Page 31 of Crown of the Mist (The Ether Chronicles #1)

The house feels too big at night. Too quiet. Even the soft creaks of the old floors sound louder, stretching the silence into something oppressive.

I sit up in bed, the blanket pooling around my waist. Sleep has been elusive all week, each restless night tangling my thoughts until they're impossible to sort through.

Tonight is no different. The weight in my chest refuses to ease, even as I stare at the faint glow of the moonlight spilling through the window.

The attic.

The thought drifts through my mind unbidden, pulling at me. I can't explain it, but I've been drawn to that space ever since I first stepped inside. Like it's calling me back, like it's trying to tell me something I'm not ready to hear.

Sliding out of bed, I tug Rhett's hoodie tighter around me, the hem brushing against my thighs. My feet move almost on their own, the cool wood floor creaking softly under my steps as I make my way toward the attic stairs.

The mist stirs at my feet, curling and coiling like it knows where I'm going. I don't question it. Not tonight.

As I near the attic door, the faint sound of voices filters through the quiet, muffled but unmistakable. I freeze, my heart kicking up a notch. The guys must be up there. Talking about something serious, judging by the low, tense tones.

I should turn around. Go back to my room and pretend I never heard anything. But something keeps me rooted to the spot, my breath shallow as I lean closer. Just a little. Just enough to catch a few words.

"We see her the way they did. Like she's..." Gray's voice cuts through the stillness, low and heavy with frustration. He stops, his jaw clenching audibly in the pause. "Like she's a thing to be used and discarded."

My chest tightens, a cold chill creeping up my spine. My heart pounds as the words echo in my head, louder than the faint hum of their conversation.

A thing to be used. Discarded.

Jason's voice sneers through my memory, sharp and cruel: "You're just like Phil said. You're not happy unless someone's got you pinned to the wall."

"She'll figure it out," Theo's voice follows, quieter but no less damning.

The air feels heavier, pressing down on me as I back away from the door, each step slow and careful. My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out the rest of their conversation.

They think the same.

My hands tremble, gripping the fabric of Rhett's hoodie as if it can somehow shield me from the sharp sting of their words. The mist stirs around my feet, colder now, as if sensing my distress. I don't know if it's trying to comfort me or keep me from running, but I can't stay here.

I have to leave.

Before they throw me away, before they say the things I can't bear to hear out loud. Not from them. I have to leave, now.

Back in my room, I press my back against the door, sliding down until I'm sitting on the floor. My thoughts spiral, Jason's accusations twisting together with Gray's words until I can't tell them apart. A thing to be used. Discarded. That's all I've ever been. That's all they see.

The mist coils tighter around me, its touch colder now, more insistent. My breath hitches as I press my palms to my face, trying to stop the tears that threaten to spill.

I knew I didn’t belong here—I didn’t expect them to prove it. I just wish I hadn’t let myself hope.

Now I know better.

The thought solidifies, sharp and resolute, cutting through the haze of my panic. I wipe at my cheeks and take a shaky breath, the beginnings of a plan forming in the back of my mind.

I won't let anyone do this to me. Not again.

The room feels smaller now, the walls pressing in like they know what I'm about to do. The moonlight slices through the curtains, too bright, too exposing. My chest tightens as I grab the box from the corner of the room—the one filled with the remnants of my life.

I set it on the bed, my hands shaking as I open it. The sight of its contents—pressed daisies, movie stubs, scrawled notes from years long gone—makes my stomach churn. These were pieces of something I thought I'd never lose. But now, all I see are reminders of how stupid I've been. How na?ve.

My hand hovers over the pressed flowers, the edges brittle and delicate. Jason's voice echoes in my head again. Phil's sneer. My father's contempt. The sharp weight of Gray's words presses harder against my ribs: She's a thing to be used and discarded.

With a sharp inhale, I grab the daisy, the movie stubs, the notes, and rip them into pieces. The sound of tearing paper fills the silence of the room, each shred a catharsis that burns as much as it soothes. When I'm done, the bed is covered in fragments of memories, scattered like ashes.

But I don't cry.

My gaze shifts to the other side of the room, where the pretty, soft things the guys bought for me are neatly arranged. It's too much. I don't have nice things. That's not in the cards for me. It makes my chest ache, my stomach twist, because I let myself believe it, even for a moment.

Not anymore.

All I see is proof that I was stupid enough to think this was real. That they cared because I mattered, not because I'm some broken thing to be pitied. To be fixed.

My gaze drags over the stack of books Theo brought me, the silky pajamas Jace insisted on, the throw blanket Rhett draped over the chair with quiet care. And suddenly, all of it feels wrong. Heavy. Suffocating.

This is what I'm worth? The thought claws its way up before I can stop it. Maybe I should be surprised they thought it would cost this much for me to spread my legs.

The bile rises in my throat, sharp and sour, as Jason's voice cuts through my mind like a whip: You're not happy unless someone's got you pinned to the wall.

My fingers curl into fists, my nails digging into my palms as I force myself to look away from the things they gave me. It all feels poisoned now, warped by the words I overheard, by the shadow of my father's voice and Phil's threats. By Jason's cruelty.

They're all the same. Aren't they? Trying to buy pieces of me, pretending it's care when all they really want is to own what's left.

My chest heaves, my breath shaky as I shove the thought away. It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

My hands tremble as I move to the small drawer where my journal sits.

This, at least, is mine. It's the only thing that holds the truth of what I've endured, unfiltered and untouched by anyone else.

I clutch it to my chest before slipping it into the small bag I'd brought with me.

My hands work quickly, methodically: my single spare outfit, my work scrubs, the essentials. That's it.

I glance toward the window, the faint glow of the daisies still visible in the distance. They shimmer like they're trying to tell me something, but I can't let myself listen. Not now. Maybe not ever.

The mist curls at the edges of the door as I reach for the handle, coiling tighter as if it's trying to stop me. Its chill bites against my ankles, a silent protest I don't have the strength to acknowledge.

"I have to go," I whisper, the words breaking in the still air. "I can't... stay."

The mist curls around my ankle, tighter now, like it’s trying to hold me back. I hesitate, just for a second. But then it loosens, retreating like it knows I’ve already made my choice.

With one last glance at the room, at the torn remnants of my past scattered across the bed, and the thoughtful things I now see as chains, I swallow the lump in my throat and leave.

The door clicks shut behind me. Discarded. I guess I should be happy they didn't use me first.