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The lights are low, the room flickering with the hazy glow of candlelight. A tendril of smoke rises from a stick of incense situated on a small altar in the back of the room. He maintains his neutral expression when he notices me, but I sense the surprise in the way his forehead creases. He slows to a stop and finishes the final movement with a controlled exhale. Sweat glistens on his skin.

“What was that?” I ask, fascinated. “Some kind of dance?”

Timothy wipes his face with a towel, his breathing still slow and deliberate from the movements. A light sheen of sweat clings to his skin, highlighting the defined muscles of his arms and shoulders. He looks noticeably stronger than the last time I saw him–more solid, more like the Timothy I remember–but there’s still a careful restraint in the way he holds himself, protecting the healing wound.

I don’t know what I expected, but it’s not this.

“It’s called Chi Gong,” he says, voice calm and even, but I notice the way his critical gaze lands on the new piercing in the side of my nose. “An ancient practice used to harmonize the body and mind. Each movement corresponds to different organs and energy centers in the body. It helps with circulation, breathing, and rebuilding strength after trauma like this.” He absently touches the center of his chest. “The doctors weren’t sure how much mobility or stamina I’d regain. This has been helping more than the physical therapy alone.”

He says it simply, but I can hear the deeper meaning underneath–the quiet fight to reclaim control over his own body.

He drapes the towel over his shoulder. “I assume you saw my statement?”

I step further into the room, heart beating fast. “Yes. This morning.”

“And you decided what? That meant I was ready for visitors?”

I swallow hard. “I’m not a visitor, Timothy. I’m your wife.”

The muscle in his jaw tics sharply. “A Black Wedding is between the Baron King and his bride. I’m no longer King.”

“You’re saying our union isn’t valid?”

“Nothing is the same, Arianette. Not me. Not the House of Night. Not BRN. And not us. You need to accept that.”

“Who said I want things to be the same?” I snap, frustrated and hurt. “Or that I’m not willing to fight for the way things are going to be? Damon is a good King. He’s doing his best, but it’s temporary. We all know it. We’re waiting for you to come back to the throne.” My voice cracks slightly. “I’m waiting for you to come back to my bed.”

He pauses, chest rising and falling. Still from the workout? Or something else? “It’s my understanding that your needs are being met in the bedroom. By both your King and your Baron.”

The admission hangs between us. He’s been keeping track of us. The jealousy in his voice is unmistakable, and it lodges something painful and hopeful deep beneath my ribs.

I decide to share something of my own. “Mateo is dead. Kendrick has been shamed and removed from the House. And Regina…” I watch his face. “She killed herself rather than face the consequences of siding with the Guardian. The foundation of the House of Night is slipping away–despite how hard we’re trying.” I take a shaky breath. “But that’s the thing. We’re going to keep trying. We’re not going to stop, no matter how much the Guardian tries to intimidate us. Or infiltrate our ranks.”

My jaw sets. “But maybe when you tore off that mask, and everyone saw who was really wearing it… you fell apart. Not us. This isn’t the first time you’ve gone into hiding. That started all those years ago, on the day you put on that mask. You hid from Forsyth, from your family, from the frat.” I take a breath. “You hid from all of us because you can’t reconcile how you earned it and who you are without it. And until you do that, I don’t know if you should come back.”

“You think I’m a coward.” It’s a statement. One that comes with a dangerous flicker of anger in his green eyes.

I shrug, even as my pulse races. “Damon doesn’t hide behind the mask. He’s laid bare for all of us to see. For me to see. We don’t have secrets. We can’t. Not if we’re going to stop whoever is terrorizing our city.”

“Damon hasn’t had to do the things I have over the last two decades,” he growls, stepping closer. “He was given a role.” He stabs a finger into his own chest. “I was forced to take it.”

The anger surges through me like fire. “Were you hunted through the night? Strapped to an altar and carved into? Locked in a cage?” My voice rises, trembling with fury and old pain. “Were you sold into a marriage to a man so bound to his past that he can’t even see his future?” My fingers curl into tight fists at my sides. “Unless you were, don’t tell me what you were forced into.”

“Wicked one,” he says, voice low and venomous as he steps even closer, “don’t pretend like you don’t like it when you’re tied up and under the blade. I’ve seen how wet you get when you’re trapped.”

His words are taunting–and true–but I’m not letting him get me off track.

“I didn’t have a choice to like it or not,” I fire back. “But I did own it. I own who I am, Timothy. Unlike you. You chose to play the victim instead of acting like a King.”

The words barely leave my mouth before the wave hits me–memories crashing in fast and violent. The forest. Armand. The blade in my hand. Damon and Hunter by the altar. Blood. Fear. The cage. I’m hot. Sweat rolls down my back. My vision tunnels until it’s just me and the rage.

“Arianette.”

I close my eyes, trying to breathe like Sarah taught me. In. Out. In. Out⁠—

“Arianette!”

My eyes snap open. Timothy’s fingers are tight around my wrist, shaking my grip loose. The object I didn’t even realize I was holding falls to the floor with a clatter–a candle–a spark of red flickering at the end.