Page 114

35

Arianette

“I do.”

The words echo in my chest as I stand at the edge of the reception.

It’s held in the garden behind the House of Night. Strings of amber lights flicker along the cobbled paths, creating something magical. Samhain night settles heavy over Forsyth and there’s only a few hours left before the veil slips away for another year. There’s fire in the air–actual bonfires, crackling at the far corners of the lawn–casting a glow of yellow light over the tables of food and drink. It’s a feast I hadn’t even realized was being prepared: roasted meat, figs stuffed with blue cheese, candied apples, all topped off with spiced red wine that stains the lips of the wealthy like communion.

The flowers out here burst with color. Reds, yellows, and orange, nestled in vases that look like skulls. It’s the opposite of inside the chapel. Out here under the stars and moonlight is a celebration, a party. I’m just too nervous to enjoy it.

I’d gotten separated from the King when I went to the bathroom to clean up, and now I’m stuck wandering alone, barefoot, my shoes kicked off the instant I stepped into the grass. People gather in little clutches, coats draped over black-tie finery, drinks in hand. The guests are still buzzing about the ceremony.

“That waswild,” a girl in a sequined shawl gushes to a date in a velvet tux. “I mean–did you see the altar? What do you think happened back there?”

Her date sips from a blood-red glass. “It was a lot. I was here for a wedding three years ago for one of the brothers, but it was much more tame.”

“The King’s always been a bit dramatic,” someone else chimes in. “It wouldn’t be a Baron wedding without a little blood.”

I drift through the garden, the hem of my satin gown brushing fallen leaves, trying to ignore the ache between my legs. Last night the sensation of the King’s fingers had been a painful intrusion, but what happened on that altar was much more. An invasion between my hips.

Now I walk as though nothing happened. Like I can’t feel the blood soaked into my panties, or remember what the object he’d inserted in me looked like after the King showed it to my uncle. He’d grinned down at the white satin, now stained red, and shook the King’s hand.

The deal, whatever it had been for, was secured.

Most people at the party seem oblivious, but a few have a knowing look in their eyes. The Lords’ King and Lady–Killian and Story–offer a small smile and raised glasses. Tristian walks up with a plate piled high with fruit and other delectables from the buffet table.

“Eat,” he offers the plate to Story. “I know you’re starving.”

“I’m saving room for cake,” she tells him, nodding over to the dessert table. “There are two, and I want a piece of each.”

“Sweetheart, I know you’ve got a sugar addiction, but it’s not like you’re Verity and eating for two.”

“She’s not eating for two, dipshit,” the dark-haired Lord–Dimitri Rathbone–says, fingers wrapped loosely around a bottle of beer. “She’s already had the baby.”

Tristian rolls his eyes. “She’s nursing the baby. How do you think she gets the extra calories to feed him too?”

“Are you saying that if I get pregnant I can have extra cake?” Story asks, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

“Jesus,” Killian mutters. “Tris, stop monitoring Story’s food. We’re at a party for God’s sake. Rath, seriously, don’t be a dipshit, and Story…” His hand flattens on her belly, “as much as I want to see your belly filled up with our baby–”

“And some super big tits. Have you seen Verity’s tits?” Tristian whistles. “No wonder they left the party early.”

Story pinches him in the side. “Gross. They left early so she could get home to herson.”

Killian sighs. “Like I said, as much as I want to see your belly filled up with our baby, we are in no way prepared to handle that right now, even though there may be perks for all of us.”

I slink away, feeling like I just heard way too much about the Lords, Verity’s tits, and their conception plans. I move quickly and stumble straight into Remy Maddox and Lavinia, who are speaking with a couple of older guests, cloaked in black and silver. Remy’s hand grips Lavinia’s hip, his thumb making tiny circles. Their voices hush when I approach.

“Arianette,” a woman says, stepping out from the little group. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m Sarah, and these are my husbands, Manny and Davis.” She gestures to the two handsome men with her. “We wish you all the best.”

They offer their congratulations, and I can’t help but note that her tone is soft,genuine, like she means it, unlike many of the other people here. But I also see the small crease at the corner of her eye. Worry? It makes me uncomfortable, and I shift my gaze to Lavinia. She gives me a small smile.

“Your dress is gorgeous,” she says. “Looks like one of Jade’s, don’t you think, Rem?”