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I’ve done what I’ve needed to before and there’s no reason I can’t do it again.

30

Damon

She’squiet the whole time we’re walking back to the SUV, her dress rustling with every step, dragging in the dirt. The hem’s a mess, but she doesn’t seem to care. I’m sure she doesn’t plan on keeping it anyway, not after everything that happened tonight.

The crazy thing is that the wilder she looks, the rattier that dress gets, the more I feel like I can see the real Baroness. The true Arianette Hexley. A woman made of bone and flesh, trauma and memory, who can charm a feral cat with her presence.

Tossing the empty trap in the back, I slam the door harder than necessary. She flinches.

Great.

I’m not used to bringing people out here. Hell, I’m not used to bringing people anywhere. I’ve been operating on my own for a long time. But I knew I needed out of that house, and I figured she did too. I guess I felt like maybe showing her something alive and small and innocent might make her feel less alone. I don’t know.

Christ. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow is going to be worse.

I start the engine, the lights skimming over the river as I turn and shift us back onto the road. She sits with her hands in her lap, eyes glassy and distant. The kind of look I used to see on guys after bad phone calls in prison–when the outside world slipped through the cracks and reminded them they were still inside and not getting out any time soon.

The SUV rumbles over gravel, then pavement, then we start over the long, dark stretch of Forsyth backroads. She hasn’t looked at me once.

"You're thinking too loud," I say finally.

She blinks. Turns toward me, like she forgot I was here. "Sorry."

"Didn’t say it was a bad thing. Just loud."

Silence again, and then she shifts in her seat, pulling at the seatbelt and then the neckline of her dress like it’s suffocating her. Her tits look incredible in that dress, all round and swollen, and I feel a sense of pride knowing my little barbells tweak against the fabric here and there.

“You good?” I ask, glancing at her as the headlights sweep through another empty bend in the road.

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Everything’s too tight.”

Her voice breaks, a fray at the edges. I exhale through my nose and roll down the windows an inch. Cold air fills the cabin.

“Better?”

She nods, but it’s not the cold she’s fighting.

“I hate this dress,” she blurts. “It’s like… a costume. Like my body’s not even mine in it.”

“You want me to rip it off right now, doll baby? I can make a real scene for whoever drives past.”

She gives a half laugh, but it dies fast. Her fingers twist, her nerves rising as we get closer to home.

"I've always felt like that," she says. “Like my body belonged to everyone but me. My nannies and teachers: they were the ones picking out my clothes and commenting on my posture. The dance instructors wanting more from my body than I could actually give.” She swallows. “Everything with my uncle today felt both awful and familiar.”

I grip the wheel tighter. My knuckles pop. It’s the kind of thing you want to fix by breaking something. Or someone.

“I keep thinking, this wedding, this marriage…” Her breath shakes. “Is it just more of the same? Just another cage?”

I don’t say anything. Not right away. Because what the fuck am I supposed to say to that? Wedoown her. Me and Hunter. The King. She belongs to us, those are the rules in this city, but I also understand, because I’ve been in that place where my body wasn’t my own. The prison guards, the warden, they all had dibs. I understand the lack of autonomy and how it starts to chip away at who you really are.

The first stoplight we hit flashes yellow then red. I roll to a stop and look around, tense. We’re too exposed here. The kind of place someone could see us, or worse, recognize the SUV.

She shifts uncomfortably beside me. I can feel her body wound tight.

“Fuck this,” I mutter and roll through the red, checking the side streets. Nothing. No one. Just dark storefronts and flickering lights. We drive on.