It feels like a luxury to stand here. The shower itself was made for the King–walls of smooth blueish-gray glass tile that catch the light. Twin showerheads hum above me, pouring warmth from both sides, the spray powerful and even, wrappingme in heat.
It’s both a privilege and a punishment to use his personal bathroom. A privilege because it’s so nice. A punishment because they don’t trust me enough to walk down the hall to my own room and bath.
The water glides over every curve, slick against my skin, turning the air dense and sweet with the scent of expensive soap—something floral and clean, left for me. The King’s products sit on a separate shelf, untouched. What I reach for instead is the squat jar tucked beside them, its lid already loosened, like someone expected this.
I hesitate only a second before opening it.
Shea and something richer–coconut, maybe. Real. Not perfumed nonsense. My chest tightens at the small mercy of it. Graves must have anticipated it, like he seems to do with everything.
I work the product between my palms until it melts, then carefully smooth it over my scalp, down the length of each braid, methodically. I press my fingers in, easing the tightness in my muscles that the river left behind.
Only then do I let the lather rise.
It’s thick and silky, the kind that coats your hands and feels too soft to belong in a house where people are punished. A place built for comfort, not cages. I tilt my head back, close my eyes, and let the sound drown everything else–the forest, the creek, Damon’s voice, the look on Hunter’s face when he had to touch me. For a little while, all I know is heat and the rhythm of water against tile, the illusion that this moment—this small, stolen grace—might be mine.
They hate me. I thought I’d experienced Damon’s rage, but the way he behaved at the creek had been worse than ever before. If Hunter hadn’t been there…
I swallow and try not to think about that. It’s obvious that if they don’t find a use for me soon, a purpose for the new bride of the House of Night, I’ll stay in that cage until the King decides to get rid of me once and for all. I’m sure his Barons would be happy to take care of that for him.
For a few fleeting seconds, I let myself imagine I’m someone else. Someone who didn’t run, didn’t burn, didn’t ruin everything shetouched–but then, through the foggy glass shower door, I see the mirror across the room, swallowing my reflection. I almost like it that way, partially obscured. I’m not sure who Arianette Hexley is anymore, anyway. Whoever she used to be is gone, eroding away with every passing day.
Outside the shower, I hear movement. A small cough.
Time’s up.
I turn the knobs, regretting the way the heat vanishes. Carefully, I squeeze the excess water from my braids before wrapping them, protective even now. When I open the shower door, Graves stands there, his expression as unreadable as ever. He’s always been gentle with me–never cruel, never rough–but I know where his loyalty lies. With the King. With the house. With the rules that keep me caged.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he’d said after we got home, and they left me standing before him, clutching my wet clothes against my stomach, shivering through and through.
See? Kind.
Now that the river and muck are scrubbed away, my body wrapped in a robe and my hair secured tight in a towel, I follow Graves to the small table where I’ve seen the King eat his breakfast each morning. A tray waits there: tea, sandwiches, fruit, and sweets, neat as something from a dream.
I blink slowly, absorbing it, then pinch the inside of my elbow.
“Why do you do that?” he asks.
“Do what?”
“Get that faraway look. And the pinching.”
I dig my nail in harder. “Sometimes I have to make sure things are real.”
“This is real, Arianette,” he says. “Sit.”
He also takes a seat, and I wonder if that’s normal for the man who assists a King. His legs cross casually, and he studies me for a moment; the way I’m hunched into myself, feet pulled up into the chair. “I assume things didn’t go well on your excursion today.”
Neither of my Barons spoke when we returned home. Damon dropped his wet clothes on the doorstep and stormed off toward theirroom. Once it was obvious that Graves was taking custody of me, Hunter followed.
“No,” I say softly. “I can’t give them what they want.” He pours steaming tea into my teacup and I wrap my hands around the warm china, letting the steam kiss my face.
“Not yet, at least.”
I don’t feel confident that there is any way for me to earn back their faith. I look around the table. At the tea and cakes. “What is this about? Is he letting me out of the cage?”
He shakes his head and gives me a sympathetic grin. “No, not yet.”
My stomach sinks, and I realize how much I’d been hoping that was the case. Instead of telling him that, I ask, “How’s he doing?”
