Page 70 of Crown of the Mist
"At least take turns on the bed," I try again. "It's huge enough."
"We're fine where we are," Gray says quietly from his post.
I fall silent, knowing better than to argue when they get like this. Instead, I find myself studying them - the way Rhett's shoulders remain tense even as he settles, how Theo's fingers absently trace patterns in the air like he's puzzling something out, the steady rhythm of Wes's breathing beside me.
"Tell me about the dreams," I say softly, not sure who I'm asking.
Wes shifts slightly, his voice low but clear in the quiet room. "They're fragments mostly. Places I've never been but feel familiar. People I should know but can't quite see clearly." He pauses. "And always the mist, leading me somewhere."
"To a crown," I whisper, the memory sharp and sudden.
The mist thickens around us, and I swear the temperature drops just slightly. By the door, something green pushes through another crack, delicate but insistent.
"What do you think it means?" I ask, not expecting an answer.
"Maybe it means we're supposed to be here," Theo says thoughtfully. "All of us. Together."
The words settle over me with unexpected weight. I glance around at them - these five men who've been my protectors, my anchors, my family for as long as I can remember. The mist swirls between us, connecting us in ways I'm only beginning to understand.
"Together," I repeat softly, testing how the word feels. It should scare me, this closeness, this trust. But tonight, surrounded by them, it feels like coming home.
The conversation drifts, quiet words and shared silences, until exhaustion finally pulls me under. The last thing I remember is Wes's steady presence beside me, the others arranged like stars in their own constellation, and the mist holding us all in its gentle embrace.
For the first time in years, I sleep without nightmares.
44. Bree
The house has settled into a comfortable quiet, the kind that only comes late at night when the world finally exhales. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint creaks and whispers of the old Victorian. The day passed in a blur of soft voices, warm meals, and too much attention I didn’t feel like I deserved.
They insisted I stay in bed, taking shifts to check on me. Rhett brought me coffee, the same way he used to when I had to cram for finals. Jace cracked jokes at the door, trying to coax a smile out of me. Gray sat in the chair by the window with his usual sharp focus, acting like he wasn’t watching every move I made. And Theo… Theo was steady, quiet, leaving a book on the nightstand without a word.
I’ve never felt so cared for. Or so smothered.
It’s not their fault. They’re just trying to help. Butthe weight of their concern presses against my chest, suffocating in its gentleness. I needed the rest, sure, but now I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. The mist stirs faintly at the edges of the room, restless, like it’s echoing my unease.
Sliding out of bed, I grab Rhett’s hoodie from the chair and pull it on, the hem brushing against my thighs. The house feels cooler now, the warmth of the day fading into the stillness of night. My feet move without direction, carrying me down the hall like they know where I’m supposed to go before I do.
Light spills softly from the study, pooling in the hallway like a beacon. I pause just outside, drawn by the quiet hum of a turned page. Peeking in, I spot Theo, sitting in the oversized armchair with a book balanced on his knee. A single lamp casts a warm glow over him, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and the relaxed curve of his shoulders.
He doesn’t look up, but I know he knows I’m here. It’s Theo. He always knows.
“You’re up late,” he says, his voice low and even, like he’s afraid to break the quiet.
“So are you.” I step inside, the thick rug soft under my bare feet. “What are you reading?”
He tilts the book slightly so I can see the cover. It’s one of the ones he left on my nightstand—a battered old paperback with a cracked spine. I recognize the title immediately, a rush of familiarity warming my chest.
“I read that in high school,” I say, moving closer. “It’s... good.”
Theo raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he’s fighting a smile. “That’s high praise.”
“I mean it.” I hover by the arm of the chair, unsure if I should sit or leave. “It’s one of those books that sticks with you. The kind you think about years later.”
He nods, his dark eyes soft as they meet mine. “That’s why I like it. It doesn’t tell you what to feel—it just… lingers.”
The silence between us feels gentle, not awkward, and I find myself sinking onto the edge of the ottoman near his feet. The mist curls faintly at the corners of the room, barely visible in the low light, but I can feel it—warmer, steadier.
“Why do you read so much?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "I mean, you were always reading. Even when we were kids.”