The women share a look–something deep and unspoken, like they’re remembering the same cage. The word nudges something in my mind.Vivarium. I’ve seen it before. Heard it. It slips away before I can catch it.
“We’ll be there,” Story says.
“We will, too,” Lavinia agrees. “We wouldn’t miss it.”
No one asks me if I’ll be in attendance, and I’m relieved when the conversation drifts back to sorting–stuffed animals here, puzzles there, dolls in another pile. But what’s obvious is that everyone moves with renewed energy, chatting, laughing, the room full of easy noise, while I continue my work alone.
The toy drivewinds down in a blur. Just being around that many people feels overwhelming, and by the time we’re back in Hunter’s truck, I’m ready for the quiet. I sit in the middle, pressed warmlybetween them, Damon’s knee solid against my thigh, his hand resting loose but steady on my leg like an anchor.
I didn’t understand it at first, not until I watched the other royal women with their men. Damon is asserting his claim with the way he handles me, small and big. He’s possessive, letting everyone around us know that I belong to him–belong to the Barons. It’s not just a touch on my leg or back, it’s the heat in his eyes. The hunger that I see whenever I look at him. He takes me whenever he feels like it. I’m used to waking up with him inside of me, thick and hard, his hot breath on my neck and his hands between my legs, tipping me over the edge, forcing me to fall.
Even with all of that, I don’t always feel like I belong. Not to him. Not anywhere.
Today was no different, with the little cliques and groups, but I know we did something good. I can feel it in the way my body is tired instead of hollow.
“Mind if we stop somewhere?” Damon asks eventually, staring out the window like it just occurred to him.
Hunter glances at him. “You mean somewhere that sells beer or somewhere that sells double cheeseburgers?”
“Neither,” Damon says. “Just pull up at that market for a minute.”
Hunter shrugs and pulls into a mini-mart, the fluorescent lights buzzing like insects. Damon hops out, tugging his hood up against the cold.
Hunter watches him go, then looks at me. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
He hums, unconvinced. “You don’t sound fine.”
I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. “It was just… a lot of people.”
“Why do you think I volunteered to drive the truck all day?”
His lips curve, and it’s contagious. Something tight in my chest eases, just a little.
The door chimes when Damon exits and he’s back in the seat a moment later, setting a plastic bag at his feet.
I peer down. “What is that?
“Food,” he says, teeth tugging at the rings in his lip. “For the cats.”
“Cats?” Hunter asks, confused.
My head snaps up. “Are we going to feed the cats?”
The corner of his mouth lifts, quick and private. “Yeah. We’ve got time.”
Hunter glances between us. “You didn’t mention cats.”
“They’re feral,” I say immediately, words tumbling over each other. “They live in this broken-down boathouse near Northridge. There’s a black one with a white foot, and she’s mean but smart, and this skinny boy with a torn ear, and there are kittens–one of them has a crooked paw.”
Damon huffs a quiet laugh. “They’re little monsters.”
“Don’t listen to him. They’re kind of perfect.”
Hunter raises a brow, but there’s something surprised in his eyes. “Since when?”
“Since I found them and it was obvious they’d been dumped and were starving,” Damon says, already giving directions. “And I didn’t tell you because you’re obviously a dog person.”
