Chapter 40
Jace
"You seriously want to go alone again?"
Bree pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and gives me that look. The one that says she knows exactly what I'm doing but hasn't decided if she's annoyed or amused yet.
It's the fourth day in a row she's done this—slipping out after breakfast to check on the camps, help with repairs, heal small things with that instinctive Ether touch of hers. And it's the fourth day I've watched her go without saying anything.
"Come on, sunshine," I continue, leaning against the wall with what I hope looks like casual confidence. "You've got, like, ten adoring bodyguards and you pick 'solo brooding in the woods' as your hobby?"
"Jace..." There's warning in her voice, but her mouth is fighting a smile.
I grin. "Tell me you don't want me with you. Go ahead. Say it with a straight face."
She tries. I can see her trying to look stern, trying to maintain that careful distance she's been wrapping around herself lately. But the smile wins, small and genuine, and something warm settles in my chest.
"Fine," she says. "But no complaining when your shoes get muddy."
"Sweetheart, I live for muddy shoes."
She rolls her eyes as we head out through the back door, as I pretend not to notice.
The sanctuary forest is alive with dappled sunlight and the soft hum of Ether-touched homes scattered between the trees like living lanterns. It's been a few days since the garden dinner, since everything shifted and settled into something that feels almost normal.
Well. Normal for us.
Bree moves through the camps with easy grace, checking on new arrivals, offering help in that way that only Bree can manage. The Ether flows around her feet like water, lighting her steps, responding to needs she hasn't even noticed yet.
A teenage girl braiding flowers into the moss-covered steps of her new home looks up as we pass. She holds out a white blossom to Bree with shy reverence.
"For you, Miss Ether."
I snort. "That's not a name, that's a superhero alias."
Bree takes the flower anyway, touches the girl's hand gently. "Thank you. It's beautiful."
We keep walking, past a mother waving from her doorway as Bree adjusts a fallen branch with a gesture. Past an elderly man tending a garden that definitely wasn't there yesterday. Everyone we pass smiles when they see her. Real smiles. The kind that come from gratitude and genuine affection.
And watching her respond to them—shy but warm, giving pieces of herself without thinking—makes something in my chest feel too tight.
I'm proud of her. Proud to be walking beside her. Proud that she chose to let me come along.
But there's something else underneath that I'm not sure I can think about right now.
A group of kids spots us and comes running, eyes bright with excitement.
"Are you the one with the flying knives?" one of them asks, bouncing on his toes.
I grin, pulling a blade from my belt and spinning it on my finger. The kids gasp appropriately, and I show off just enough to earn some impressed whispers before making the knife disappear again.
"Magic," I say with a wink.
Bree's watching me with something soft in her expression. "Show-off."
"Always."
We're still laughing when Bree suddenly stops walking.
Like full-stop, mid-step, air sucked out of the moment.
Her whole posture changes—shoulders tensing, breath catching, head tilted slightly like she's just seen something impossible.
I follow her line of sight.
There's a guy up ahead. Tall. Broad shoulders. Rolled sleeves. He's on a ladder, securing a moss-woven beam for one of the new houses. Moving like he belongs there. Like he's done this a thousand times. Confident. Capable. Maybe a little too capable.
I’ve never seen him before in my life.
Bree stares at him like she has.
She takes a step forward, then another. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Seth?”
And just like that, I know exactly how absolutely fucked I am.
Because I've never heard her say my name like that.
The guy—Seth, apparently—looks down and sees her. And his whole face softens, like she’s exactly who he was hoping to find.
He climbs down slow, steady, measured. Like he’s had practice making people feel safe. Like he's good at it.
When he reaches the ground, he doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t look around. He just looks at her.
“Bree,” he says, and it’s not just a name. It’s an entire sentence. A memory. A promise.
And maybe I’m imagining it, but she sways toward him like her body forgot I was even standing here.
I step forward, throwing on a grin that feels like armor. “Hey there. You new in town?”
He extends his hand. "Seth."
"He helped one of the families near the border yesterday morning," Bree explains, and I can hear the soft pleasure in her voice. "Stayed behind after the walk. I told him it was okay."
Of course she did.
I shake his hand, grip firm enough to make a point. "Of course it's okay. She's the queen of the glowing forest now. You need a crown? We can probably whip one up out of moonbeams."
Seth grins, and it's annoyingly genuine. "You must be one of hers."
The words hits somewhere inside me I didn't know existed.
One of hers.
He's not wrong. But hearing it said out loud, so casually, makes something in me twist with heat.
I liked it better before it meant competition.
Bree doesn't notice the tension. She's too busy asking Seth how his morning went, if he needs anything. When he says he's fine, she smiles—not the ethereal, magic-touched smile she gives the crowds, but the real one. The shy one she gave me once when I bandaged her ankle last fall.
And it's not mine this time.
We leave Seth with the family and continue our rounds, but something's shifted. I've gone quiet, and for once, I can't find a joke to fill the silence.
Bree glances at me after a few minutes. "You okay?"
I try to brush it off, make some crack about Seth needing a haircut. But the words feel hollow even as I say them.
Because the truth is, I didn't think it would feel like this. Watching her look at someone else the way she looked at him. Not when she's still looking at all of us too.
I wasn't ready for him or anyone else to matter. Not to her. Not like this.
"Jace?" She's stopped walking, concern clear in her green eyes.
"I'm fine, sweetheart," I say, but even I can hear how thin it sounds.
She studies my face for a moment, then calls something over her shoulder about checking on the family by the creek. I watch the curve of her spine as she walks ahead, the sway of her hair catching sunlight.
I don't follow right away.
Because standing here, watching her move through the world like she belongs in it, I'm realizing something I should have figured out weeks ago.
If I want to be someone she chooses—really chooses, not just tolerates or finds amusing—I've got to stop pretending I don't care if she doesn't.
I've got to stop hiding behind jokes and sharp grins and casual indifference.
I've got to let it matter.
Finally, I start walking again, catching up to her easy stride. But something in me has shifted, settled into a new shape.
I'm not sure if that scares me or excites me more. I guess we'll find out.