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“Blood?”
“I don’t know,” she admits.
“Anything else?” Hunter asks, voice tight.
“Maybe.” She makes a face. “Just thinking about it makes me feel like I’m going to have a heart attack.”
I slide my hand down to her wrist. Her pulse is racing like a hummingbird under my fingers–fast, frantic, terrified. Like she was in the room herself.
“Would it help to have someone guide you through it?” Hunter asks carefully.
I grimace, already hating the direction this is going, but before I can shut it down, Arianette says, “Like Sy?”
Hunter nods.
I feel her muscles relax just slightly against me.
Fuck.
Guess we’re going back to West End.
16
Arianette
A week passes since the night Ares burst from the treeline with that cursed charm bag clamped in his mouth, but in Forsyth, time never stops—not when there’s a dead body in the crypt, not while Timothy remains silent, and not when the Guardian is clearly moving pieces of the chessboard right under our feet.
The day after, without making eye contact, Hunter drove me into East Side, stopping at the Gilded Rose.
“What’s this?” I asked, looking at the little bungalow.
“Take the afternoon for yourself–do whatever it is that girls do.” Underneath the grim expression I could tell he was trying to make amends for what happened in the bathroom. “I just want you to know that I’m sorry–”
“Stop. No more apologies.” I held up my peeling, worn nails. “But I will accept your spa day. I could use a little TLC.”
We dealt with Regina’s body on the second day. The crypt beneath the House of Night was cold and silent as Slade and Jace carried her down on a black cloth stretcher. I insisted on being there and fulfilling my role. No one spoke much. I watched as they placed her on the stone slab, her face finally peaceful in death. We gave her the minimal rites–enough to satisfy tradition, but nothing more. No songs. No blessings. Just the necessary words and the flicker of black candles. When it was done, I felt nothing but a hollow kind of relief.
The next morning, we went back to class like everything was normal.
I sat in the dance studio with the other girls, stretching on the polished floor while our instructor drilled us for the upcoming recital: the Rite of Spring, by Igor Stravinsky. My muscles burned as I moved through the choreography–turns, extensions, and endless lifts. Every movement felt more honed than before, like the violence of the last few weeks had rewired my body. I caught a few curious glances from the other dancers, but no one dared ask why the Baroness had bruises fading on her throat, or if the silent man sitting in the back row was the one who put them there.
It was a relief when Hunter handed me off to Damon between classes.
“He still won’t talk to me.” We watched him weave through the crowd of students, exiting the front doors, feet moving as fast as they’d take him without breaking into a flat-out sprint.
“I told you,” he said, lips brushing against mine, “we’ll figure it out.”
“I think he may hate me.” The confession slipped out before I had a chance to filter myself. I glanced around, making sure no one else heard it.
Damon’s hand slid behind my neck, tilting my face to his. “He doesn’t hate you. He wants you so fucking bad it hurts. If he hated you, this would be easy.”
I thought about it. The way he stood silently by my side when duty required it–walking me to class, sitting near me at meals–but there was always a firm, deliberate distance between us. He wouldn’t touch me. Wouldn’t even look at me for too long. Every time I tried to close the gap, he stepped back. I kept thinking about that night in the bathroom, wishing I could reach back in time and stop myself from opening that window. But it had happened. And now the space between us felt wider than ever.
Damon, always sensing when I was about to slip into a dark, negative place, pulled me into an empty stairwell on the east side of the arts building. The door clicked shut, and his mouth was on mine–hot, demanding, and possessive in a way that made my knees weak.
As much as I hated Hunter’s avoidance, I craved this side of Damon. The raw command. The way he takes control without asking. Ever since he put on that ring and stepped into the role of King, there’s been a new weight to him, a heavier authority in every touch. I know it’s hard for him. I can feel the tension in his shoulders, the way he carries the crown like it’s still too big, too heavy. But when he touches me like this–when he stops thinking and just takes–something inside me lights up.
He spun me around, pressing my chest against the cool concrete wall. My skirt was shoved up around my waist in seconds, his zipper down, nudging my knees apart. His cock hard when he spread me, wet on his fingertips. He fucked me right there–almost desperate–one of his hands pulling my face to the side, until we’re looking at one another.
