“Who is it?” I call, already knowing the answer.
“It’s Arianette.”
The name hits low in my gut. I curse under my breath, reach for the mask again, and slide it back into place.
I open the door only wide enough for her to see the mask, the shadow, the King, not the man. She stands in the hallway, small in the vast corridor, still wearing the outfit. Her eyes land on my chest first before dragging up to my eyes. She peers at me for a moment, so hard that I wonder if I forgot to put the mask back on. I hold her gaze until she looks away first, down to the floor, then back again, like she can’t decide where it’s safe to look. She swallows, throat working.
“I—um.” Her voice is soft, a little cracked. “May I come in? Just… stay tonight?”
Silence stretches between us, thick and dangerous.
She rushes to fill it, nerves splintering her usual careful composure. “I did well tonight. You said so. I proved myself. We—we can do this. Be man and wife. I can take care of you.” Her gaze lifts again, steady now, pleading. “Meet your needs.”
Her hand rises, giving me every chance to stop her. I don’t.
Her palm settles against my bare abdomen, warm, tentative, fingers splayed over skin that jumps at the contact. Innocent enough to the eye, but the promise in it is devastating.
“All of them,” she whispers, barely audible.
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
I feel it all at once: the heat of her hand, the faint tremor in her fingers, the way she’s offering herself, not as Baroness to King, but as woman to man. How much I want her. How I have wanted her for longer than I will ever admit. How easy it would be to pull her inside,close the door, let the mask fall again, this time for good, and take everything she’s offering. Her mouth. Her body. Her trust.
How fucking good it would feel to stop fighting this thing that coils tighter every time she’s near. My blood is roaring. My skin burns where she touches. For one reckless heartbeat, I almost step forward, almost let my hand cover hers, press it harder against me, guide it lower.
Instead, I step back, and the space between us feels like a chasm.
“No,” I say, voice low, final. The words are bitter on my tongue.
Her hand drops to her side, fingers curling into her palm as if to hold onto the warmth that was there a second ago. Those brown eyes, those wide, searching eyes, fill with something fragile and hurt before she blinks it away. Before she can speak, before she can ask why or try again or shatter completely, I close the door.
The lock clicks softly. Decisively.
I stand there long after, forehead pressed to the cool wood, chest rising and falling too hard, the silence roaring louder than the bonfire outside.
This is the choice I make.
Again.
20
Arianette
“No.”
The word has been echoing in my head since he said it last night, cutting through the quiet of his doorway. There was no hesitation in his voice. No room for misunderstanding. He doesn’t want me. Not as a real wife, anyway.
I can stand beside him at formal events, smile prettily while he hosts the boys from Beta Rho. I can be the Baroness who organizes dinner parties and rituals. He can take me in the dark when the need gets too strong, claim me in secret, quick and silent. But as a woman who shares his bed every night? Who wakes tangled in his sheets, who pleases him however he wants, who builds a life beside him?
No.
The rejection sits heavy in my chest as Damon, Hunter, and I push through the doors of the DKS gym. The Fury is already in full swing, apparently a Thanksgiving break tradition, bodies packedshoulder to shoulder, the air thick with sweat and watery beer. A huge banner stretches across one wall:
DKS THANKSGIVING FURY–ALL PROFITS TO THE VICTOR’S CHARITY OF CHOICE.
The crowd roars as the current fight ends, the crowd evenly split between whoever was up there fighting. I’m dressed like the gothic princess they expect, knee socks, a short pleated skirt that barely skims my thighs, and a cropped BRN tee slashed at the collar so it hangs off one shoulder. I’m starting to understand the expectations of me a little better, who my men want me to be when I’m standing by their side. I kept it in mind when I got ready for tonight. Heavy eyeliner wings at the corners of my eyes and my lips are painted a dark ebony.
As we push through the crowd, eyes flick down to the scarred pentagram branded just above my tits; I don’t bother hiding it anymore. I earned these scars. I survived them. DK’s hand slides around my waist the second we’re inside, possessive, thumb slipping just under the waistband of my skirt to trace slow, soothing circles against my skin. The touch steadies me, even though I still feel the sting of the King’s rejection.
