Chapter 2
Hunter
I enter the common room, Ares padding quietly beside me, nails clicking against the worn hardwood.
The air smells faintly of disinfectant and damp fur–clean but lived-in.
Damon’s at the small table by the window, sleeves rolled up, a black towel spread beneath a meticulous arrangement of piercing tools–forceps, clamps, needles, rings.
He moves with intent, each motion steady and sure.
The faint sound of metal clinking against glass slices through the quiet.
Ares circles once near the couch before lowering himself to the floor with a soft huff, his head resting on his paws.
He’s doing better, though his energy dips fast. Our walks are short–just around the garden, enough to rebuild what he lost. I reach down to give his ear a quick scratch and he sighs, eyes already half-closed.
“Where have you been?” Damon’s voice cuts through the stillness.
I pause, caught mid-step, the words heavier than they should be. “Just checking on her.”
He doesn’t look up, a lock of his dark hair falling onto his forehead. He swirls his tools into a bowl of clear liquid, the metal glinting under the low light. “Did she know you were there? Did you announce yourself?” His tone is lazy, but there’s a bite beneath it. “Or were you creeping again?”
I exhale through my nose. “Why do you care?”
He shrugs, mouth curving into that familiar, mocking half-smile. “Just wondering when you’re going to stop watching and do something about it.”
I grunt–the only answer I can give. DK doesn’t get it.
He assumes the distance is part of some kink, like an obsession with edging, and maybe on the surface, that’s true.
But it’s more than that. He doesn’t know what happens when I let myself cross that line–when I touch, when I take. It never ends clean.
“What about you? Still avoiding her?”
“As long as I can,” he says without hesitation. “The farther she is from me, the better.”
“She’s still our Baroness. I don’t think you’re going to be able to stay away from her forever.”
He goes back to sterilizing his tools, his movements methodical.
The hum of the ceiling fan fills the gap between us, stirring the air that’s heavy with quiet accusation.
“What I still can’t believe is that Timothy Maddox is the Baron King,” he says after a beat, not looking up from the tray. “That’s a serious mindfuck.”
Sure as hell was. The King had revealed himself to us after the fire–after we got home from the hospital.
He said we’d earned the right to know the truth, that we’d proved our loyalty.
It was an honor, sure, but also terrifying.
Secrets like that come with a price. They always do.
And I’m not sure what the final cost will be.
“I’m still struggling with the fact he’s Remy’s father,” I remark. “You were his roommate, right? Did you ever meet him back then?”
“Yeah, we lived together for about a semester. Until I got pinched and he went hard in on DKS,” he says, “and yeah, once.”
Remington Maddox is known for living his life on the edge. Drugs, sex, tattoos, fights. All of those things definitely make him more DKS than brN. “The bloodlines run closer in all of this than I realized.”
Neither Damon nor I have blood ties to the Royals in Forsyth.
We were plucked from the student body and tossed into the brN gauntlet for reasons the King hasn’t fully explained.
But the other frats? Their lineage is muddy.
That much had been revealed to us after the Hunt as part of our initiation for becoming a leader in brN.
Like Whitaker Ashby being a direct line to the brN throne.
Or that Verity Sinclair, raised in the West End, was Rufus Ashby’s biological daughter.
Forsyth doesn’t have a family tree, it has thorny vines.
“Even if you didn’t meet him, do you think the King remembered that you two were once roommates when he recruited you?” I ask.
“I don’t think he misses much, so probably.” Damon glances up, his brow raised. “But from what I saw, there doesn’t seem to be any love lost between those two. I can’t see how it would be related.”
He’s right. The Duke isn’t just solidly with his frat, he’s firmly at the right hand of his own King, Simon Perilini, and keeping his distance from his father’s throne. I also can’t imagine my father marrying someone my age.
“I think we’re all better off not looking too deep at the Forsyth family trees.” Damon tilts his head, reaching for another clamp. “How long do you think this fake honeymoon is going to last?”
The rest of Forsyth thinks the King and his new bride are off on their honeymoon, celebrating their marriage.
Those of us in the House of Night know better.
Arianette’s locked in that cage for more reasons than simple punishment.
She’s also there to keep people from asking too many questions about her involvement with the fire at Strong Manor.
“I don’t think he can stay gone very long,” I tell him. “The last time a King went missing, he was dead before anyone realized it. He’ll want to stay visible.” I take DK in. “Why? It’s not like you’re eager for her to get out of the cage.”
He continues to clean his tools and shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
I narrow my eyes. Jesus. That’s what this is about. “I’m sure you could go in and fuck her, as long as she’s locked up when he returns.”
DK barks out a laugh, loud enough that Ares lifts his head, watching the exchange in silence, eyes reflecting the low light. “That bitch doesn’t deserve my cock,” he mutters. “She almost killed me and your dog. She can rot for the rest of her life for all I care.”
I’m finishing up an assignment for my engineering class when Ares lifts his head, and a second later, Graves appears in the doorway. Damon glances up from where he’s sprawled on the couch, reading a book, and swings his legs over the edge of the chair. I close my laptop.
“The King assures me you’ve been working on collecting data on the missing girls.”
The King had given us access to his “murder board,” a wall of evidence, information, photos, and questions about every abduction in Forsyth over the past year.
“Yes,” I say, rising from my chair. “We’ve been trying to look at it from a fresh perspective.”
“Have you found anything…” his eyebrow lifts, “... fresh?”
“Not really,” DK admits. “There’s no real identifiable pattern to the abductions–other than the connection to the frats, but that’s not a huge stretch when you consider the population of Forsyth students either in or related to someone in the Greek system.”
“I’m going to encourage you to use your time, energy, and skills to work every angle.” His tone is less ‘encouragement’ and more a command. “Even ones that you’re displeased with at the moment.”
“You mean the Baroness?” I ask, shifting my gaze to DK. He sits on the edge of the couch, expression guarded. “You want us to talk to her?”
“If you think her crazy-assed little brain is going to be helpful, you’re wrong. I already took her to the area where we found her and she gave me nothing.” DK taps his temple. “It’s scrambled in there. Anything of use is locked up tight or vanished.”
The muscle in Graves’ jaw tightens, then releases. “I suggest using a different approach this time, but I’d get started. The King expects results.”
Graves leaves without another word, the door clicking shut behind him. DK and I don’t need to say it–we’ve got our orders, whether we like them or not.
I’m back.
Easing in the door and finding a place tucked away in a dark corner. From the outside, it seems safe. Maybe even respectful. I’m keeping my distance, but really, it allows me time to sink into my fantasies. What I’d do if I could. How much I’d take. Bruise. Hurt.
Most people talk too much. They give themselves away with words, but it’s the silences I’ve always understood best. And Arianette is nothing but silence right now.
She’s curled at the back of the King’s cage, wrists loose, eyes half open.
No tears, not now at least. No quiet rage–just a steady inhale like she’s counting time through pain.
It’s not enough.
Ares is asleep at my feet, breath shallow. His shaved leg is wrapped in gauze and surgical tape, a reminder of his time at the vet clinic.
“Is he okay?”
Her voice taints the air between us.
I don’t turn my head. Just blink. Once.
“Don’t.” It’s flat and hard. A command I don’t mind backing up.
She flinches, but her eyes stay on mine. She always does that–stares with those big brown eyes, like she’s trying to peel me open, figure out what’s underneath. It pisses me off.
But worse? It excites me. It reminds me of the way she looked at me other times–sprawled back on her bed, perched on her knees, in the reflection of a mirror.
But that was before her reckless actions tried to destroy everything I’d earned and care about: Ares, DK, and the Barons as a whole.
I stand. Ares stirs slightly, but doesn’t lift his head. The key is already in my hand before I’m at the door. The lock clicks as I disengage it.
She doesn’t move until I nod.
Then she stands–slow and controlled. Like she’s pretending it doesn’t hurt to stretch. Like she still has some dignity left.
She steps out barefoot, wearing a white shirt that is too long for her. The hem hits high on her soft thighs, and beneath it, cotton shorts ride low. I don’t look at her skin. I don’t look at the faint outline of her nipples pressing against the thin fabric of her shirt.
I don’t.
Except I do and fuck, I get hard. Sex and touch and reality have always been difficult for me. What’s too far? What’s safe? What feels good. Right now, I’m angry. I can’t forget the fire and the blood and DK screaming for help. I can’t forget carrying Ares out of that inferno barely alive.
But I also can’t forget the way she looked when DK was fucking her, slamming her hips into the porcelain of the bathroom sink. DK’s fingers toying with the metal in her tits, his other hand on her throat. The sounds she made–raw, desperate, real.
She hated it.
Or did she?
I’d ask her, but she’s a liar. A killer. A goddamn curse. That name? Hexley? It should have been a tip off. And that’s what I have to remember more than anything else, that she’s deadly, ready to use a knife or strike a match at any moment.
I toss a bundle of clothes at her feet.
That gaze never leaves mine. "Where are we going?"
And that’s the thing. For all her craziness and impulsivity, her risk and recklessness, she’s ours. She’ll do and go and be whoever and wherever we want.
I let a stretch of silence beat between us until it’s a wire drawn tight.
“To see if you can be of some use.”
Then I turn. She’ll follow–I’m sure of that–I just don’t know which Arianette it will be: the one that is loyal to the Barons or the one that wants to burn us to the ground.
I guess we’ll find out.
Just outside the cage, she starts changing, her chin lifted high like she’s daring me to look away. I don’t. She’s lost the privilege of privacy, and I’ve lost the will to pretend I care about sparing her.
The new choker catches my eye–black leather, a small silver pentacle resting against her throat. The King’s mark–both a collar and a warning.
The metal bars in her nipples glint in the light.
I assess them–for DK–he’ll want to know that they look like they’re healing.
Her movements are quieter now, almost meek as she slips into the jeans and pulls the Forsyth hoodie over her head.
Nothing seductive about it, and still, it gets under my skin.
My loyalty is clear. The King wants information; we’ll use her to get it. That’s the job. That’s all this is supposed to be.
I hand her a pair of boots.
“Hiking boots?” she asks, eyeing the dark brown leather. Her voice is barely a whisper. “You’re taking me back, aren’t you?”
I meet her gaze, steady and unflinching. “We’re taking you to see if the King was right to keep you around.”
She swallows. “And if I still don’t remember anything?”
“Let me explain one thing, Hex. You need to prove your value to the King. Your worth.” I rake my eyes down her body. “Obviously, your pussy isn’t enough, because he hasn’t made a single move to fuck you since he locked you in that cage, has he?”
She shakes her head.
I step towards the door, knowing she’ll follow. “Helping find those girls and whoever took them may be the only way to give him a reason to keep you around.”