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Griefjoins in, touching my spine, warm and deliberate. Her tits are firm against my back, her hips a cradle. I don’t turn to face her. She whispers a name against my neck–my name, only different.Timothy, the way Amber used to say it when she was drunk or angry or wet. “Let go.”

I jerk away like her voice burns me.

The third–Betrayal–slides between my knees and licks the salt from my skin like she’s a penance. I don't stop her. I don't move, feeling the warmth of her mouth engulf me, shuddering between her red, soft lips. Rage simmers under my ribs. Not at her.At all of it.At how this isn’t sex. It’s theater. It’s legacy. It’s me selling myself piece by piece just to keep the Barons’ name in blood and bone.

She brings me to the edge, they all do, drawing out something in me I’d long kept buried. ButBetrayalisn’t the one to tip me over, that belongs to her.

Power.

She sits on the edge of the altar and spreads her legs wide. She looks straight at me. Daring. Unafraid.

She is not Amber.

She is not Arianette either.

She is every choice I made that led me here.

And when I take her–lining my cock up to her wet, slippery entrance, it’s hard and brutal, without ceremony, her nails clawing at my back. It isn’t about dominance.

It’s aboutdefeat.

The last,Silence, stands. She doesn't touch me. Doesn't speak. Just kneels beside me when it's over, when I’m sweating and stained and hollowed out. Her fingers find mine and interlace.

“Are you clean now?” she whispers.

I almost laugh. But there’s nothing funny in my chest.

“No,” I breathe. “But I’m ready.”

Because it doesn’t matter how I feel.

Tomorrow I marry a girl whose eyes are too wide, whose skin is too warm and soft, whose spirit is lost in a web of trauma. She should belong to my son. She deserves better than this ritual. Better than me.

But she’ll get a king.

And kings do what’s necessary.

Even if it threatens to tear my soul apart.

29

Arianette

I haven’t movedsince the door clicked shut, the King and my uncle leaving me here. I don’t let myself take a full breath, because I’m unsure if they’ll come back and if they do, what they’ll want.

I only need enough air to feel something move in my lungs besides shame.

I’m still in the den, smoothing the mesh tulle skirt of my dress with trembling fingers. My knees are pressed tightly together, aching from the awkward bend on the chaise. The sharp scent of my uncle’s cologne lingers in the room. I can still feel their eyes. His hands. I blink hard and try to find my place.

“You’re in a field, right? Sun beating down. Warm breeze. Flowers everywhere.”

It doesn’t work. Not in this claustrophobic room. Not with his cologne in my nostrils. It’s not appropriate anymore. I can’t keep running away. Physically or mentally. I’m the Baroness now, after all.

Tomorrow I’ll be his wife.

The fireplace crackles, casting shadows across the room. My skin feels hot. Or maybe that’s just the humiliation. I thought that when I left the Manor, I’d be out of his reach, but tonight proved otherwise. I’ll never be free of that man. Not even a king can protect me, especially one that looks at me with such contempt.

I hear the creak of the door.