Page 1 of Crown of the Mist (The Ether Chronicles #1)

I trudge down the cracked sidewalk, my feet aching in my worn-out sneakers.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows that make the rundown buildings loom like disapproving giants.

Every breath brings a mix of exhaust fumes, rotting garbage, and the sickly-sweet scent of the flowering weeds pushing through the concrete.

Just another glamorous day in paradise.

My skin prickles before I hear them. The car engine slows, and then—

"Hey, sweetheart! Why don't you smile for me?"

I keep my eyes fixed on the ground, counting cracks in the sidewalk. One, two, three. My hands curl into fists inside my pockets, nails biting into my palms. Four, five, six.

"C'mon, baby, don't be like that!"

Their laughter follows me around the corner, sticky and unwanted like everything else today. I resist the urge to look over my shoulder, to check if they're following.

Almost home. Just a few more blocks.

As I walk, my mind drifts back to my shift at Maple Grove.

Mrs. Henderson's arthritis was acting up again, her gnarled fingers trembling as she tried to hold her fork.

I'd helped her eat, pretending not to notice the tears of frustration in her eyes.

Then Mr. Jacobs had another episode. I'd spent half the morning coaxing him back to reality, reminding him where he was, who I was.

"You look just like my Sarah," he'd said, patting my hand.

"She always took such good care of me." The weariness settles deep in my bones, a familiar ache that never quite goes away.

I fish my keys out of my bag as I approach my building. The Ridgeview Apartments—or as I like to call it, The Shoe Box. It's not much, but it's mine. Sort of. As long as I can keep scraping together rent each month.

I'm still digging for my keys when I feel it—that prickle on the back of my neck that makes my stomach clench.

I glance up, and there he is. Phil, my illustrious landlord, leaning against his doorway about twenty feet away.

His bloodshot eyes creep over me like insects, making my skin crawl.

The sharp, sour stench of alcohol reaches me before his words do.

An open beer bottle dangles from his meaty fingers—probably not his first, definitely not his last. His shirt is rumpled and stained, stretched tight across his gut like plastic wrap over spoiled meat.

A leer spreads across his face as our eyes meet, and I have to suppress a shudder.

Great. Just what I need to cap off this stellar day.

"Evening, Bree," he slurs, lifting his bottle in a mock salute. "Looking good, as always."

I grit my teeth, willing my hands not to shake as I finally close my fingers around my keys. "Hi, Phil," I mutter, not bothering to hide the ice in my voice.

He pushes off from the doorframe, swaying slightly as he takes a step toward me. "How about you and me have a little chat about this month's rent?" His grin widens, revealing yellowed teeth. "I'm sure we could work something out."

My stomach turns. I know exactly what kind of "arrangement" he's hinting at. The same one he's been pushing since I moved in.

"I'll have it by Friday," I say, fumbling with my keys. "Just like we agreed."

Phil chuckles, a low, unpleasant sound. "Come on now, don't be like that. I'm trying to help you out here." He takes another step closer, and I can see the sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Pretty girl like you shouldn't have to worry about money."

I back away, my heart pounding. "I said I'll have it Friday."

The lock sticks, as usual. I jiggle the key, muttering under my breath until it finally gives. “Night,” I yell at Phil without looking back as the door creaks open, and I step into the musty silence of my studio. Home sweet home.

I kick off my shoes and collapse onto the sagging couch, staring up at the water-stained ceiling.

Another night alone stretches out before me.

No texts, no calls. The guys are probably hanging out at home, laughing, sharing beers.

Maybe one of them found a nice girl. A familiar ache blooms in my chest, but I push it away.

It’s better this way. They don’t need me holding them back.

That’s really all I’ve done for them over the last eighteen years.

And really, they’re better off without me.

They all deserve to find someone to love, who makes them happy and makes them better.

I know that kind of thing exists. Probably.

Just not for me.

I roll onto my side, curling into myself.

The silence presses in, broken only by the hum of the ancient refrigerator and the muffled sounds of my neighbors arguing through the paper-thin walls.

This is fine. This is what I wanted, right?

No complications, no one to disappoint. No one to hurt me again.

I close my eyes, trying to ignore the whisper in the back of my mind. The one that sounds suspiciously like longing. Like regret.

A faint shimmer catches my attention, and I open my eyes to see tendrils of mist curling at the edges of my vision. My breath catches. Not now. Please, not now. I'm too tired for this.

The mist lingers at the edges of the room, silent and watching, like a presence waiting to be acknowledged. It's always there in moments like this, when I'm alone with my thoughts. Watching. Waiting. For what, I've never known.

"Just go away," I whisper.

It lingers for a moment longer, then dissipates into nothing, leaving me alone with the silence and my thoughts.

I bury my face in my hands, willing the events of the day, the guys, to calm in my mind. I’m failing spectacularly when a knock at the door makes me jump.

"Bree?" Rhett's voice cuts through the haze like a lifeline I'm not sure I deserve. "You in there?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, debating whether to answer. Silence is safer. Silence means no one gets too close. Maybe if I wait long enough, he’ll leave—like everyone else always does.

"Bree." Lower this time, but with that edge of steel that makes my stomach flip. "I know you're there. Open up."

When I pull open the door, he fills the frame like he always has, steady and solid and so frustratingly present.

His sharp green eyes scan my face, and something in his expression softens just enough to make my chest ache.

I step out quickly, pulling the door shut behind me before he can peek inside.

He's never been in my apartment, none of them have. Some walls need to stay up.

His presence fills the narrow hallway, and I press myself against the doorframe, trying to maintain distance even as part of me aches to lean into his warmth. The familiar scent of cedar and smoke wraps around me, making my chest tight with longing.

You okay?” he asks, his voice low.

“Peachy,” I mutter, leaning against the doorframe.

He raises an eyebrow. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks for the boost of confidence,” I snap, though there’s no heat behind it.

Rhett exhales and rubs the back of his neck. “Look, I’m not here to argue. I just…wanted to check on you. You didn’t answer my texts.”

I glance away, guilt twisting in my stomach. “I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to let me know you’re alive?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” he asks, his voice soft but insistent. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a hell of a lot like you’re trying to push us all away.”

My throat tightens, but I don’t have an answer for him. Not one I can say out loud, anyway.

At my silence he just sighs and steps closer, his hand brushing my shoulder. “You don’t have to do this alone, Bree,” he says quietly. “You never did.”

The weight of his words presses down on me, and for a moment, I want to believe him. But I know better.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, stepping back into the safety of my apartment. “Really.”

Rhett watches me for a long moment, his jaw tightening before he nods. “Sure. Fine.”

He turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing down the hall like a countdown I can't stop. Each step drives home how good I am at this—pushing people away, staying safely broken.

I click the door shut and slide down against it, the worn wood rough against my back through my thin shirt.

My forehead drops to my knees as I try to breathe through the tightness in my chest. The mist curls around me, its cool tendrils brushing against my skin like a concerned touch I don't deserve.

It weaves between my fingers where they grip my legs, persistent and present in a way that makes my throat burn.

"Stop," I whisper, but I'm not sure if I'm talking to the mist or myself. Maybe both. The silence of my apartment presses in, broken only by the steady drip of the leaky faucet and the sound of my ragged breathing.

Something warm slides down my cheek—a tear I didn't give permission to fall. I swipe it away roughly, but more follow, silent betrayals that prove how weak I really am.