Chapter 44
Thane
I step into the garden through the sanctuary's side door, drawn by voices drifting through the night air.
The hunger claws at me, but it's not the same hunger I've known for centuries.
Three weeks. Three weeks since I last fed, since she opened that door and everything I understood about myself began to unravel.
Three weeks of telling myself I'm choosing not to feed. Of convincing myself it's strategy, control, protection of her.
But the truth I won't admit—can't admit—sits like ice in my chest: I've tried. Twice. Fed on willing donors in the camps when the need became unbearable.
And felt nothing. No satisfaction. No sustenance. Just emptiness that left me hungrier than before.
The scent hits me first. Vanilla and honey, undercut with something wilder that makes my fangs ache behind my lips. But there's another scent too. Male. Unfamiliar. Wrong.
I move silent as shadow between the mira trees, violet-purple leaves catching moonlight as I track the voices to their source.
"—really is beautiful here," Seth is saying, his tone warm, genuine.
"I think it responds to emotion," Bree replies, and I can hear the soft smile in her voice. "Maybe it picks up on whatever we're feeling."
I stop breathing. That's the voice she uses when she's unguarded. When she's not watching every word, calculating what might be safe to say.
I've watched her use it with the others over these past weeks—with Wes when he brings her tea, with Jace when he makes her laugh, with all of them. Everyone but Stellan and me.
She trusts him.
Something cold and vicious unfurls as I catch sight of them through the branches. Bree sitting on the stone bench, relaxed in ways she isn't around me. Seth beside her, close enough that their knees almost touch.
Close enough to hurt her before I could intervene.
The hunger sharpens, but not for blood. For more. For something that might not exist anymore.
What if I can't feed from anyone? The thought surfaces before I can bury it. What if whatever she's done to me is permanent?
What if I'm broken?
"I should probably head back," Seth says, rising from the bench. "Thank you for showing me around. For... everything."
"Anytime," Bree says, and the easy generosity in her voice makes something twist behind my ribs.
"Goodnight, Bree."
"Goodnight."
The simple exchange shouldn't feel like a knife to the chest. Shouldn't make every instinct I have roar with the need to eliminate a threat that might not even be there.
Seth walks away, disappearing into the shadows beyond the garden. But Bree doesn't follow. She stays on the bench, tilting her head back to look at the stars filtering through the mira leaves.
Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls something out. Something that catches the moonlight and throws it back in fractured silver.
A mirror.
My blood turns to ice. Small, handheld, but there's something wrong about it. The frame is all spirals and curves that flow into sharp points like horns. The surface seems to drink light rather than reflect it properly, and even from here I can sense something ancient and hungry about it.
She's holding it up, studying her reflection in the moonlight, completely unaware of what she might be looking into.
What might be looking back.
Pain flares beneath my ribs, sudden and searing.
The Council summons burns through my flesh like acid, and I barely bite back a curse as the magic wraps around me like chains. Not now. Not when she's alone in the garden, unprotected, trusting—
The magic tears me sideways through space before I can do anything but watch her sitting alone beneath the purple leaves.
The Chamber of Five materializes around me in a rush of cold stone and calculated malice. Same black throne, same position of deliberate inferiority. But this time, something's different.
The tension in the room is sharp enough to cut.
Valdris stands perfectly still, flames dying to embers at her feet. Marcus sits rigid in his steel throne, fingers steepled. Nyx lounges with predatory stillness that means someone's about to bleed.
And Eris—Eris is staring directly at me with silver eyes that see too much.
"You're late," Valdris says.
"I wasn't summoned. I was dragged."
"Semantics." Marcus's voice cuts like frost. "The result is the same."
"Three more surges," Eris says, her voice hollow and distant. "Stronger each time. The girl is not stabilizing. She's escalating."
Every muscle in my body goes tight. They're talking about Bree—of course they are. But this time it's not just observation or strategy. Her power is escalating beyond what they expected.
It's not something they can ignore any longer.
"She's learning control," I say, keeping my voice level even as something violent claws at my ribs.
"Control?" Nyx laughs, sharp and mocking. "Darling, half the magical community felt her last flare. She's not controlling anything—she's broadcasting."
"The situation is contained—"
"The situation," Valdris interrupts, "is that an untrained Source is gathering followers and power in equal measure. You were sent to assess her, not court her."
The words cut deep. I force myself not to react, but something cold settles in my stomach.
"I've been monitoring—"
"You've been compromised." Marcus's tone is flat, final. "It was expected. Feeders are notoriously susceptible to Source influence."
Susceptible. Like what I feel for her is weakness. Like the way my entire existence has shifted around her presence is just magical compulsion.
But there's something else in his tone. Something that cuts deeper.
"Perhaps," Nyx adds with that razor-sharp smile of hers, "it's not her Ether that compromised you. Perhaps your appetite is simply... failing."
The words hit like ice water in my veins. Because she's not wrong.
Because I haven't been able to feed properly since I met Bree. Because every attempt leaves me emptier than before. Because what used to sustain me for centuries now tastes like ash and desperation.
The hunger twists, becomes something desperate and frightening.
"Seventy-two hours," Valdris says. "Bring her to the neutral ground at Thornfield. Alive, unharmed, and willing to submit to Council judgment."
"And if she refuses?"
"She won't," Eris says softly. "Not if you explain the alternative."
Something in her tone makes my blood run cold. "What alternative?"
Marcus smiles—thin and sharp as a blade. "If you fail to retrieve her, we're sending a replacement. Someone less... entangled."
The words ring like a death knell in my ears. Because I know exactly what kind of replacement they'd send. What kind of operative has no qualms about breaking an untrained Source into compliance.
"Who?"
"Phil Donnahue," Valdris says. "He's been monitoring her for the past ten years, most recently posing as her landlord. He volunteered. Quite enthusiastically, actually."
My stomach drops. Phil. I know the name from reports, but this is the first I'm hearing about a decade-long operation.
The hybrid who's been in her life all this time—shifter instincts wrapped in mentalist precision.
Close enough to hunt her scent, her Ether trails, and break her mind piece by piece whenever the Council gave the word.
"You can't." The words tear out of me before I can stop them. "He'll destroy her."
"He'll do what you apparently cannot." Marcus leans forward. "He'll bring her home."
"This is her home!"
Silence. Four sets of eyes watching me with varying degrees of satisfaction. Like they've been waiting for me to crack.
"Attachment," Nyx purrs. "How... predictable."
The hunger roars to life, making my fangs extend fully. Making every careful mask I wear crack at the edges.
"After that, Phil has lethal authority if she resists."
The Council's magic tears me away from the chamber, depositing me back in the sanctuary garden like discarded refuse. Everything feels different now. Sharper. More urgent.
She's still here. Safe—for now. But for how long?
The hunger claws at me, made worse by the Council's casual dismissal of what I feel for her. Susceptible. Like centuries of survival mean nothing against Source influence.
Maybe they're right. Maybe that's all this is.
But it doesn't feel like compulsion when I think about her trusting Seth. When I remember the way she said goodnight to him, easy and unguarded.
It feels like something far more dangerous.
Every instinct I have is screaming. The need to make sure she's safe. To eliminate every threat before they can touch her.
But underneath it all, a more terrifying realization crystallizes.
I can't go back to strangers and shadows. To surviving on casual violence and detached hunger. That version of me died the moment she looked at me like I mattered.
Whatever she's done to me—whatever I've become because of her—there's no undoing it.