Timothy exhales through his nose and turns back to us. “Yes, the solstice is tomorrow. Since most of the Shadows have gone home forwinter break, this is usually just for those of us in the house. Informal. Dinner, the yule log, gift giving.”
Hunter raises a brow. “Gift giving?”
Timothy gives him a pointed look. “Yes. Obviously, I don’t need anything, but your Baroness?” He leans forward slightly. “Make it fucking count.”
“Yes, sir.”
Timothy stays seated as we leave, already reaching for his phone, the hair tie and caged beetle still resting on the desk like tiny bursts of hope.
Unlike Hunter, finding a gift for Arianette isn’t going to be a problem.
I already know exactly what to give her.
34
Arianette
“That was delicious.We haven’t had a traditional meal like that in…” Timothy pushes the charcoal sweater he’s wearing up over his elbows, “... well, a long time.”
Yes,Timothy.He has a name. And a face. And hands that make me feel alive.
Timothy,my husband, with the most exquisite cheekbones and soft lips. Timothy Maddox, whose name lights up the Forsyth skyline.
“I had no idea goose could taste like that,” Damon adds, rubbing his stomach. “Good job, Doll Baby.”
“The cook did the heavy lifting,” I reply, cheeks burning from the compliment. Across the table, Hunter’s finger swipes chocolate syrup off his plate, his tongue darting out. “I just sourced the ingredients from the recipes I found.”
After Timothy revealed himself to me that trust expanded to other areas. He’s still protective, but I have a little more freedom.With no school or dance class, I’ve spent the last few days embracing my role as Baroness. Like everything else in the House of Night, there are archives holding the details, describing everything from house management to formal wear, from rituals to meal planning. I found a box of recipes, and inside it had everything I needed to plan a traditional winter solstice meal.
I stand, pushing back the dining room chair, and reach for his cleaned plate. His hand stops mine. “Not now,” he says. “We can sort this later.” He rises, linking his fingers with mine. “Come, let’s continue the celebration.”
Hunter and Damon walk ahead, and Timothy holds me back. “Thank you for making dinner special.”
“Of course.” I’ll do anything for him. He just hasn’t realized it yet.
He moves suddenly, pushing me against the wall, fingers grazing over the hem of my skirt. “It was very challenging to get through dinner with you looking so incredibly enticing.”
The dress I’m wearing is deep burgundy, with long sleeves that flare at the wrists. The corset-laced bodice pushes my breasts high enough that all three of my men have struggled to keep their eyes away. His erection throbs against my lower belly.
He closes his eyes and inhales. “Later. I’ll have my way with you later. We have a long night ahead.”
Down the hall, Damon opens the double doors to the den. It looks nothing like it did the night before my wedding, when Uncle Owen handed me over to the King. Tonight, the cold, sterile room glows soft and warm, the fire in the massive stone hearth crackling steadily, sending little sparks dancing up the chimney. Evergreen boughs drape the mantel, studded with small white candles that flicker in brass holders. Their light catches on the deep red and gold ornaments hanging from the branches of the potted tree in the corner, everything golden and intimate.
“Who did this?” I ask, taking it in.
“Hunter spent the afternoon chopping wood and I collected the evergreen,” Damon admits, cheeks turning a little red. He’s in all black, including a soft sweater that clings to his shoulders. The lightglints off his piercings, drawing my eyes to the reminder over his eyebrow, ‘Remember you must die.’
Tonight isn’t about death. The winter solstice is the shortest day and longest night of the year. It’s about hope and renewal, the return of light and rebirth.
Hunter approaches the fireplace and selects two more logs from the stack on the hearth, placing them atop the deep red embers. His green shirt falls open at the throat, a glimpse of tattooed skin visible, and when he works the poker, the muscles in his forearm tighten, a subtle, undeniable reminder of his strength.
They sit, and Timothy pours mulled wine for everyone–even a glass for himself. I hover, glancing at the potted evergreen tree in the corner and the three gifts I placed there earlier. I decide not to make a ceremony of it. If I think too hard, I’ll lose my nerve.
“I have something for you,” I say, gathering the gifts in my hands. The boxes are plain dark wood, no wrapping paper, just tied with thin black thread instead of ribbon. I pass them out one by one, palms still warm from clutching them too tightly while I waited. “For solstice.” Then I add quietly, “I made them.”
Timothy opens his first.
He doesn’t touch what’s inside right away. Just looks. I watch his face, recognition giving way to understanding. He knows what it is. Not just jewelry, but a ward. When his fingers finally close around the knotted cord–a thin black leather thong threaded with tiny jet beads, a single obsidian knot at the center–he does it carefully. Reverently. Like he understands the weight of a token made for the day.
