The elevator doors open and we step inside. Our images, distorted and misshapen, reflect back in the shiny elevator doors. “I don’t know what’s true anymore. Even when the memories come, how can I be sure?”
The elevator lurches and I fall into Hunter. Instead of stepping aside, or giving us distance, his hands, firm and warm, hold me upright.
He doesn’t let go.
“We’ll figure it out,” he says quietly. “I promise.”
I want to believe him, but everything tells me that we won’t.
Not before something terrible happens.
Damonand I walk in silence, the cold December air biting through my coat. My ass still throbs on occasion, usually when I take a step, stretching the healing flesh farther than it wants to go. It’s a dull, insistent heat under my skirt, but I don’t complain. It’s a reminder to be better for my husband, and of how I can be useful to Hunter.
Damon is quiet, but close, his hand on the small of my back, thumb tracing a slow circle that’s half comfort, half claim for anyone watching. To the outside world we’re a united front. No one needs to know the pains we experience in the House of Night.
The list Story sent us takes us across campus. We staple posters on bulletin boards in the student center, tape them to lampposts, and hang them on the lobby windows of every dormitory. We move fast, the posters dwindling by the time we hit East End, the sky turned a bruise-purple, streetlights flickering on.
We stop outside the last spot on the list.
The Gentlemen’s Chamber squats on the corner like it owns the block. Non-descript with windows tinted so dark you can’t see inside. The East End Princes own it; everyone knows that, but with Verity focused on baby JJ, we volunteered to cover the territory. Damon’s originally from there, after all.
Music thumps and spills out to the parking lot, bass heavy enough to feel in my chest. Damon stops beside me, eyes on the door, mouth curving into that slow, dangerous smirk he saves for when he’s feeling playful.
“You wanna go in?” he asks, voice low, teasing. “See what East End tits look like?”
My pulse kicks up. “We’re just hanging posters. We can leave one with the bouncer.”
He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “We can do both.”
Before I can argue, he’s already pushing the door open and the bouncer is waving us in. Warm air and perfume hit me first, sweet mixed with smoke and sweat. The club’s dim, lit by red and purple strobes. A girl on the main stage moves seductively around the pole, body glistening, hair swinging. Men in dark corners watch, drinks in hand, but no one looks as we weave through the tables. The music pulses louder the closer we get to the bar. The bartender spots us when we’re still a few feet away, her eyes flicking to Damon first, then to me, then back to him. The easy smile she’d been wearing for the customers fades into something tighter, more guarded.
“Damon,” she says, wiping her hands on a rag. Her voice is low,smoky, carrying just enough edge to cut through the noise. “Didn’t expect you tonight.”
“Just handling some business,” he replies, tone even, but it’s obvious they know one another. Her gaze flicks to me and I try not to squirm under the scrutiny. “Arianette, this is Rikki. Rikki, Arianette.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says, offering a small nod. No hand extended. No smile.
“You too,” I manage, voice smaller than I want. I’ve obviously stepped into something here that I don’t understand.
Damon just stands there, offering no more details or context. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders loose, but posture rigid.
An awkward beat stretches.
Rikki breaks it first. “You want a drink? On the house.”
Damon nods his head. “Sure. Beer for me. Something sweet for Arianette.”
She gets to work, uncapping a bottle of beer and sliding it across the bar to Damon. Next she fills a glass with gin, then dashes in something red, adding two cherries in with a plink.
“Thanks,” Damon says, grabbing both glasses and then leading me to a quiet booth in the back. He squeezes in next to me, our hips and thighs touching. I take a sip of the sweet cocktail. It does nothing to quell the feeling building in my gut.
“So how do you know her?” I ask, not liking the feeling in my gut. “An ex?”
He barks out a laugh. A real one that lights up his eyes. “Fuck no, Doll Baby.”
Now I just feel dumb and I start to shift away, to give us some space, but his arm slides over my shoulder blades and holds me against him. “You jealous?”
“Maybe,” I admit. He’s my Baron.Mine.
