Page 6 of Crown of the Mist (The Ether Chronicles #1)

My shift is quieter than usual tonight, a welcome relief after a week of restless nights and lingering exhaustion.

The dining room is almost empty as I clear the last plates, the familiar routine almost peaceful until I notice Mrs. Henderson's missing from her usual spot by the window. She never misses dinner.

I'm stacking the dishes when a scream shatters the silence.

"Help! Someone, help!"

The plate slips from my hands, ceramic hitting linoleum with a crash that echoes the way my heart slams against my ribs. I run toward the sound, my feet carrying me before my mind can catch up. Rounding the corner, I skid to a halt, my breath catching in my throat.

Mrs. Henderson lies crumpled on the floor, her wispy white hair spread across the linoleum like it's reaching for something unseen. Her skin is too pale, her hand outstretched toward something I can't see. Just like Mom that last morning, reaching for something in the dark before she vanished—

No. Focus.

For a moment, the world seems to stop. My legs lock, my chest tightening with a familiar, suffocating weight.

"I called 911!" a voice shouts, jolting me back into motion.

I drop to my knees beside her, ignoring the sharp pain as they hit the floor. My hands tremble as I reach for hers, clutching them tightly, willing warmth back into her cold fingers. "Mrs. Henderson," I say, my voice steady despite the panic clawing at me. "It's Bree. I'm here. Just hold on."

Her pulse flutters beneath my fingertips, weak but present. Like a bird trying to break free.

The sound of running footsteps pulls me back. Everything blurs into motion after that - the paramedics arriving, their movements swift and precise as they work. Someone asks about family contacts. The question hits like a physical blow: she has no one.

"I'll go with her," I hear myself say, my voice thin but determined. "She shouldn't be alone."

The hospital smells like antiseptic and rain-soaked pavement.

I sit slumped in a plastic chair, my hands gripping each other tightly in my lap.

The hours blur together as I wait, the buzz of fluorescent lights making my head throb.

I don't know how long I've been here, but when the nurse approaches, I already know what she's going to say.

"She's gone," the nurse tells me gently. "She passed peacefully."

They're words meant to comfort, but they don't. I stayed with her, held her hand as her breaths grew shallow, and told her it was okay to let go. But as I sit there now, the hollowness feels unbearable.

"You didn't have to stay," the nurse adds kindly, her hand on my shoulder. "Most people don't."

I shrug, my voice barely a whisper. "Someone should have."

The words feel small, like they don't hold enough weight for the moment. But it's all I can offer.

The rain greets me as I step outside, cold and relentless. My hoodie does little to shield me from the downpour, but I don't care. The mist begins to curl faintly at my feet, its presence familiar yet unsettling. It's like an unspoken reminder of how broken I really am.

Mrs. Henderson's last moments replay in my head as I walk. The softness of her grip, the shallow rise and fall of her chest. I told her she wasn't alone. I hope she believed me.

My building looms in the distance, dark and foreboding. As I draw closer, something feels off. My steps falter when I spot the figure leaning against the wall near the entrance, too still to be casual.

Phil.

My stomach twists. His silhouette is unmistakable even in the dim light, and his posture—loose and swaying—screams trouble. I consider turning around, taking the long way, but I know it won't matter. He'll wait.

"Bree," he calls out, his voice slurred and thick. He pushes off the wall, swaying slightly as he moves toward me. "Been waiting for you."

I clench my fists, forcing my voice to stay steady. "It's late, Phil. Go home."

He ignores me, stepping closer. "Can't leave you out here all alone," he says, his grin predatory. "Not safe for a pretty thing like you."

The mist lingers at the edges of my vision, faint and unmoving. My chest tightens, my pulse pounding in my ears. "I'm home," I say flatly. "You should leave."

Phil's grin fades, replaced by something colder. "You don't talk to me like that," he snaps, his voice low and sharp. "You think you're better than me? Huh?"

Before I can react, his hand shoots out, gripping my arm hard enough to bruise. Panic explodes in my chest. I twist, trying to pull free, but he's too strong. "Let go!" I yell, my voice breaking.

The mist shifts faintly, a cold presence that wraps around my ankles. The air around us seems to thicken, and Phil's grip slackens just enough for me to wrench free. His eyes dart around wildly, his breathing ragged.

"What the fuck is that?" he mutters, his gaze unfocused. He stumbles back, his face pale and drawn, like he's seeing something I can't.

I don't wait. I run.

The rain obscures the streetlights as I put distance between us, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My soaked hoodie clings to me, the cold biting through to my skin. I'm too exhausted to think, too shaken to stop.

I can't stop the tears that blur my vision and mix with the rain on my face. My lungs burn, but I push on, driven by a primal fear that overrides everything else. The mist swirls around my feet, matching my frantic pace, a silent companion in my flight.

Phil touched me. He put his hands on me.

The thought loops in my mind, each repetition sending fresh waves of panic through my body.

I can still feel the ghost of his grip on my arm, the alcohol on his breath, the predatory gleam in his eyes.

It's too much like before, too close to memories I've tried so hard to bury.

I don't know where I'm going, just that I need to get away. The streets blend together, unfamiliar in the darkness and the rain. My clothes are soaked through, and I’m shivering, but I can't tell if it's from the cold or the fear that's taken root in my chest.

Headlights sweep across me from behind, and my heart stutters.

A truck slows beside me, the engine's rumble too close, too loud.

No no no. My legs shake as I try to run faster, but my feet slip on the wet pavement.

The driver's door opens, and I stumble backward, ready to bolt down the nearest alley.

"Bree."

The voice cuts through the rain, through the panic. I know that voice. But I can't—I can't trust it. Can't trust anything right now. I back away, shaking my head, my vision swimming.

"Bree, stop." Closer now. Steady. Like an anchor I don't deserve.

I finally look up, really look, and there's Rhett, moving toward me with careful steps.

Those green eyes I know so well take in every detail—my trembling hands, my soaked clothes, the way I can barely stand.

His gaze catches on my torn sleeve, the exposed skin underneath already darkening where Phil's fingers dug in.

His jaw tightens, something dangerous flashing across his face.

"What happened?" he asks, his voice softer now, but his fists are clenched at his sides.

"I'm fine," I whisper, the words automatic and hollow. But they crumble as tears spill over, hot and relentless against the cold rain.

Rhett's hands hover, unsure but wanting to reach for me. "Bree," he says, his voice firm yet kind, "you're not fine. Let me take you somewhere safe."

I shake my head, the thought of my apartment making me sick. "I don't want to go back there."

His jaw tightens. "Okay," he says, his tone steadying. "You don't have to. Just get in the truck."

I hesitate, Mrs. Henderson's death and Phil's attack crashing over me in waves until I can barely stand.

But Rhett's presence anchors me, just like it always has.

When I finally climb into the passenger seat, he closes the door with careful gentleness, the same way he used to speak when my father was on a rampage, soft and steady like he could somehow shield me even through those thin apartment walls.

The warmth of the truck seeps into my bones as Rhett slides behind the wheel. The mist swirls briefly at my feet before fading away. He doesn't ask questions - he never does. Just drives, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting on the console between us. An offer, not a demand.

For the first time all night, the weight in my chest eases just enough to breathe.