Damon’s thumb pauses high on my leg when movement catches my eye. Story’s weaving through the crowd, brown hair swinging, short dress skimming her thighs above knee-high boots. Rath trails a step behind, dark hair messy, piercings glinting under the fluorescents, his whole vibe daring anyone to approach.
Damon’s pierced eyebrow–the one now shadowed by fresh Memento Mori ink–arches as they approach. When Hunter asked him about it in the truck this morning, he just shrugged those broad shoulders and looked out the window. It’s obvious he got it after he left the hypnosis. It should be off-putting. Instead it makes my stomach flutter.
I drag my eyes away from my Baron and back to the couple walking our way. Rath’s energy is coiled tight, eyes scanning like he’s waiting for a threat.
The last time I saw Story we were tiptoeing around one another in the bathroom, doing our best to play by the rules. Today, though, she walks straight up to our table with purpose, and I feel the shiftimmediately—every frat-connected gaze in the building snaps our way.
A table full of jocks in LDZ shirts goes still. A cluster of PNZ on the open couches leans forward just a fraction, while over by the coffee cart, a few DKS stop mid-conversation. Even the Shadows–Mateo and Carson–push off the wall they’ve been holding up, arms crossed, watching.
The way Story ignores all of them makes me think she’s grown accustomed to the attention. She stops right in front of us, offering a small smile. “Hey.”
Damon and Rath exchange a curt nod—the barest of acknowledgments.
“I was hoping to find you here,” Story says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I wanted to talk to you about the annual toy drive.”
I blink. I have no idea what she’s talking about; it must show on my face.
She rolls her eyes, but it’s gentle. “This is the kind of thing Regina should have told you, but not every past House Girl actually follows through. God knows mine didn’t.” She shrugs. “Anyway, every year Panhellenic sponsors a Christmas toy drive for the kids at the children’s hospital. It rotates houses. This year, it’s technically PNZ’s turn, but Verity just had Justice, so she’s obviously not in any shape to organize it. I figured maybe the rest of us could team up to pull it together.”
I glance at Damon, unsure of the rules here. He gives me the smallest nod–go ahead.
“I’d be happy to help,” I say, meaning it. “It sounds like a great idea.”
“Awesome.” Story’s smile widens, genuine relief flickering across her face. “Lavinia’s in too. Since the rest of this week is off for Thanksgiving break, if it works for you, we can meet Monday at the library, second floor study tables, four p.m.”
I don’t look to Damon this time. I know my schedule–dance lets out at 3:45. “I can be there.”
“Great.” She nods, already stepping back. “Guess we’ll see you Friday night at the Fury.”
Rath slings a heavy arm around her shoulders, tugging her close as he steers her away. Damon’s hand finally stills on my thigh, fingers squeezing once in silent approval as Story and Rath head over to the table with the jocks. When the attention from the rest of the room fades away, I turn to him, suddenly unsure.
“Was that okay?” I ask quietly. “Talking to her like that? Agreeing without checking with you first?”
His dark eyes flick to mine, the corner of his mouth lifting in that slow, rare way that always makes my stomach flip. “You did good, Doll Baby,” he says, voice low and warm. “Real good.”
The praise lands soft and perfect right in the center of my chest, spreading outward like sunlight. I feel my shoulders relax, a small smile tugging at my lips that I can’t quite hide. Those three little words from him and I’m glowing, ready to do anything to hear them again.
For the first time in weeks, something clicks into place.
Maybe I’m finally figuring this out. How to be what they need. How to make my men happy. The way Damon held me so tight last night, greedy and possessive; the way Hunter’s careful control finally snapped in that dark room, letting me see underneath the surface, see what he’s been hiding. Even the King took me out into public, and I held it together. It’s possible that I’ve figured out how to support them, stand beside them, even when the past keeps trying to drag me under.
Uncovering memories is still a painful crawl, but I’m doing it. And now this, stepping into the bigger role, the Baroness' duties, the politics and alliances and charity drives, without freezing or fumbling too badly.
I lean into Damon’s side, letting the heat of his body cling to me. The rain keeps pounding the windows but inside, for once, everything feels steady, like I may actually be able to do this.
Ares isn’tthe only one waiting for us when we return from campus. Graves is just inside the door, eyes pinned on me.
“Baroness,” he says, taking my dance bag from my hands, “will you come with me please?”
I look to DK and then Hunter, searching for some idea of why I’m being singled out, but both look as confused as I do.
“Of course,” I reply, knowing it’s not my place to question. Still, my stomach tightens as I follow him away from my Barons to the other side of the House of Night.
“I apologize for not speaking to you sooner,” he says, slowing enough for me to catch up. “I let the week get away from me, and well, suddenly the day is here.”
“Day?” I ask. Before he can reply, I hear the sound of voices down the narrow corridor toward the kitchens where he pushes the door open.
Heat spills out first. Then scent, bread, herbs, and roasting meat. The normally quiet kitchen is alive. Cooks weave in and out, hands dusted with flour, sleeves rolled, voices overlapping in clipped exchanges. No one stops when we enter although the cook, an older woman with quick eyes and a knife moving faster than I can track, glances up briefly, then returns to her work.
