Chapter 7
Stellan
The sanctuary doors slam open with enough force to rattle the ancient hinges.
I remain in the shadows of the hallway, deliberately apart, as the others storm through the common room like a pack of wolves scenting blood. But they’re not unified in their panic—each carries their own flavor of doubt.
Rhett leads the charge, fire crackling beneath his skin, convinced something’s wrong but not knowing what.
Gray follows, still breathing hard from his transformation back to human form—the shift was brutal, bones cracking and reforming in reverse, but faster this time.
His shifter instincts still scream warnings even in his human skin.
Theo moves with the jerky uncertainty of someone fighting fragmented visions that refuse to clarify.
Thane brings up the rear, silver eyes cold with calculation—he’s the most convinced something’s wrong.
Wes trails behind, pale and sick-looking, torn between his hunger recognizing her and his instincts recoiling. The only one who seems genuinely convinced is Jace—and that’s exactly the problem.
Their certainty ranges from Thane’s cold suspicion to Wes’s desperate hope to Jace’s complete conviction that nothing’s changed. It’s not a witch hunt—it’s a fracture line running through the group, and she’s about to exploit every crack.
But it’s the sound from the bedroom that stops them cold.
Her voice, confident and sultry: “Ready for round two?”
Then Jace’s breathless response: “Christ, Bree. Yes. Always yes.”
Followed by her laugh. Low, satisfied, entirely too pleased with herself.
The guys exchange glances sharp enough to cut glass. Without a word, they move toward her bedroom door. I drift after them, staying back, watching. Already cataloging what I’m about to witness.
For Jace’s sake, I hope I’m wrong.
Rhett doesn’t knock. He kicks the door open.
The tableau that greets us is damning in its intimacy.
Jace sprawled naked against the pillows, hair mussed, chest still heaving. And straddling him, equally bare, skin flushed with satisfaction—the woman wearing Bree’s face.
“Jesus Christ!” Jace jolts at the intrusion, his hands flying to her hips, trying to shield her body with his own.
But it’s not Bree.
I know this with the same certainty I know my own name. Everything about her posture screams conquest rather than vulnerability. The way she doesn’t scramble for covers, doesn’t flush with embarrassment. She simply turns to look at us with cool assessment, like she expected this interruption.
Like she orchestrated it.
Her mouth curves in a slow, predatory smirk. Then she begins to move again—deliberately.
“Bree, what are you—” Jace’s voice cracks with shock and unwilling response as she rolls her hips. His confusion is immediate—why isn’t she mortified? Why is she continuing?
There’s something predatory in the tilt of her head as she watches us watch them. Something that enjoys their shock, their horror at finding her like this. The real Bree would have been mortified, would have hidden behind Jace, stammering apologies.
This creature preens.
“Well,” she says, voice carrying none of Bree’s usual startled breathlessness as she finally stills. “This is cozy.”
Rhett’s hands ignite, but there’s something desperate in the gesture—he knows something’s wrong but can’t articulate what. “What the fuck is this?”
“Rhett!” Jace startles again, now dragging a sheet half over both of them as he pulls her close, one arm moving protectively around her waist. His defense is immediate, automatic. He sees an attack on her where the others see necessary questions. “Jesus, what are you—”
“That,” I say quietly from the doorway, “is not Bree.”
The words cut through the chaos like a blade.
Every head turns toward me, but the reactions are telling.
Gray nods slightly—he suspected. Theo’s eyes widen with recognition, pieces clicking together.
Thane’s expression doesn’t change, but his stillness carries agreement.
Wes looks like he might be sick. Rhett just looks confused, fire guttering.
But Jace? Jace looks betrayed.
The woman meets my gaze steadily, and for just a moment, something flickers behind her expression. Something cold and calculating.
Recognition. And perhaps the faintest hint of wariness.
Good. She should be wary.
Then she blinks, and it’s gone, replaced by perfect confusion.
“Not Bree?” She tilts her head, the picture of innocent bewilderment.
Her eyes widen in mock confusion, but the expression holds a beat too long—just enough to be wrong.
“Then who am I, Stellan? Look at Jace.” Her fingers stroke through his hair with possessive gentleness, marking territory. “Does he think I’m anyone else?”
The gesture is deliberate. Intimate. Designed to use their connection against his judgment.
Jace’s jaw sets stubbornly, protective fury overwhelming any doubt. “She’s fine. She’s safe, she’s herself—stop attacking her!”
“Jace,” Gray says carefully, and I can hear the weight of his own suspicions finally finding voice. “Doesn’t she seem different to you?”
“Different how?” Jace’s brow furrows, genuine confusion in his voice.
Her Ether, black and fluid, curls around them both as if content.
His face sets with sudden determination. “The only thing wrong,” Jace continues, louder, drowning out whatever doubt was forming, “is you all barging in here like she’s some kind of threat. She’s been through a lot. Maybe give her five minutes to—”
“You know as well as we do,” Theo interrupts, his voice carrying unusual urgency, “by the time we reached the chamber, whatever happened had already happened. And now she’s here, but whoever this is, isn’t acting like Bree.”
For the briefest moment, uncertainty flickers across her features. A crack in the performance.
Then she leans into Jace, voice soft and wounded. “I don’t remember everything. It was… overwhelming. But I’m here now. I’m safe.” She looks up at him with perfect trust, eyes wide and vulnerable. “You kept me safe.”
The manipulation is flawless. She’s turned their reunion into proof of his protection, his worth. Made him complicit in defending her.
And that’s when I see it.
Black Ether threaded with silver, unfurling like smoke. It moves with purpose, seeking targets with predatory intelligence. The inversion of everything Bree’s Ether should be—darkness laced with light instead of light touched by shadow.
Rhett first—the one most confused by his own instincts. The dark threads wind around his wrists, and I watch his expression shift like a mask falling away. The fire beneath his skin gutters. His shoulders drop. “She… she looks okay.” The confusion in his voice is immediate, crushing.
Then Theo—the one whose visions threatened to expose her. The mist brushes his temples, and his eyes lose their sharp focus. “Maybe the visions were symbolic,” he mutters, pressing a hand to his forehead like he’s fighting a headache. His gift, suppressed.
Gray she handles more carefully—his resistance is stronger, his shifter instincts harder to subvert. The threads circle him like a predator testing defenses before finding the crack: his guilt about failing to protect her. The tension bleeds from his posture slowly. “If Jace says she’s fine…”
Wes simply deflates the moment the darkness touches his chest, his desperate hope winning over his Feeder instincts. “I knew it was her.” The relief in his voice is heartbreaking—he genuinely believes he’s found her again.
But when the mist reaches for Thane, something entirely different happens. The threads don’t just hesitate—they recoil. Like they’ve touched something that burns them.
Thane’s silver eyes remain sharp, calculating, completely unaffected.
Whatever just happened, he felt nothing.
But he’s smart enough to play along. His posture relaxes slightly, just enough to seem influenced.
For a breath, his gaze flickers—not at her, but somewhere else.
Like he hears something we can’t. “Perhaps we’re being paranoid,” he says, but I catch the deliberate choice of words. Perhaps. Not conviction—calculation.
I watch it all with cold precision. The systematic suppression of doubt. The way guilt replaces suspicion the moment her power touches them. How perfectly she’s turned their protective instincts against their better judgment.
And Thane’s immunity—whatever caused it—proves she can be resisted. The question is how, and why him specifically.
I wait for it to reach me, but nothing comes. No tendril seeking, no threads testing. She didn’t just fail to influence me, she never tried at all. Whether by mistake or instinct, she knows I won’t bend.
I keep my expression neutral, give no sign that her influence failed. Better to let her think she’s won completely. Let her think I’m simply uninterested. Uninvested in their domestic drama.
“There,” she says, settling back against Jace with a satisfied smile. One hand strokes his hair while the other traces patterns on his chest—a double claim of ownership. “Better?”
Jace’s arm tightens around her waist, and he glares at us with protective fury. “You scared her for nothing. She’s been through enough.”
The others begin to shuffle, embarrassed by their suspicion. Rhett clears his throat, fire extinguished completely. Theo runs a hand through his hair, looking confused. Wes wraps his arms around himself, radiating shame.
“We should let you rest,” Gray says quietly. “Sorry for… barging in.”
They file out one by one, expressions confused and slightly guilty. As if they can’t quite remember why they were so certain something was wrong. The Ether has done its work perfectly—not erasing their memories, but making their instincts feel cruel and unworthy.
I linger in the doorway, arms crossed, studying the woman who wears Bree’s face. She meets my gaze with cool triumph, one hand still moving through Jace’s hair in slow, possessive strokes. Thinking she’s fooled us all.
Her smile is razor-sharp. Victorious.
“Sweet dreams,” I say mildly, and turn to follow the others.
The hallway is silent except for their retreating footsteps. As I step into it, my eyes catch Thane’s. His expression is carefully neutral, but something passes between us—a flicker of recognition. Understanding.
He felt it too. Whatever just happened, we both know.
The smallest nod. Barely perceptible. An acknowledgment that we’ll talk later, away from listening ears and manipulative mist.
I return it just as subtly, then follow the others down the hall.
I can’t stop thinking about what I witnessed. The clinical precision of her manipulation. The way she turned their love for Bree into a weapon against their own instincts. How she made Jace into her shield and the others into her unwitting accomplices.
The others may forget their doubts, mist-touched and guilt-ridden.
I will not. And I don’t think Thane will either.
And when her mask finally slips—as it inevitably will—I’ll be ready.
For now, I simply wait. And watch. And remember everything.
Some games are not won by the first move. They’re decided by the last cut.