Chapter 14 Bree
Bree
I wake to the feeling of being watched.
My eyes snap open, and I freeze.
He’s here.
Sitting in one of the chairs near the couch, perfectly still, watching me.
I scramble backward instinctively, pushing myself up against the wall, heart slamming in my chest.
“Easy,” he says softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
His voice is the same—velvet and smoke, patient and absolute. But seeing him—
Actually seeing him—
My breath catches.
He’s beautiful.
The thought hits before I can stop it, and I hate myself for it immediately.
But I can’t look away.
Sharp jawline. High cheekbones. Full lips that curve slightly like he knows a secret I don’t. Dark hair falls across his forehead in a way that looks deliberately tousled—like he just ran his hands through it.
And his eyes.
Forest green. Deep enough to drown in. They hold me in place even though every instinct screams to run.
He looks human. Elegant. Refined.
Devastatingly beautiful in a way that feels designed to disarm.
And I realize with a sick twist in my stomach: this is the real mask.
The voice, the darkness, the seduction—those were preparation. But this? His face? This is the weapon he uses when he wants someone to stop fighting.
Our eyes meet—really meet—for the first time, and something shifts in his expression.
Warmth. Recognition. Like he’s been waiting for this moment.
“There you are,” he says softly. “I was beginning to wonder when you’d wake.”
I press harder against the wall, trying to put distance between us even though there’s nowhere to go.
He doesn’t move. Just watches me with those green eyes, patient and still.
“How long—” My voice comes out rough. I swallow and try again. “How long was I asleep?”
“Does it matter?” He tilts his head slightly. “Time doesn’t work the same here. You could have slept for minutes or days. There’s no way to know.”
The casual cruelty of it lands like a blow.
He stands, and I tense, but he doesn’t come closer. Just moves to the table where I threw the clothing.
He picks up the dress, fabric pooling in his hands like liquid shadow.
“You rejected my gift.” His tone is soft. Almost hurt.
I don’t answer.
He looks at me, and there’s something in his expression—disappointment, maybe. Like I’ve genuinely wounded him.
It’s a lie. I know it’s a lie.
But my chest still tightens with something that feels horribly like guilt.
“I only wanted you to be comfortable,” he continues, running his fingers over the silk. “To feel beautiful. Was that so terrible?”
“You’re trying to control me,” I manage. “Make me into—”
“Into what?” He sets the dress down gently, turning to face me fully. “Someone who feels worthy? Someone who knows her own value?”
He takes a step closer.
I press back harder, but there’s nowhere to go.
“You would look exquisite in this,” he says, gesturing to the dress. “The color would bring out your eyes. Make your skin glow against the dark fabric.”
His voice drops lower, more intimate.
“The way the neckline would frame your shoulders… I’d watch you move in it and forget to breathe.”
Heat crawls up my neck, and I hate that I feel it. Hate that his words land somewhere soft and vulnerable.
“You’re already beautiful, little queen.” He moves closer again—close enough now that if I reached out, I could touch him. “But imagine… feeling beautiful. Knowing it. Wearing it.”
I should stand. Move away. Put real distance between us.
But I’m frozen against the wall, legs still bent where I woke, and he’s right there.
Close enough that I can smell him—something clean and sharp, like spice and smoke.
It’s almost intoxicating.
“I could dress you in silk every day,” he murmurs. “You’d never wear anything rough again. Never feel anything but softness against your skin.”
My hands curl into fists.
“You deserve that. Luxury. Comfort. To be worshipped the way you should be.”
“Stop,” I whisper.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he crouches.
Slow. Deliberate.
Until we’re eye level.
Until those green eyes fill my entire world.
“You have scars.” His gaze traces down to my arms, where old wounds mar the skin. “Beautiful scars. Proof of your strength. But you hide them. Cover them. Like you’re ashamed.”
He leans in slightly.
“I would kiss every one. Trace them with my fingers. Show you how perfect they are.”
My breath hitches, and his eyes flicker with satisfaction.
“May I?” he asks, lifting one hand slowly.
I should say no.
Should pull back, refuse, keep the distance.
But I’m so tired.
And his voice is so soft.
And part of me—the part I hate—wants to know what his touch feels like when I can see his face.
I nod.
Just barely.
His fingers brush my jaw, feather-light, and I shiver.
He traces the line of my cheekbone. Tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is gentle. Reverent. Like I’m something precious.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. “Are you afraid of me? Or afraid of this?”
I don’t answer.
Can’t.
His thumb brushes across my lower lip, and my breath stutters.
“Your reflection in the mirror,” he says softly, “she knows her worth. Wears it like armor.”
The mention of Riley makes my stomach drop.
“You could too,” he continues. “If you let yourself.”
I pull back slightly, and he lets me. Doesn’t chase.
Just watches with those green eyes that see too much.
“She’s not afraid to take what she wants,” he says. “To be powerful. Beautiful. Desired.”
The comparison twists like a knife.
Because he’s right.
Riley looked confident. Certain. Everything I’m not.
And the guys—
They’re with her. Believing she’s me. Maybe even—
“You could be like her,” Ethos murmurs. “Strong. Unafraid. If you stopped fighting what you are.”
His hand drops to my wrist, fingers brushing the shadow marks there.
“You wear my marks beautifully,” he says, voice almost tender. “They suit you. Like they were always meant to be there.”
I jerk my hand back, and he rises smoothly—standing again, giving me space I didn’t ask for.
He moves back to the table. Back to the dress.
Picks it up again, holding it out toward me.
“Wear it for me,” he says. “Just once. Just to see.”
I stare at the fabric, dark and beautiful and wrong.
“If you hate it, you can take it off. But let me see you in it. Let me show you how beautiful you are.”
My fingers twitch.
I could—
Just once.
Just to see what it feels like.
To feel beautiful. Desired. Worthy.
The way Riley must feel.
The way the guys probably see her now.
My hand lifts without me telling it to.
Reaches toward the silk.
Then stops.
No.
No.
I curl my fingers into my palm and pull back.
“I’m not her,” I say, voice shaking. “And I’m not wearing that.”
For a moment, silence.
Then he smiles.
Slow. Satisfied. Like I’ve given him exactly what he wanted.
“Tomorrow, then,” he says softly.
And vanishes into shadow.
I’m left alone in the chamber, staring at the dress still draped across the table.
My hand is still trembling.
And I can’t tell if it’s from fear or something worse.