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“For what it’s worth,” Lavinia says slowly, “I think it’s a good idea, but,” she rests her hand on Sy’s, “I think we should wait until after the wedding.”

“A few more days won’t hurt.” Sy picks up his cup again and drinks, like we just agreed on the weather and not treason for me and DK and a potential war for him and his Dukes.

And me? I sit there, watching him over the rim of my cup, trying to ignore the voice in my head that says this is a very,verybad idea.

28

Timothy

The House of Nightfeels colder than usual, though the heat roars and the candles have all been lit. Every shadow stretches long and dramatic, flickering over the hand-painted mural on the wall, bringing it to life. We sit around the long, ebony dining table–five bodies that seem to be sitting vigil, rather than celebrating impending nuptials.

This dinner is a traditional meal between families to celebrate tomorrow’s ceremony. If I could have come up with a viable excuse, I would have. Graves shot that down immediately.

Arianette is seated to my right. She hasn’t spoken since she took her seat, not even to greet her uncle. Graves informed me she’d spent the afternoon holed up in her room, with a team of stylists preparing for tonight–for tomorrow–and the results are stunning. It’s not a girl sitting next to me, but a woman. Her eyes are painted with a smoky shadow, gold glitter shimmers with every flutter of her eyelashes. Her hair is pulled back in tight braids, the rows precise as they gather into a cluster at the back of her head, before cascading in a soft ponytail.

Her dress is exquisite, the bodice a deep, rich purple satin. It’s structured like a corset, with satin buttons running down the front. The top edge is trimmed with delicate ruffles, adding a touch of femininity to the otherwise severe design.

The skirt is a voluminous cascade oflayered black tulle. It’s full and dramatic, evoking a sense of dark elegance. A gothic ballerina. The candlelight bounces off the warm mahogany sheen of her exposed shoulders, and any sense of rebellion that I’ve seen in her has vanished. In place is a delicate yet deliberate posture. The change is dramatic. Curious. Who is she dressed for? Behaving for?

Even with our unsettling interactions, I suspect it’s not me.

Hunter sits across from her, trying not to stare. DK beside him, tight-jawed, arms crossed, his fork untouched. Dean Hexley holds court at the head of the table like a man who’s just signed a million-dollar deal.

A plate of venison is set before me, garnished with blood orange reduction and some pretentious sprig. I chew methodically, aware of how quiet the room has gone. Only the scrape of silverware, the crackle of fire, the dull drip of wine from Hunter’s glass.

“So,” the Dean says at last, dabbing his mouth with a cloth napkin, “tomorrow is a momentous day.”

No one replies.

He continues, “When the Hexleys and the Barons finally merge into one.”

Arianette keeps her gaze down. DK watches her, not me.

I nod once. “A necessary alliance.”

The Dean chuckles, low and wolfish. “Don’t sound so thrilled.”

“I’m overjoyed,” I lie. “I’ve waited a long time for this to happen.”

Hunter coughs into his wine. For all his social awkwardness, the young man seems very aware of the mood and tone in this room. The Dean ignores him, as he seems to do with anything that doesn’t suit him.

“Arianette’s entire childhood and adolescence have been in anticipation of this moment.” The Dean smiles wider, but continues, like he’s auctioning a lamb at the market. “Raised in seclusion. Prepared for society. Taught discipline. The Baroness title won’t be wasted on her.”

“You know she’s in the room,” DK smirks. “She can hear you.”

The Dean says, raising a brow, “Her silence is a virtue. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

Arianette nods slowly. Her hands are folded in her lap like she’s praying. There’s only one god in this room, and unfortunately, I’m not here to save her.

Hexley gestures to Graves, who has been standing attentively in the corner. I’m annoyed at the command, Graves isn’t a fucking lackey. I open my mouth, but Graves clears his throat as he steps forward, presenting a long velvet box and a smaller one, both placed delicately on the table in front of me.

“A wedding gift,” the Dean says, eyes brightening.

“You shouldn’t have,” I say, prepared for a cheap bauble or a tacky commemoration of the impending nuptials. The moment I lift the lid, I realize I’ve misjudged him.

I open the smaller box first. Inside, a collar. It’s made of a blood-red leather with brushed brass details, worn but well-kept. An old inscription in Latin is carved into the buckle:Obedientia ante omnia.Obedience before all.

“It belonged to her grandmother,” Dean says softly. “Wore it every day of her marriage. The Hexley women wear it until they earn the privilege not to.”