Page 17 of Crown of the Mist (The Ether Chronicles #1)

My fingers shake as I dial the nursing home's number. Each ring echoes in my ears, mixing with the morning sounds drifting up from the kitchen below—the quiet murmur of voices, the clink of coffee mugs, the illusion of normalcy.

"Maple Grove, this is Sarah."

My throat tightens at her familiar voice. "Sarah, it's Bree. I—" The words stick as Mrs. Henderson's face flashes through my mind. Empty bed. Empty room. Empty—

"Bree?" Sarah's voice softens. "We weren't expecting... honey, take some time. After what happened with Mrs. Henderson—"

"I can work," I cut in. "I just need to change shifts, or—"

"No." The firmness in her tone surprises me. "Take the week. At least. We've got you covered."

My chest tightens. "I can't afford—"

"It's bereavement leave. Paid." Her voice gentles again. "Mrs. H had you listed as next of kin, you know. For notifications."

The phone slips in my sweaty grip. "She what?"

"She changed it months ago. Said you were the only one who really saw her." Sarah pauses. "Take the time, Bree. Please."

The call ends before I can argue. I stare at the phone, Mrs. Henderson's words echoing in my head. You remind me of my daughter.

A soft knock breaks through the memory. "Breakfast," Theo calls through the door. "If you're up for it."

My stomach churns at the thought of food, of facing them all again. But hiding won't make this easier.

The kitchen falls quiet when I appear in the doorway.

Gray stands by the counter in his work clothes, grease already staining his hands.

Wes leans against the far wall, dark eyes steady but unreadable.

Theo's laptop glows from his spot at the table, while Rhett watches me over his coffee mug with barely concealed concern.

Jace, predictably, breaks the silence. "There's our sleeping beauty!" He grins, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Coffee? Toast? Small island nation?"

"I should go to work," I mutter, but five different expressions of "no" cut me off.

"Already called Sarah," Gray says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You're taking time."

Heat crawls up my neck. "You had no right—"

"Bree." Wes's quiet voice somehow carries more weight than Gray's firmness. "Stop."

I wrap my arms around myself, hating how small I feel. How weak. The mist drifts at my feet, and I shift back, praying they don't notice.

"I've got a showing at ten," Jace says, changing the subject with practiced ease. "I'll swing by your place after, grab whatever you need. Handle the lease."

"You don't have to—"

"And!" He continues like I haven't spoken, "Tomorrow night, we feast. I'm thinking lasagna. Garlic bread. Maybe that tiramisu recipe I've been wanting to try."

Rhett snorts. "Last time you tried Italian, the fire department—"

"That was one time," Jace protests. "And technically, the sauce wasn't on fire. It was... aggressively caramelizing."

A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, small and rusty. Jace's grin softens into something real.

"I have to get back to the garage," Gray says, but he doesn't move. His eyes scan me like he's memorizing details, looking for cracks.

"Go," Theo says without looking up from his laptop. "We've got this."

The weight of those words—we've got this—presses against my chest. They don't understand. My father has spent years building his network, making connections. Phil was just the start. There will be others. There always are.

I should have known better.

"Here." Rhett pushes a mug of coffee toward me, the gesture achingly familiar. "You look like you need it."

I take it automatically, our fingers brushing. The contact sends a jolt through me, and I step back too quickly. Coffee sloshes over the rim, scalding my hand.

"Shit," I hiss, setting the mug down. "Sorry, I—"

"Don't." Wes appears with a damp cloth, offering it without touching me. "No apologies. Not for this."

I press the cool cloth to my skin, focusing on the sting rather than the knowing look in his eyes. Rather than the way Rhett's hands hover, wanting to help but unsure how.

"Right!" Jace claps his hands, making me jump. "Dinner tomorrow. No arguments. And I'll handle the apartment stuff today." His voice softens slightly. "Unless... you want to come with?"

The thought of going back there—of seeing Phil, of facing my empty apartment—makes my legs weak. "No," I whisper. "I can't."

"Okay." He accepts it easily, like my weakness is nothing to be ashamed of.

"I was thinking of stopping by Target after the showing.

Could pick up whatever you need." His voice stays deliberately casual.

"Clothes, toiletries. Maybe some stuff to make your room feel more like home?

There's this fuzzy blanket I saw the other day that screamed 'Bree. '"

Your room. The words hit hard, maybe harder than I’d like to admit because that isn't my room. This isn't my home. This is temporary, fragile, bound to shatter the moment they realize how broken I really am.

My father's voice whispers in my head: They'll see, princess. They'll see what you really are.

The mist thickens around my ankles, and I step back, needing space, air, anything. "I can't spend the day in your clothes," I say to Rhett, plucking at the borrowed shirt. "Is it okay if I use your washer?"

"Sure," Jace answers before Rhett can. "But seriously, let me grab some stuff for you. Basics, obviously." He pulls out his phone, already making notes. "And that vintage store on Fifth has these cool reading lamps—"

"Jace." My voice cracks. "Stop. Please."

He looks up, his usual grin fading into something more serious. "Too much?"

I wrap my arms around myself, hating how small I feel. How weak. "I can't let you—"

"You can," Wes cuts in, his quiet voice brooking no argument. "And you will."

I flee before anyone can say more, their concern following me up the stairs like a shadow. In the safety of the guest room, I press my forehead against the cool wall.

They think they can fix this. Fix me.

They don't understand that some things stay broken.