Page 3

Plié

Arabesque

Sauté

Tap, tap, tap.

I stare at the door. No one has ever knocked before. Normally, there’s just the sound of the metal key, scraping against the lock.

I blink, unsure if I made it up. That happens sometimes.

Another knock follows, louder this time. Knuckles rapping against the wood.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice cracking, dry from disuse.

“Arianette,” I hear, the voice muffled but distinct. Female. “May I come in?”

I look around, wondering if I’m being watched. If this is a test. Heart pounding, I step to the door and press my ear to the wood.

“Who…” I swallow, trying to make my voice stronger. “Who is this?”

“Regina. The Baroness.”

The Baroness.

“Oh.” Butterflies come alive in my gut. “Yes. Please.”

When the door swings open, she’s not alone, one of the shadows holds the key, but I’m not interested in him. I’m focused on the woman; her straight spine, full lips, and painted eyes. Her dress is black. Sheer. The sleeves drape gently over her shoulders, like spiderwebs. The neckline plunges, exposing the soft curve of her breasts.

She’s gorgeous. Elegant.Royal.

“You can leave,” she tells the man, taking the key from him and sliding it into her pocket. He nods, her directive unchallenged. She shuts the door behind her, then appraises me. “How are you feeling?”

Well, that… that is a loaded question.

Are my bones broken? No. My bruises are healing. The wounds are no longer infected. But the nightmares, the day-mares. They seep in at the edges–a cacophony of voices. Some here. Some there. Some buried deep inside my chest. The home.The beast.The sensation of mud between my toes.

I give the answer I’ve learned is the only one people want. “I’m fine.”

Her dark eyes sweep over the room, at the pushed-aside furniture. Instantly, I’m jealous of her smooth, ebony skin. There are no scars around her wrists. No bruises refusing to fade. “It feels like ages since I was in this room.”

“You’ve been here?” I ask, trying to imagine her on the little bed. In the stark bathroom. How could someone so beautiful, so gorgeous, come from this dull place?

She nods. “Before the Hunt.”

“The Hunt?” I repeat, the words drawing out a flicker of a memory. Forsyth is filled with ceremonies, and there is nothing rich people love to talk about more at parties than the royals and their traditions. I’ve never been a part of one. Never seen the spectacle, but on the nights I danced for these people I heard things, the retellings, the awe. “You mean the Barons’ Hunt.”

“I mean, theBaronessHunt.” She runs her hand over the wooden finial on the corner of the bed. A gold ring with an onyx stone glints on her finger. “I had the barons give you my room. For luck.”

“But,” I start, trying to organize my words. My understanding, which, frankly, is limited. “I’m arranged tomarry the King. My uncle set it up. We’ll have the wedding. I’ll be his wife. I can’t also be Baroness.”

Regina cuts her eyes at me. “You can, andwill,be anything the King wants you to be.”

“What are you saying?” I ask, but the room has become muted, my heartbeat thudding heavily in my ears. I’ve been hunted before. Wasn’t once enough?

“The King is prepared for you to fill both roles. That of his wife and the Baroness to his men. First, you have to prove your worth and that happens in the hunt.”

“Will there be other girls?”