Page 15 of Crown of the Mist

“Nothing worth doing ever is,” Wes says simply, his voice calm but firm. He leans against the doorway, his dark eyes flicking toward the stairs like he’s already thinking three steps ahead.

I glance toward the stairs, the weight in my chest settling deeper. “She’s here now,” I say quietly. “That’s a start.”

10. Bree

Darkness presses in on all sides, suffocating and endless. The only sound is my heartbeat, loud and frantic, echoing in my ears like a drum. Then, faintly, a voice cuts through the silence.

“Bree.”

I freeze, every muscle locking up as the voice grows louder, closer.

“You’re such a lucky girl, Bree. Daddy needs you.”

No.

"Show daddy what you can do, Princess.”

I want to scream, to fight, to run. But my body betrays me, frozen in terror as his weight settles onto the mattress. His hands are rough, calloused, uncaring as they paw at me. There's no tenderness, no attempt to make it anything but an act of selfish taking.

The pain is sharp, invasive. I bite my lip until I taste blood, desperate to stay silent. To make a sound is to make it real, to acknowledge that this is happening again.

He grunts, his breath hot and sour against my neck. I retreat deep inside myself, imagining I'm anywhere but here. When it's over, he leaves without a word, as if I'm nothing more than a convenient object to be used and discarded.

I curl into myself, shame and revulsion coursing through me.This is what love looks like,I think bitterly.This is all I'm good for.

The memory fades, but the visceral feeling of violation lingers. I jolt awake, my chest heaving and my body trembling. The room around me is quiet, the soft gray light of dawn filtering through the curtains. For a moment, I forget where I am.

Then it all comes rushing back. The hospital. The rain. Phil. Rhett.

I sit up slowly, my heart still hammering against my ribs. Sweat makes my borrowed clothes cling to my skin as I try to orient myself. The room swims into focus—cozy, lived-in, with mismatched furniture and a faint smell of pine and old books. Theo’s blanket is draped over the foot of the bed, and there’s a pile of neatly folded clothes on the chair near the door—probablyRhett’s, judging by the size.

My stomach twists. I shouldn’t be here.

The ghost of the nightmare still clings to me, its shadow stretching into the corners of my mind. Phil's leering face from last night superimposes itself over my father's, a grotesque overlap of different men and the same entitled cruelty.

My skin crawls, and I have the overwhelming urge to scrub myself raw. But no amount of soap can wash away the stain of these memories, the way they’ve twisted my perception of intimacy and trust.

I slide out of bed, wincing as my bare feet touch the cool floor. The soreness in my arm from Phil’s grip pulls me back into the present. I glance at the neatly folded clothes again, the quiet thought that Rhett’s trying to make me feel at home flickering and fading as quickly as it came.

I shouldn’t stay.

They don’t need me. They don’t need this.

I don’t belong here.

The thought settles like a weight in my chest as I grab the clothes and change quickly, pulling the soft t-shirt over my head. It smells like cedar and something clean, and for a second, it feels like a hug I don’t deserve. I push the thought away.

The house is quiet as I creep down the stairs, eachcreak of the wood making me wince. My breath catches as I reach the living room. The front door looms ahead of me, like a lifeline.

Almost there.

I reach for the doorknob, but a voice cuts through the stillness, low and steady. “You weren’t planning on saying goodbye, were you?”

I freeze, my hand hovering over the doorknob. Slowly, I turn, my heart sinking when I see Wes sitting in the armchair near the window. His dark eyes are sharp but calm, his posture relaxed like he’s been waiting for this.

“Wes,” I murmur, my voice barely audible.

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s early,” he says simply. “Where are you going?”