Chapter 14
Damon
Arianette sits stiffly in the cushioned chair, knees pressed together, hands locked pretty much like she’s bracing for impact.
The small office is too warm, too quiet.
Bookshelves, a humming computer, and the faint smell of fresh paint from the tattoo parlor out front clinging to the walls.
It’s not the kind of place you expect to allow your whole damn life to crack open.
Sy pulls a chair in front of her and sits so close their knees could touch if she breathed wrong. I don’t like that. At all. But he insisted this was the only way she’d focus, and we insisted she was doing this—so here we are.
When we got here, Perilini actually tried to keep us out of the room. Said it could, “interfere with the process.”
Yeah, well, too fucking bad. No one is alone with the Baroness except us. That’s non-negotiable.
I plant myself in the corner, arms crossed, jaw tight enough to crack teeth. Hunter stands beside me, equally unamused.
Sy’s voice drops to a soft, steady rhythm. Too soft for my liking–smooth, soothing, coaxing. The kind of voice you use with spooked animals and scared kids.
“Okay, Arianette,” he says, palms open, tone gentle. “I want you to take a slow breath for me. In through your nose. Good. Hold it… and let it out.”
Arianette does it, chest rising, then sinking. Still tight. Still nervous.
“Again,” Sy murmurs. “Deep breath. Let your body loosen. Feet on the ground. Feel the weight of the chair under you.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction. Not much, but enough that I notice.
He watches her carefully, eyes tracking every twitch. “You’re safe here,” he continues. “Nothing can hurt you. Nothing can surprise you. If anything feels wrong, you tell me, and we stop. Understand?”
She nods once, her voice barely audible. “Yes.”
Sy gives a small smile. “Good. Now focus on my voice. Just my voice. Everything else in the room can fade back. Hunter and Damon are here. No one's leaving. You’re okay.”
His tone grates on me. Not because he’s doing anything wrong, but because he’s leaning in close, voice so smooth it feels like it’s brushing against her skin. I shift my weight, fighting the urge to step forward and put some space between them.
“Let your eyes get heavy,” he says.
Arianette’s lashes flutter. Her hands unclench.
“That’s it,” Sy murmurs. “You’re doing perfectly. Now… I want you to picture a hallway. Long, quiet, and empty. You’re standing at the beginning of it. Can you see it?”
A beat of silence follows.
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Good. Walk forward. One step at a time. You’re not in a rush. At the end of the hallway is a door. Behind that door are memories you haven’t been able to reach. Memories you’re ready to see now. When you’re standing at the door, tell me.”
Arianette swallows, throat moving. Her fingers twitch once on her knee, then still.
“I’m there.”
My stomach tightens. Hunter straightens beside me.
Sy lowers his voice even more, “When you’re ready, open the door.”
A breath leaves her like she’s falling.
“Okay,” she says, voice distant. “I… I’m opening it.”
The room goes still.
We’re in it now.
Arianette’s breath hitches, then steadies into that strange, distant cadence people get when their mind isn’t fully here.
“I’m… walking out of dance class,” she says.
Her voice sounds younger—softer. “It’s a sunny day.
My legs ache, but… in a good way. The kind that tells me I did my best in class. That my teacher will be happy with me.”
Sy nods, guiding her with a quiet, “Good, Arianette. Stay with that feeling. What else do you see?”
“The studio is only two blocks from my house,” she continues. “Uncle Owen lets me walk there alone.” A faint, dreamy smile flickers across her lips. “I love that. I like the freedom. I feel… big.”
Her fingers twitch in her lap. She’s not looking at any of us, eyes unfocused, drifting somewhere far from this room.
“Students pass me,” she murmurs. “Talking about homework… about lunch… someone’s wearing too much perfume, I can smell it.” Her head tilts slightly. “There’s a man across the street whistling. Maybe at me… maybe at someone else. I can’t tell. Everything’s kind of… fuzzy.”
Sy keeps his tone calm, grounding. “You’re doing great. Stay with the memory.”
She draws in a shaky breath. “Someone bumps into me.”
My spine goes rigid.
“It’s like–like a chain reaction,” she says. “One person pushes past, then another, and then… someone else walks up.”
The air shifts. Even Hunter feels it—I see him straighten beside me.
Arianette’s brow tightens. “They’re standing in front of me. But the sun is behind them. Too bright. I can’t… I can’t see anything. Just an outline.” Her breathing accelerates. “It’s so bright. I’m squinting—my eyes are watering—”
Sy leans in a fraction. “That’s okay, Arianette. You’re safe here. You’re just remembering. Can you see their face?”
Her hands curl against the arms of the chair, knuckles whitening.
“No,” she says, almost frustrated. “It’s—it's like… a shadow. The sunlight is—it's blinding.”
“Is it a man or a woman?” Sy asks gently.
Arianette flinches. Her breath quickens, fast and uneven–the sound of someone slipping from recollection into panic.
“I don’t know. I can’t–” She swallows hard. “I can’t tell. They’re just… there.”
Her chest rises too fast, too shallow. The air in the room changes, pulling tight.
I push off the wall without even realizing I’ve moved, muscles locking in place as I watch her struggle. Every instinct in me–every one of those prison-earned reflexes–screams to yank her out, pull her close, and stop whatever the hell she’s seeing.
Hunter’s hand goes subtly to his side—forgetting for a split second that we’re unarmed.
Sy lifts a calming hand, but doesn’t touch her. “Arianette… I’m right here. Damon is here. Hunter is here. You’re safe. You can breathe. Just tell me what happens next. Only if you can.”
She shakes her head, trembling–caught between the past and the present. “I can’t. There’s nothing,” she says.
Fuck that. I’m already moving.
I don’t think–I just react.
I shove myself between her and Sy, hands closing around her arms before anyone can stop me. “Bullshit,” I snap. “You remember.”
Sy surges up behind me, voice trying to remain calm. “Damon. Back. Off.”
He could fold me in half if he wanted to—guy’s built like a damn mountain, but I don’t move. I can’t. Not when she looks like she’s slipping away again.
“No.” I glare at her, heart pounding loud in my ears. “Tell us about the cell. Who took you underground? Were you in a car? A van? Was it someone you know?”
Her face crumples. Tears spill fast, streaming down her cheeks, shoulders curling in like she’s trying to disappear.
I won’t allow it. I push harder. “Who did you hear talking? What did they say?”
“Damon, stop!” Hunter’s voice snaps like a whip.
A second later, his grip is on me, yanking me back. I release her instantly, breath sawing in and out of my chest like I just sprinted fifty flights of stairs. Arianette is sobbing now, full-body shaking, and the sight makes something ugly twist in my stomach.
Hunter shoves me toward the door. Hard. “Go chill the fuck out.”
The door clicks shut behind me, and suddenly I’m standing at the front of the tattoo parlor, chest heaving like I ran here instead of being tossed out.
My palms won’t stop shaking. My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it.
I start pacing–tight, clipped circles–boots scraping the tile in a rhythm that’s all nerves and no direction.
“Kemp?”
I spin.
Remy is standing next to one of the tattooing stations, organizing a drawer. He’s my former freshman year roommate. Once-friend turned stranger. We drifted, then crashed. He pledged DKS. I went to the Pen. Our lives split so sharply there’s still shrapnel. Now, his father is my King.
He’s the last person I want to see right now.
“Remy.”
He lifts his hand and makes a sweeping motion in my direction and says, “Lots of red going on right now.”
Whatever the fuck that means.
“They kicked me out.” I drag a hand down my face, trying to rub the adrenaline out of my skin.
“It’s just–” The words snag in my throat.
I shouldn’t be talking to him about this, her, but it rushes out anyway, “It’s just so fucking frustrating.
Her mind is a steel trap. But I know she remembers something.
She’s told us as much, but the minute anyone starts asking questions, she clams up. ”
Remy studies me for a long second. Long enough that it makes my skin itch, like he’s peeling me apart layer by layer. If I had my gun on me, I’d probably already have it leveled at him.
Finally, he says, “You want some ink?”
I blink at him. “What? Now?”
“Why the fuck not?” He jerks his chin toward the hallway leading to the back rooms. “We can sit here and stare at each other or I can get in some time. I heard the yelling. Sy sure as hell isn’t letting you back in. You’re better off leaving with new ink instead of broken ribs.”
A dry, humorless laugh slips out of me. I sink into the chair, letting the vinyl creak under my weight. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Art always calms me down. Gets me focused when I’m feeling rattled.” Remy grabs his iPad, already opening an art program. All business–until he looks back up. “So. What are you thinking?”
I hesitate just long enough to make it worse. “I haven’t gotten my mark yet.”
The room goes cold.
The stylus trapped between his long, inked fingertips hovers over the screen. He looks up at me, expression changing into something flat and dangerous.
“You think I’m giving you a pentagram or some shit?” he says. “No fucking way.”