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We drive like that for miles–her body relaxing, the tension melting off of her, while I white-knuckle restraint. Although, after a while, I settle into the rhythm of it, the soothing nature. I’m less on a hair trigger and just enjoying the sensation.

She’s so quiet, so still, that I think she may have fallen asleep. It’s not until the trees thin and the lights of Forsyth appear on the horizon that she shifts, like she senses that we’re back in the real world. She pulls back slowly, giving me one suckle of the tip. There’s a tug on the final piercing that I feel deep in my spine. Finished, she rises up, lips slick, eyes glazed, tucking and zipping me back into my pants.

When I glance over again, she’s got her hands folded in her lap, but they’re no longer tense and twisting. No, she sits there in that ruined dress, lips a little puffy, like nothing happened.

I exhale, aware that my heart pounds like I ran a race. My cock aches, twitching behind wool. But I don’t complain, knowing she looks calmer. Morehere. Her back is straighter, chin higher. Her lips are swollen, and she’s breathing steady again.

We don’t talk the rest of the way back. There’s no need. She used me, and I let her, and somehow, thatfixedsomething for her. Gave her control in a world that keeps taking it.

When I park outside the House of Night, it’s quiet, no sign of what’s going to happen in the next twenty-four hours. I hop out, walk around and help her out of the passenger seat. The light over the back door illuminates our way, and we enter the house together.

It’s not until we’re inside standing in front of her bedroom door that I turn to her, brush a stray curl from her cheek, and speak. “Feel better?”

Arms wrapped around her upper body, she nods. “Thank you for letting me do that.”

“We’re in this together,” I tell her, “our fates sealed during the Hunt. There are going to be times we need to rely on one another.”

She looks a little apprehensive, like I’m going to demand to come inside and get repaid for being nice. I’d meant what I said, no strings. Not tonight.

“Good luck tomorrow,” I tell her, straightening up, even though the words feel strange in my mouth. Like I’m sending her off to war, or into something holy, which I guess I probably am.

She nods, clutching her arms a little tighter. I could offer to stay, I could force it, but that’s not who we are tonight.

I brush a final glance over her, messy, that tattered dress hanging off her small frame.

Tomorrow she’ll belong to the King.

But after that?

After that, the rules change.

I head back to my room with that thought burning low in my gut–like a promise I’ve waited too long to keep. Soon I’ll claim Arianette. Not just with my needles and fingertips, but deeper and more lasting. I’ll make her mine.

31

Arianette

The door shutsand I wait a moment, listening as Damon walks down the hall toward the room he shares with Hunter. He didn’t ask, or demand, to come in, which surprised me a little. I want to learn to trust him, especially after how he was tonight.

I know it’s not really a sacrifice to have my mouth on him like that. But the act goes beyond the sexual. It’s calming in a way I don’t fully understand. The first time had been purely on impulse, but tonight… that had been intentional and it shifts things into new territory. I’m not sure why, but I understand that it does.

I shiver, noticing that the bedroom is cold, like someone opened a window and forgot to close it. But there’s no breeze. Just still air and the light scent of flowers curling in through the curtains.

Ready for the night to be over, I strip off the wrinkled dress, the hem damp and dirty from walking near the boat ramp. It’d been interesting seeing that side of Forsyth–that side of Damon.No less crass and rough than the other parts of the city, or of the man, but less polished. We were on the quiet outskirts, where it felt a little more real. More authentic.

I’m too tired to shower, only taking the time to wash my hands and face. I avoid my reflection, turning to slip a cotton nightgown over my head, not wanting to look at the girl who is about to become a woman.A wife. I’m ready to put the past behind me, both the memories and the scars. I pull the silk bonnet over my head and flip off the bathroom light. I’m halfway to the bed when I see it: a glass jar nestled against my pillowcase.

I pause, breath caught in my chest, and look around the room. It’s quiet and still. Nothing else out of place. Stepping closer, I see that there’s a ribbon the color of burnt orange wrapped around the lip, with a small rectangular tag attached. It’s squat and sealed, like a canning jar used for jam. But inside, I see slips of paper. Folded carefully, each one identical, packed into the small space.

I don’t move for a moment. My spine itches. I think of the gifts my uncle gave the King for our wedding, the rod and collar. Is this just another one of his humiliations, another attempt to pour salt in my wounds, to remind me of who I belong to? Did he sneak in here after Ares chased him to his car and leave me one last piece of him?

No. That doesn’t feel right. Owen Hexley likes to see the discomfort on the face of his victims. He likes an audience, and this is too private, too intimate. There's no malice in the air.

I sit. The mattress gives under me and the jar rolls toward me. I pick it up and lift the tag. Scrawled in script it says:The Chrysalis Notes.

The words mean nothing to me, and I unscrew the lid. The scent hits me first, parchment and ink. I sniff the contents and catch the slightest hint of rose.

I take the first slip out and before I unfold it, look around again, making sure I’m truly alone.