You were sick. Stayed home from school. She didn’t want to leave you alone, so... she made breakfast. Said eggs were the only thing you'd eat when you felt like that."
The memory tugs at the edges of my mind—warmth and toast and something soft on a tray—but I thought she made them. I always thought it was her.
"Wait—those eggs were... you?"
He finally meets my eyes. There's something tired in his expression. Honest and unguarded.
"She made the first ones. Showed me how to get them right. Then said if you were going to trust someone else to make them... it might as well be me."
My throat tightens.
I thought she was trying to stay close. That she'd sat with me that morning because she loved me.
But maybe it was more than that.
Maybe she was sharing a piece of herself—passing it to him, so I could still have it, even after she was gone.
"I didn’t know," I whisper.
Gray shrugs like it’s nothing. But he adds a little extra cheese, just the way I like it. Like maybe it’s not nothing at all.
The Ether stirs around my ankles, responding to something in his voice. Or maybe to the way he's looking at me—like he sees the magic she was talking about, even if I don't understand it yet.
Footsteps on the stairs announce the arrival of others. Jace appears first, golden hair sticking up at impossible angles, followed by Wes looking at me like he's hungry and slightly desperate.
Jace whistles low under his breath. "Damn, B. If you were going for casual murder, it's working."
Wes blinks hard. "Wait, is that Rhett's sweatshirt?"
"I thought it was mine," Rhett mutters as he appears behind them, but there's no heat in it—just a quiet possessiveness he doesn't bother hiding.
Wes swallows loudly. "I'm gonna... get coffee." He nearly fumbles the mug, and Jace claps him on the back with an obnoxious grin.
"You good, bro?"
"Totally," Wes says, voice cracking slightly. "Totally good."
Theo doesn't comment when he appears, but his gaze lingers for a beat too long, curious and unreadable.
"Please tell me someone made coffee," Wes says, beelining for the counter where a pot is already waiting. Of course it is.
"And please tell me no one made Bree cook," Jace adds, taking in the scene. "Because last time she tried to make breakfast for all of us, we ended up ordering pizza at eight in the morning."
"Hey," I protest, but there's no heat in it. "That was one time."
"One memorable time," Rhett says, appearing with Theo close behind. He surveys the kitchen, noting the golden toast, the perfect eggs Gray is plating, the general lack of smoke alarms going off. "Good call letting Gray handle it."
"Okay, but let’s not forget the curry night," Wes adds, already pouring his coffee. “That was basically art.”
"True," Jace says, nudging me with his elbow. “You did redeem yourself with that. I’m still dreaming about it.”
I duck my head, smiling despite myself. "That was different. I actually knew what I was doing."
"We noticed," Rhett says, voice softer now. “Still think about it sometimes.
Theo doesn't say anything, but he catches my eye and smiles—soft and knowing and somehow proud.
They settle around the kitchen with the easy familiarity of people who've done this before.
Jace claims a stool at the counter. Wes hovers near the coffee pot like it might disappear if he looks away.
Rhett starts pulling plates from cabinets that definitely weren't open yesterday but seem to be expecting him now.
It's domestic and comfortable and everything I never thought I could have, even in this new space.
That's when Thane walks in.
His gaze sweeps the room once—cataloging the group, the breakfast, the comfort. Then it lands on me. He doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. Just watches in that unblinking, measuring way of his. Like he's logging every exposed inch of skin, not for desire—but for what it might cost.
He doesn't speak right away. But his jaw ticks.
"Morning," he says carefully, silver eyes still taking in the scene.
"Coffee's fresh," Gray offers, not looking up from the eggs he's dividing between plates.
Thane nods but doesn't move toward the pot. Instead, he lingers near the doorway, watching us with that assessing gaze that makes me feel like he's cataloging everything for some report I'll never see.
Stellan appears behind him, and the temperature in the room seems to shift.
Not dramatically. Not dangerously. Just... different.
He leans in the doorway, gray eyes sweeping the kitchen with something I can't identify. When his gaze lands on me, it's not sharp or hungry—it's unreadable. And I hate how much that unsettles me.
"Good morning," he says, voice carrying that familiar edge of amusement.
But the amusement doesn't reach his eyes. And when I offer him coffee, he doesn't quite meet my gaze.
"Morning," I manage, tugging the sweatshirt down a little like it'll help. It doesn't.
"It's more than I expected," he says quietly, still watching me.
"What is?"
He gestures vaguely at the kitchen, at the perfectly brewed coffee and magically stocked pantry and the way everyone moves around each other like pieces of a puzzle finding their places.
"This," he says. "All of it."
There's something in his tone that makes my stomach clench. Not quite approval, not quite concern. Something heavier.
Breakfast proceeds with careful conversation—Jace making observations about magical appliances, Wes inhaling food like he hasn't eaten in days, Theo quietly helping clear plates while catching my eye with small, encouraging smiles.
Rhett positions himself where he can see all the exits, still protective even here.
Normal things that feel surreal in this ancient place that's rearranging itself around my subconscious.
Stellan barely eats. Doesn’t talk much, either, though I can feel something strange in the room—like the energy is humming just beneath the surface.
Jace’s laughter, Wes’s restlessness, the warmth between everyone else…
it should feel like enough. But Stellan just watches, like none of it touches him
He brushes past me to refill his coffee, and the distance feels deliberate. Like the kitchen is too warm for him.
Instead, he watches. Catalogues. Pulls away.
When the last plate is cleared and conversations start to wind down, he stands.
Thane’s still near the wall, arms crossed. Watching. Still.
The room goes quiet.
“I’ll be leaving this morning,” Stellan says, smooth and matter-of-fact.
My coffee mug stops halfway to my lips. “What?”
He sets the cup down with quiet precision. “There are things I need to tend to. Council threads to pull before they tighten.”
There’s no tension in his voice, but something about the phrasing lands wrong.
“Now?” I ask.
“It’s better if I’m not here for what comes next.” His smile is faint and polished. “You’ve made this place yours. The rest of it doesn’t need me.”
“Stellan.” I rise without thinking. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” He cuts me off gently. “But I’m going anyway.”
I step forward, unsure what I’m reaching for. “If it’s about something I did—”
“You didn’t.” His voice softens. Almost warm. “That’s not why I’m leaving.”
He doesn’t offer more than that. Just gives a slight bow of his head—formal, final.
Then he turns toward the others and nods once. Respectful. Measured. He meets Thane’s gaze last.
“Be well, Brielle.”
And then he walks out.
The silence he leaves behind settles like fog.
I stare at the doorway, trying to make sense of the hollowness in my chest.
Behind me, I hear Thane shift. When I glance back, he’s already looking at me.
Not suspicious. Not cold.
Just… watching.
Then he turns without a word and follows Stellan out.