“Hidden.” I pause, remembering how her voice went distant, like she was back there. “She said that one day someone came right up to the bars. They were wearing a mask, not like ours. This one was dark metal, almost black, but with a bronze sheen, like it had been burned or aged in fire. Massive ram’s horns curled out from the top.”
The King’s gloved hands unclasp, falling to his sides.
“She called it a–”
“Demon,” he cuts in.
“Yes,” but I tell him something I don’t think he knows. “Theperson wearing it told her the girls taken in Forsyth were part of something bigger. An old cycle. An honor to be chosen. That everyone else is just on the surface… but they were the roots.”
Silence stretches, thick and cold. The fire crackles again, but it feels far away. Whatever the King is thinking he doesn’t share it with me, but I have a question, one that kept me up, long after DK and Arianette went back to sleep.
“I’ve noticed something. Her memories… they come clearest after pain. Real pain. DK pushing her under the water that day in the forest. Snapping at her during hypnosis. What happened last night after you punished her.” I swallow. “Why would that be?”
He considers it for a long moment, head tilting slightly. “Pain can be a catalyst,” he says at last. “For Arianette, it’s possible that experiencing true, unleashed physical pain forces the part of her mind that locks things away to shift its focus to the wounds, the immediate sensation. In that distraction, the barriers loosen. The memories find room to surface.” He steps closer, voice lowering, “The distraction of hurt opens her mind.”
I nod, turning it over. It makes a twisted kind of sense. Pain as a key. Pain as a door.
“Be careful with that knowledge,” he adds quietly. “It’s a tool. Not a toy.”
I don’t answer. Just stand there while the fire burns lower, wondering how many more doors we’ll have to force open before she remembers everything.
And whether she’ll still be whole when we do.
22
Arianette
It’sMonday after Thanksgiving break and campus feels like it’s waking up after a nap. The skies are gray, trees bare, and students shuffle between classes with half-hearted energy, knowing the weeks between now and Christmas will be filled with cramming for exams. My dance class ends at 3:45, and I’m still tender from the welts. Every step creates a hot sting that makes me grit my teeth when I shift my weight. The skirt I chose today is loose, soft cotton, but even the fabric brushing against my skin feels like a reminder of the King’s punishment.
Hunter waits outside the studio, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He straightens when he sees me, eyes scanning my face like he’s checking for cracks.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low.
I nod, forcing a small smile. “I’m fine. Just… still alittle tender.”
He doesn’t push, just falls into step beside me as we head toward the library.
The massive four-story brick building is quiet, peaceful after the barking commands of my dance instructor. High ceilings, dark wood shelves and the faint smell of old paper and coffee drift from the café downstairs. We climb the stairs to the second floor, where the study rooms line the back wall, glass fronts, small tables and a few chairs. Story and Lavinia are already inside one of them, books and laptops spread out.
Story looks up first, her brown eyes watching me through the glass. She waves us in. Lavinia is next to her with that gorgeous blue hair falling in waves over her shoulders. I can’t help but stare at the intricate death’s-head moth tattoo peeking above the neckline of her sweater.
Their men are here too, or at least two of them. Tristian Mercer lounges against the wall behind Story, arms crossed, tense. Sy stands near Lavinia, posture rigid. His eyes only soften slightly when he sees me.
We step inside the pressure cooker, and I can only assume tensions are high after the bloodbath on Friday night. I take one of the two remaining empty chairs, wincing when my ass hits the plastic seat.
Lavinia watches me closely, then sighs and rolls her eyes. “This is a charity meeting, boys. Not an undercover operation. Give us some space.”
Sy’s jaw tightens. He leans down, kisses Lavinia hard, possessive, lingering, then straightens and heads for the door without a word. Tristian whispers something in Story’s ear, brushes his knuckles along her cheek, and follows.
Hunter gives me a final look and the door clicks shut behind them.
Lavinia snorts. “Your cheeks are so fucking red right now. What the hell did he say?”
Story’s cheeks only burn brighter. “Just reminding me of what we’re doing after this.”
“Sex in the stacks.” It’s not a question. “Never change, Mercer.”
To my surprise, Story just sighs. “He heard where the meeting was and canceled his other plans.” She smoothes out the short skirt she’s wearing. “He picked this out just for the occasion.”
