Chapter 11
Bree
I take two steps into the chamber before darkness wraps around my eyes.
Not a blindfold. Not fabric. Solid shadow, pressing against my face like a palm.
My hands fly up, clawing at nothing. There’s nothing to grab. Just weight, heavy and absolute, blocking out everything.
Panic surges—finally, cutting through that unnatural calm—and my breath comes fast and sharp.
I need to see. I need to—
“Shh.”
Ethos.
But his voice—it’s different now. Not in my head. Around me.
I turn toward where I think the sound came from, spinning in the dark, but it moves. Shifts.
He’s circling me.
My body starts to relax even though I’m anything but.
No. No, I need to stay afraid. Fear keeps me sharp. Fear keeps me alive. I can’t let it go, I can’t—
“You’re safe, little queen.”
What the…
Behind me now. Close.
Close enough that I feel—what? Heat? Presence? I don’t know, but the air changes where he is. Gets heavier. Warmer.
I step forward, trying to put space between us.
The voice follows.
“You came to me.” It moves again—left, then right, always circling. “So brave.”
I want to argue. Want to scream that I didn’t have a choice, that the snake led me, that I would’ve died out there.
But did I really not have a choice?
The thought slides in like oil. I could have stayed in the void. Let those things tear me apart. But I followed. I crossed the threshold.
I chose this.
Didn’t I?
“You took what you wanted,” he says, and each word lands with weight. Not just sound—something more. Like I can feel them settling on my skin. “What you deserved. They would have kept it from you forever.”
The air shifts again. Closer this time.
I can feel him now. Not touching, but there. Like standing too close to a fire—you know it’s there even with your eyes closed.
My skin prickles with awareness.
“But you reached out,” he continues, voice low and approving. “You claimed it.”
I try to step back.
My heel hits something solid—a wall, maybe—and I freeze.
Trapped between stone and whatever he is.
The warmth intensifies. He’s right in front of me now. I know it even though I can’t see. I can’t hear footsteps or breathing or anything that would prove he’s real.
But he is.
He’s real, and he’s close, and I can’t move.
“They made you small.” His voice wraps around me now, coming from everywhere and nowhere. “Treated you like you were less. They taught you to shrink. To apologize for existing.”
Something brushes my jaw.
I flinch—but I don’t pull away. Can’t. My body won’t obey.
The touch is light. Barely there. Could be fingers. Could be shadow.
I don’t know anymore.
“They are afraid,” he murmurs, and I feel breath against my ear. Warm. Real. “Afraid of what you’d become if they let you grow.”
His words dig in like hooks.
Because he’s right.
My father made me feel like I was something to be used. Kevin made me feel like a burden, an inconvenience. Even the guys—they want me, but they’re scared too. Scared of what I can do. What I might become.
Scared of me.
“But I see you whole.”
Something trails down my arm—so light I almost think I imagined it. My skin warms where it passes.
I hate that it feels good.
“I see what they were too afraid to look at.”
Another touch. The curve of my shoulder. My collarbone.
Each one measured. Deliberate. Like he’s mapping me in the dark.
I should be terrified.
I am terrified.
But underneath the fear is something worse: I want to hear more.
Want him to keep talking. Keep telling me I’m not broken. That I’m strong instead of damaged.
“They fear you,” he says, and the voice is velvet now, soft and suffocating. “I will worship you.”
My breath catches.
That’s—
Yes.
What I deserve.
And he knows it.
“Every scar you carry…” Something traces my forearm—the one I got at twelve, defending myself from Kevin’s belt. Light pressure, following the raised line. “Proof of your strength. Not your weakness.”
The touch moves to another scar. The one on my ribs where Phil shoved me into the counter. Then my shoulder—the door I couldn’t get through fast enough.
He knows where they all are.
How does he know?
My throat tightens.
“They marked you because they were afraid.” His voice drops lower, intimate. “Each one a battle you survived. Each one proof you’re still standing.”
No one’s ever—
No one’s ever said that before.
Everyone looks at my scars and sees damage. Something to fix or pity or fear.
He sees victories.
The warmth presses closer. I can feel him everywhere now—in front, behind, surrounding. Not touching, but there. Undeniable.
“From the moment you woke,” he continues, circling again, “I felt it. That power. That light in the dark.”
Another touch at my temple. Trailing down to my jaw.
So gentle it almost feels like care.
“They want to tame you.” The voice is right at my ear again. “Shape you into something manageable. Safe.”
A pause. Heavy with meaning.
“But you were never meant to be safe, little queen.”
His breath ghosts across my neck.
“You were meant to be free.”
The word hooks into my chest and pulls.
What does free even mean anymore? I haven’t been free since I was seven. Maybe never.
My hands are shaking. Not from fear this time.
From something I don’t want to name.
“Say the word.” His voice wraps around me like a blanket. “Say no, and I stop. I leave you in peace.”
Silence.
Long enough that I could speak.
I don’t.
Can’t.
The word won’t come.
“But say yes…” He’s closer now. I can feel it—the heat, the presence, the weight of him in the space. “Say yes, and I show you what you could be. No more fear. No more fighting. No more pretending you’re less.”
Something touches my cheek. Wiping away wetness I didn’t know was there.
I’m crying.
When did I start crying?
“You don’t have to be strong here,” he murmurs, and there’s something almost tender in it. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
My chest aches.
I’m so tired.
Tired of being afraid. Tired of fighting. Tired of wondering if I’m too broken to fix.
“Just let go.” The words are a caress against my ear. “Let me show you what you are.”
My mouth opens.
The word forms, heavy and inevitable.
Yes.
One breath. One syllable.
And it ends.
All of it.
The fear. The exhaustion. The constant weight of trying to hold myself together.
I could just… stop.
“You’ve been so strong for so long.” His voice is everywhere now, wrapping around me, pressing in. “Give it to me. I’ll hold it for you.”
My lips part wider.
Yes—
Something stops me.
Not panic. Not fear.
Something smaller. Quieter.
A voice that sounds like me before everything broke.
If you say it, you can’t take it back.
My breath catches.
The word sticks in my throat—caught between yes and no, between surrender and something else.
I stand there, trembling.
Silence.
Then he laughs.
Low. Pleased.
For just a second, the sound is wrong. Too sharp. Too hungry. Like something with teeth slipped through the velvet.
But then it smooths out again, back to patience and warmth.
“Forgive me.” There’s amusement threading through the words now. “You make me eager. But I will not rush you.”
The presence retreats. Just slightly. Giving me space I didn’t ask for.
“Soon, then.” The voice curls around me one last time. “We have time, little queen. All the time you need.”
Breath against my ear—warm, deliberate, lingering.
“I am very, very patient.”
The darkness lifts.
All at once, like someone pulled back a curtain, and I’m standing in the chamber.
Alone.
Except I’m not.
I can still feel where he touched me. Ghost touches on my jaw, my arm, my scars.
The warmth of his breath lingers at my ear.
And my pulse—it’s still slowing, still matching the rhythm of his voice even though he’s gone.
I look down.
Shadow clings to my wrists. Faint but real, like smoke that won’t dissipate.
I try to shake it off.
It doesn’t move.
My other wrist has it too. When I touch my neck, I feel it there as well—cool and present.
He left pieces of himself behind.
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly freezing despite the silver fire flickering along the walls.
The chamber is beautiful in a sick sort of way. Black stone and shadows and fire that doesn’t burn. Like a bedroom and a throne room and a trap all at once.
I should run.
Find a way out.
But where would I go? Back to the void? Back to the things that want to eat me?
And even if I could leave—even if there was a door—
Part of me doesn’t want to.
Part of me wants him to come back. Wants to hear him say I’m strong again. That I’m whole. That I’m not broken.
I hate that part of me.
But I can’t kill it.
I sink onto something soft—a chair or couch draped in silk—and press my hands to my face.
The shadow on my wrists brushes my cheeks. Cool. Present.
Watching.
Then—
A scent drifts across the room.
Faint. So faint I almost think I imagined it.
Smoke. Frost. Stone.
Thane.
My head snaps up, heart suddenly racing for a different reason.
But there’s nothing. No one.
Just me and the silver fire and the shadows.
The scent fades as quickly as it came, like it was never there.
But I felt it.
For just one moment, I smelled him.
And I don’t know if that makes this better or so much worse.
Somewhere beyond the chamber, distant and muffled, I hear it.
The Nightmare.
That sound that bypasses ears and goes straight to bone. Animalistic. Inhuman. Like a scream turned inside out.
It’s hunting.