Her fingers twitch in mine. I don’t interrupt. I just listen, thumb stroking over her knuckles.
“But after the performances…” She trails off, eyes distant. “The other children wouldn’t come back with me. They’d cry sometimes, or go quiet. I didn’t understand, because the performances were fun, or so I thought. My governess said they were just tired. That I was special, that I got to go home because I was different.” She looks up at me then, searching my face like she’s waiting for disbelief, for anger. “She said it so many times I believed it.”
My stomach turns. Not because I doubt her, not entirely, but because pieces are slotting together in ways that make my blood run cold. Owen Hexley was many things: ambitious, ruthless, useful when he needed to be. But this? Using the children welcomed into his home for underground events? Where children performed and then… vanished? I’ve heard rumors of trafficking rings in Forsyth, whispers that never quite solidified into proof. Names changed, venues shifted, evidence evaporated. I’ve never heard of Mayfield. If it existed, if it still exists, I should have known.
If what she’s saying is true, I’ve been to these events. Socialized with these people. Donated to their causes.
I keep my expression neutral. She’s watching me too closely; any flicker of doubt now and she’ll shut down.
“The music tonight,” she continues, voice dropping to a whisper. “The cello. It wasn’t just a song. It was proof. Proof I’d been there. Proof the other children had been there, too. Because if I remembered the music, if I remembered Whitaker’s hair under the lights… then maybe they were real. Maybe I didn’t imagine them disappearing.” She shakes her head suddenly, hard, like she’s trying to dislodge the thought. “Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it was just another party. Another normal thing Uncle Owen dragged me to. Maybe the panic was just… me. Breaking again.”
I shift closer on the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re not breaking, Arianette. You’re remembering. There’s a difference.”
Her eyes shine wetly, but no tears fall. “I don’t know what’s real anymore.”
I cup her cheek, thumb brushing the faint smear of yesterday’s mascara that still lingers under her eye. “What’s real is right here. You. Me. This room. The fact that you just told me something you’ve carried alone for years.” My voice roughens. “That takes trust. More than I deserve, maybe.”
She leans into my palm, just a fraction. “I didn’t want to disappoint you tonight. In the solarium. I ruined everything.”
“You didn’t ruin anything.” I tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet my gaze even through the mask. “You survived something that tried to bury you. That’s not ruin. That’s strength.”
She searches my face again–longer this time–like she’s trying to find the lie and can’t. Finally, she exhales, shoulders dropping a little. “I don’t know what Mayfield really was,” she admits. “I just know the name was whispered. Like a secret. And when the music started tonight… it felt like the secret was screaming.”
I nod once, filing the name away. I’ll have Graves dig. Discreetly. If there’s truth here, I’ll find it. If it’s trauma twisting memory into something darker… I’ll protect her from that, too. For now, I pull her closer, guiding her to lean against my chest. She comes willingly, tucking herself under my arm, head resting over my heart. My fingers card through her hair in soothing strokes.
“You did good tonight,” I murmur against the top of her head. “Telling me. Letting me in.”
She makes a small sound–half sob, half sigh–and curls tighter against me. “Do you believe me?”
“I believe there is a rot in Forsyth.” I press a kiss to her hairline, lingering there. “One that preys on our most vulnerable.”
She doesn’t respond. Just breathes against me, the tension bleeding out of her frame one heartbeat at a time. I keep stroking her hair, long, mindless passes from crown to ends, until her breathing deepens into the soft, even rhythm of sleep. The fire has burned down to glowing coals; the room is cooler now, shadows longer. I don’t move. I just hold her, feeling the fragile weight of her trust settle over me like something I’m afraid to disturb.
I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until I abruptly wake, achingly hard. The kind of erection that throbs with every slow beat of my pulse, heavy and insistent against the soft curve of her ass where she’s still curled into me. Dawn hasn’t broken yet–gray light barely touching the edges of the curtains–but I can see her clearly enough. Face slack with peace for once, lips parted, lashes dark fans against her cheeks. The panic and fear are gone. I did that, and now she’s just beautiful and unguarded, the chaos in her mind finally quiet.
My chest tightens. I think of Amber… twenty years locked away, eyes vacant, the woman I loved reduced to echoes. I think of my son… how much he hates me for how I handled his mental break. I couldn’t fix them. But maybe–maybe–I can be enough for her.
She stirs. A small sound in her throat, lashes fluttering. She turns in my arms, sleepy and warm, and climbs over me without a word. Straddles my hips, the oversized button-down riding up her thighs until I can feel the slick heat of her cunt brushing the length of mycock through the thin barrier of my pajama pants. My hips jerk up instinctively.
Her hands find my chest first. Palms flat, fingers splaying over the hair there, tracing down the ridges of my abs like she’s memorizing me. She leans forward, strands of hair falling around us like a curtain, and kisses me. I groan into her mouth, hands sliding up her thighs to grip her ass, guiding her to rock against me.
She breaks the kiss to sit up, shrugging the shirt off her shoulders. It pools around her waist. Her breasts are bare, nipples tight and pierced, the silver glinting in the low light. I reach up, thumbs brushing the metal, then tugging gently. She gasps, back arching, hips grinding down harder. I roll the piercings between my fingers in circular pinches until she’s whimpering, rocking faster, coating my cock through the fabric with every slide.
“Daddy,” she breathes, hands roaming again–over my shoulders, down my arms, back up to cup my face. Her fingertips trace the edge of the mask where it meets my skin. She hesitates, thumb brushing the seam. “I wish I could see your face. Know what my husband looks like.”
The words hit like a punch. Fear coils in my gut–old, familiar, the terror of being truly seen. I’ve hidden behind the mask for so long it’s become armor.
“I can’t,” I tell her, not liking the feeling in my chest. “You know that.”
She smiles down at me sadly. “I know.”
Arianette, with all her wildness, spirit and fire, will ultimately obey. She’ll accept what I give her because that’s how she’s been trained. She fought hard tonight in the solarium, trying to be the perfect wife, but she failed and I have no doubt that disappointing me was the hardest part.
She continues to ride me, slow and sweet, and suddenly, I don’t want armor. I want her to know me. All of me.
I catch her wrist and guide her hand back to the mask. My voice is rough. “Take it off.”
Her eyes widen. She searches my face–my half-hidden face–for along second, then nods. Fingers slide under the edge, careful, almost reverent. She lifts it, peeling the black fabric away until it’s gone, laid gently by the pillow.
