Chapter 45
Bree
The mirror feels cold in my hands as I turn it over, watching moonlight catch the surface and disappear. Not reflect—disappear. Like the light falls into it and never comes back out.
Seth's footsteps faded into the shadows, but I'm still sitting here. Still thinking about Theo crashing through those doors like something was chasing him. The raw panic in his voice when he yelled at Seth.
Get away from her.
Like Seth was a threat. Like I was in danger.
But Seth had looked as confused as I felt. Just a man showing concern when someone started yelling. Concern for me like I mattered.
So why does my chest feel tight when I think about it?
I trace the mirror's twisted frame with my thumb. The way my reflection wavered in it earlier, the way my eyes glowed red then went completely black... it should terrify me.
Instead, it just feels important. Like something I was meant to find.
I'm not scared of it, I tell myself. But maybe I should be.
I feel him before I hear him, like a shiver down my spine I'm not sure if I'm ready for or not.
"You're always watching," I say to the darkness behind me.
His voice comes low and controlled: "You shouldn't have been out here alone."
"You weren't here to stop me."
Silence. When I glance back, he looks wrecked. Not his usual composed mask, but something raw and barely held together. His silver eyes are too bright, his jaw set like he's grinding his teeth.
"Why are you really here?" I ask, turning to face him fully.
He doesn't answer immediately. Just moves closer, his gaze flicking to the mirror in my hands, then to my face. Something dangerous flickers behind his careful control.
"Where did you get that?"
"The garden. I found it earlier buried under the vines by the oak tree." I hold it up between us. "Do you know what it is?"
His expression goes carefully blank. "You shouldn't be touching it."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting."
I stand, frustration flaring. "I'm tired of people deciding what I can and can't handle. First Theo with his panic attack, now you with your cryptic warnings—"
"Theo was right to panic."
The words cut through my anger like ice water. I stare at him, processing the absolute certainty in his voice.
"What do you mean?"
Instead of answering, he steps closer. His hand lifts, hovering near my face like he wants to touch me but doesn't quite dare.
"You have no idea what you're dealing with," he says quietly. "What any of this means."
"Then tell me."
His fingers brush my cheek, just barely. The contact sends heat shooting down my spine, but there's something desperate in the way he touches me. Like he's trying to memorize the feeling.
I don't flinch. I should—contact like this usually makes my body freeze or pull away—but I don't. When did that change? When did I start feeling safe enough with him, with anyone, that my body doesn't brace for impact?
"I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
His thumb traces along my jawline, and I feel his control crack just slightly. "Both."
That's when his hand slips lower, fingers grazing the cluster of scars along my collarbone where my shirt has shifted. For a second, I'm amazed by how it feels—gentle, reverent, like he's touching something precious instead of damaged. The moment his skin makes contact—
The world explodes.
Not light. Memory.
I'm twelve years old, hiding in my bedroom closet. My father's voice drifts up the stairs, sickly sweet and patient.
"Bree, sweetheart, where are you? Daddy just wants to talk."
I press deeper into the closet, knowing he'll find me eventually. Knowing what happens when he stops using that fake-gentle voice.
I gasp, jerking backward, but the memory clings like smoke. Thane staggers, his hand falling away from my skin like I've burned him.
"What the hell did you just do?" My voice comes out shaky, raw.
He looks as shattered as I feel, silver eyes wide with something like horror. "I didn't—I don't know how—"
"You saw it." It's not a question. I can see the knowledge written across his face, the way he's looking at me like I'm broken glass. "You felt what I felt."
He nods once, sharp and pained.
"That was the first time I realized no one was coming to stop him," I whisper.
"You were just a child."
"So were you, once."
Something shifts in his expression. Raw recognition, maybe.
Or grief. He reaches for me again, instinctively, his hand slipping lower to graze the cluster of scars along my collarbone where my shirt has shifted.
For a second, I'm amazed by how it feels—gentle, reverent, like he's touching something precious instead of damaged. The moment our skin connects—
Another flash.
Suddenly my body is larger, stronger, built like a predator. The room dim around me as I look into the eyes of a young man.
"Yes, just this once."
I don't hesitate, my fangs extending, sinking into his willing flesh.
He moans beneath me, body arching into the bite, lost in his own pleasure.
But the hunger claws at me, desperate and aching, while I close my eyes and pretend it's her skin beneath my lips.
Her pulse, her warmth, her choice. But it's not.
His blood tastes like ash as it coats my tongue.
It's not her. Not what I really want, not who I need.
And somehow the hunger is worse than before I started. We break apart, both breathing hard.
Suddenly I'm back in my own body, smaller, softer, but still shaking from the memory of being him. Of feeling his desperation, his hunger, his shame.
Thane looks wrecked. Not just shattered like before—mortified. Like I've seen something he never meant for anyone to know.
"Is that what it's like when you feed?" I ask quietly.
"Not like that." His voice is barely a whisper. "Not ever. Not until you."
The space between us feels charged, electric. I take a step closer, drawn by something I don't entirely understand.
"What if I want to be different?"
The words hang between us. Something shifts in his expression—hunger, maybe, or need. His careful control cracks just a little.
"Bree—"
"I'm not a child anymore," I say softly. "And I'm not afraid of you."
He moves then, suddenly, backing me toward the low stone wall that separates the garden from the world beyond. Not aggressive—urgent. Like he can't help himself anymore.
My back meets stone. His hands brace on either side of me, caging me in but not trapping me. I could slip away if I wanted.
I don't want to.
"Tell me to stop," he breathes against my ear.
"No."