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Hunter and DK share an unreadable look.

Arianette, to her credit, doesn’t move.

I shut the box slowly. “And the other?”

He gestures for me to open it.

Inside the longer velvet case lies something strange, beautiful and awful. A ceremonial rod–black polished wood, thin and light, with carved designs spiraling down to a velvet-wrapped handle. At first, I think it’s ornamental, but one glance at Arianette and the tension in her jaw tells me otherwise.

“The Switch of Silence,” the Dean says reverently. “Passed down through the Hexley women for generations for use at the Manor. Not a tool of cruelty, but of correction.” He leans forward slightly. “She knows what it means.”

DK fidgets with the piercing in his eyebrow, a tell for his growing impatience. He doesn’t like another man speaking so intimately about the Baroness. Good. He’s learning.

“You’ll find you won’t have to raise your voice, or your hand,” he continues. “Just hang it where she can see it.”

That patience snaps, and DK jumps to his feet.

I hold up my hand. “Sit down.”

His jaw clenches, but he obeys.

Hunter, on the other hand, doesn’t take his eyes off the rod until I replace the lid.

The Dean smiles again, wider now. “She’s still a Hexley. No matter whose house she sleeps in, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Arianette finally speaks. Two words, soft as dust. “Yes, Uncle.”

I meet her eyes. They’re wide, brown, and brimming with something I can’t place. Pushing the boxes aside, I say, “A thoughtful gift in honor of the union.”

The Dean lifts his wine. “To Forsyth.”

“Memento Mori,” I reply, only meeting his eyes.

The glasses clink, and the room is thick with wax, secrets, and the weight of what it takes to protect my people.

The last ofthe plates have been cleared and the decanter of wine is empty. Arianette is silent beside me, her hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles pale against the swell of her dark skirts. She’s desperate to leave the table, we all are, but the night isn’t over.

Across from me, Dean Hexley lifts his napkin, dabs at the corner of his mouth, and folds it back onto the table with all the slow precision of a guillotine blade being readied.

His eyes shift to me. Cold. Businesslike. "When I agreed to let Arianette move in before the wedding and fulfill the role of Baroness," he says, "I was told her virtue would remain intact."

Hunter and DK have spent most of the meal quiet, only speaking when forced into the conversation. They’re both uncomfortable with this formality, but they have the smarts to just keep their mouths busy eating, and their thoughts to themselves.

The mark of a good Shadow.

But I don’t miss the way DK’s chair creaks as he shifts. Guilt? A little, but I don’t believe he’s crossed my established boundaries. I asked them to break her in. To prepare her for what’s to come. I need her compliant–at the very least aware of what’s coming.

“We adhered to the traditions,” I assure him.

Hexley leans forward slightly. "I require proof, as you know, that your men have kept their word."

"I can assure you that she’s pristine," I say, already regretting this entire performance. But this isn't a negotiation. It’s theater. Ritual. Something archaic and vile.

Hexley doesn’t blink. "I'd still like proof."

Arianette turns to me, brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

She hasn’t been told. Of course she hasn’t. There’s no good way to prepare a girl for this part.