Page 47 of Crown of the Mist
“Yeah.”
I open the door, the cool morning air brushing against my skin as I step out. The mist seems to thicken as I walk toward the entrance, curling around my ankles like a persistent shadow. I don’t look back, even though I can feel Jace’s eyes on me until I disappear inside.
I have to do this. For myself. For Mrs. Henderson. And, if I’m being honest, to save enough to finally get out from under my father’s shadow.
The familiarity of the nursing home hits me immediately—its too-bright fluorescents, the antiseptic tang in the air, the faint hum of conversation from the common room. I make it three steps past the receptionist's desk before I hear my name.
“Well, if it isn’t Bree Holloway.”
I turn, my bag on my shoulder slipping slightly as I come face-to-face with Jason, his smirk as irritatingly smug as I remember.
“Jason.”
He grins, that same cocky tilt to his mouth that used to make my stomach flip when I was seventeen. Now, it just makes my skin crawl.
“That’s right,” he drawls, his gaze dragging over me like he’s cataloging every detail. “Didn’t think you’d show your face here, not after what people are saying.”
My fingers tighten on the strap of my bag, my knuckles whitening as I fight the urge to shove past him. “I don’t have time for this, Jason.”
“Oh, come on.” He shifts, blocking my path, his grin widening. “Don’t be like that. You’ve got time for everyone else, don’t you? Thought maybe you’d saved some for me.”
“Move,” I snap, keeping my voice low. The last thing I need is for this to turn into a spectacle.
He doesn’t move. Instead, he steps closer, his eyes narrowing in a way that sends a cold shiver down my spine. “You know, I’ve been hearing some interesting things lately.”
My stomach churns, but I keep my expression neutral. “I’m not interested.”
“Oh, I think you are.” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “Phil’s been talking. Your dad, too. They’ve got some real stories about you, Bree.”
The words hit like a slap, and I stagger back a step, the tray wobbling in my hands. “What are you talking about?”
Jason smirks, his confidence growing with every inch I give him. “Phil told me all about you. Said you like it rough. That you like a man who takes control. Said you’re not happy unless someone’s got you pinned to the wall, making you feel… wanted.”
My grip on my bag falters, I almost drop it. The mist begins to stir at the edges of my vision, faint and restless, but Jason doesn’t notice. He steps closer, his hand brushing against my arm, and I jerk back as if burned.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap, my voice sharper now.
His grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it grows. “Relax, Bree. I’m just saying… if you’re handing out pieces of yourself, don’t forget the people who’ve been waiting the longest.”
The mist surges, cold and sharp, curling around my ankles. Jason shivers slightly, finally noticing the sudden drop in temperature. He glances around, a flicker of unease crossing his face.
“What the hell?” he mutters, rubbing his arms.
I don’t wait for him to recover. My legs carry me forward before my brain catches up, my shoulder knocking into his as I pass. My bag swings, but I don’t stop until I’m in the staff lounge, the door slamming shut behind me.
I throw my bag on the counter, my uniform half falling out, but I barely notice. My hands are trembling, my breath coming too fast, too shallow. Jason’s words echo in my head, pulling me back to Phil’s leering face, my father’s cruel whispers. The mist lingers near the door, curlingprotectively, but it does nothing to ease the nausea churning in my stomach.
They’ve poisoned everything. Every relationship, every memory. Jason was my first boyfriend. But I never gave him what he really wanted, no matter how much he pushed.. He was kind, sweet, even protective—until my father got to him. Until Phil twisted the narrative. Now he looks at me like I’m nothing more than an object to be used and discarded.
The words echo in my head, louder than they should:You’re a tease, Bree. Always have been.
I press my palms flat against the counter, the cool metal biting into my skin as I try to steady myself. My chest tightens, every breath jagged. They’ll never stop. Not until there’s nothing left of me to ruin.
The mist stirs at the edges of my vision, curling closer, brushing against my fingertips like it’s trying to pull me back from the edge. I swear it feels warmer, softer, as if it’s saying:You’re still here. You’re still whole.
But the doubt creeps in, insidious and familiar.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe that’s all I’m worth. Maybe that’s all I’m good for.