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Verity’s hand rests lightly on her stomach. “When one of us is falling, the rest pull her up. When one of us is fighting, the rest fight with her. That’s the deal.”

Lavinia meets my eyes. “You’re already part of this world, Ari. It’s time for you to be part of us, too.”

I’ve spent so much of my life being passed between roles and expectations, never quite belonging anywhere for long. Standing here with them—red hair, blue hair, dark brown hair—I feel the edges of something real and solid forming around me.

“I’d like that,” I say softly.

Story reaches out and links her pinky with mine for a second, almost playfully. “Then it’s settled. You’re one of us now.”

Verity smiles. “Welcome to the Monarchs, Arianette.”

Outside the dressing room, the theater is nearly empty, and the hours are ticking down. Amber is still out there, and the danger hasn’t disappeared, but standing with these women, it finally feels like I have more than just my Barons in my corner.

Over all these months, the House of Night has strangely come to feel like home. Those early weeks of sitting alone in my room, waiting for the Hunt, seem so far away now—almost like they happened to someone else. The events that followed blur at the edges when I try to hold them too tightly: the Hunt itself, the Black Wedding, the fire that destroyed my family home. The girl from back then wasn’t anchored into this world. Those events had scarred me, left me floating just outside my body, lost somewhere in my mind.

It all feels distant now, like stories told about another girl entirely.

But tonight is different. Tonight is etched into me with perfect clarity. Being up on that stage, bringing the dance to life under the lights, feeling Stravinsky move through my body like it belonged there—it feels seared into my bones. Which is exactly why it hurts more that Timothy wasn’t there to see it.

That is why I am sitting on the edge of his bed now, waiting for him to return. The room is quiet except for the low tick of the clock in the hallway and the occasional rattle of wind against the windows. The lamp on the nightstand throws a warm circle of light across the dark bedding. I keep catching glimpses of the fiery curls in the mirror across the room and feeling the strange dual sensation of pride and residual nerves.

The girl I used to be would never have done this. She would have been too afraid to confront him about his absence. Too afraid of upsetting the man she called husband, but still, in some buried part of herself, revered like a god. That girl would have locked the disappointment away and swallowed the words. She would have accepted whatever explanation came, if one came at all. She lived in fear of cages and consequences and the rod that enforced silence.

I am not that girl anymore. Or at least, I am willing to risk not being her tonight. Not just for myself, but for Stella. For Augustine. For every girl who has already paid the price while the rest of us scrambled in the dark.

Exhaustion weighs on me like a second skin by the time I hear his heavy footsteps coming down the hall. The door opens. Timothy steps inside, still wearing the coat he left in, the scent of late winter night air clinging to him. He stops when he notices me on the bed.

“Arianette,” he begins, but whatever else he meant to say slows and dies as his eyes move over my hair and face, taking in the changes since he last saw me. The copper. The curls. The remnants of stage makeup I didn’t fully scrub away. He strides forward without hesitation, one hand reaching out to cup my jaw. He tilts my face upward and looks down at me with an intensity that makes my pulse jump.

“Christ, you’re beautiful.” His fingers push gently into the curls, testing the new texture. “And I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for missing tonight.”

I am not sure what I wanted from him, but the apology alone does nothing to quiet the disappointment still lodged under my ribs. The performance had meant something larger than a single missed evening, and we both know it.

Timothy still hasn’t stepped into the public eye since his unmasking. Tonight, he should have been there for me, the same way I’ve been there for him.

“I was amazing tonight,” I say, and I do not hide the pride in my voice. “You should have been there.”

His hand drops from my face. He shoves it into his pocket, jaw tightening once before he answers. “You’re right. I was too deep in my head–not about seeing you,” he adds quickly. “I let the distractions get to me. It was selfish and impulsive. I hurt you and it's not okay.”

The simple confession steadies me more than the apology did. I exhale and meet his eyes directly.

“I need your help.”

“With anything,” he says immediately. “Whatever you need.”

“You’re the only one who hasn’t helped me walk through the process of recovering my memories.” I keep my voice even, though the urgency underneath it is sharp. “Hunter and Damon both have. Simon and Sarah. But with Amber taking Augustine and the Equinox only days away, I can’t wait any longer. I have to recover what I still don’t remember.”

“And you want me to guide you?”

I nod. “The guys are meeting with Killian to go over where Augustine was taken and begin the search. We’ll have the house to ourselves.”

“So you want to do this tonight.”

“We don’t have any other choice.” I hold his gaze, letting him see both the leftover hurt and the harder, clearer need beneath it. “I can be upset that you weren’t in that theater. I am upset. But finding those girls matters more. And if the only way to do that is to go back into the parts of my mind I’ve been avoiding, then that’s what we do. Tonight. With you.”

The room feels very still around us. Somewhere deeper in the house a floorboard creaks, but neither of us looks away. The copper curls brush my cheek as I wait for his answer, the weight of the performance and the missing girls and every unfinished memory pressing close on all sides.

I am no longer the girl who would have stayed silent.