Chapter 18 #2
The praise lands soft and perfect right in the center of my chest, spreading outward like sunlight. I feel my shoulders relax, a small smile tugging at my lips that I can’t quite hide. Those three little words from him and I’m glowing, ready to do anything to hear them again.
For the first time in weeks, something clicks into place.
Maybe I’m finally figuring this out. How to be what they need.
How to make my men happy. The way Damon held me so tight last night, greedy and possessive; the way Hunter’s careful control finally snapped in that dark room, letting me see underneath the surface, see what he’s been hiding.
Even the King took me out into public, and I held it together.
It’s possible that I’ve figured out how to support them, stand beside them, even when the past keeps trying to drag me under.
Uncovering memories is still a painful crawl, but I’m doing it. And now this, stepping into the bigger role, the Baroness' duties, the politics and alliances and charity drives, without freezing or fumbling too badly.
I lean into Damon’s side, letting the heat of his body cling to me. The rain keeps pounding the windows but inside, for once, everything feels steady, like I may actually be able to do this.
Ares isn’t the only one waiting for us when we return from campus. Graves is just inside the door, eyes pinned on me.
“Baroness,” he says, taking my dance bag from my hands, “will you come with me please?”
I look to DK and then Hunter, searching for some idea of why I’m being singled out, but both look as confused as I do.
“Of course,” I reply, knowing it’s not my place to question. Still, my stomach tightens as I follow him away from my Barons to the other side of the House of Night.
“I apologize for not speaking to you sooner,” he says, slowing enough for me to catch up. “I let the week get away from me, and well, suddenly the day is here.”
“Day?” I ask. Before he can reply, I hear the sound of voices down the narrow corridor toward the kitchens where he pushes the door open.
Heat spills out first. Then scent, bread, herbs, and roasting meat.
The normally quiet kitchen is alive. Cooks weave in and out, hands dusted with flour, sleeves rolled, voices overlapping in clipped exchanges.
No one stops when we enter although the cook, an older woman with quick eyes and a knife moving faster than I can track, glances up briefly, then returns to her work.
“Oh, Thanksgiving,” I say, understanding the scene a little better.
“Actually, no. The Barons don’t celebrate a traditional Thanksgiving,” Graves says, gesturing around us. “But we do have a celebration. Tomorrow is the annual Rite of the Shadow. It’s an acknowledgment and recognition of the members of brN.”
“Oh, that sounds nice.”
“The process of recruitment, pledging and initiation can be rough on new members as well as the old. The King likes to reward them with an event just for them, and what better day than one established for gratitude.” He crosses the kitchen to a wooden desk built into the wall of cabinets.
Opening the top doors, he reveals pigeonhole style slots, as well as a few drawers.
He opens one drawer and lifts out a binder.
“This is a curated account of everything needed to be the mistress and hostess of the House of Night.” He hands me the binder and adds, “With the King.”
“Hosting,” I repeat. “I… I don’t know how to do that.”
“Of course you do,” he says with full confidence.
“You’ve been trained your whole life for events like this.
Strong Manor wasn’t just etiquette lessons and silence, it was preparation.
You watched your uncle host members of the university, dinners with the other deans and visiting professors.
His gatherings carried weight in this city, and you no doubt learned without realizing it. ”
My chest tightens, not in fear, but memory of long tables set with white and gold china.
Goblets filled with dark red wine. I wasn’t invited, but like Graves said, I watched.
I saw how the house operated during a special event, learning when to step in and when to disappear.
How order was maintained in smooth, seamless transitions.
There was an unspoken pride among the staff for their accomplishments, as well as appreciation from my uncle for a job well done.
“For once, you will not be part of the ceremony–at least not the focus,” Graves continues. “Your role is to support your King, keep him steady while making sure everything goes off without a hitch.”
I hesitate. “And if I do it wrong?”
He holds my eye. “I have faith in you, Arianette. You becoming Baroness is no mistake.”
The words land harder than any instruction could have.
“It’s time,” he adds, voice firm but not unkind, “to stop being protected from responsibility. Tonight, you stand as a woman who takes care of her man. Her King. His wife. Not by obedience, but by presence.”
I swallow, and something in me settles. I think of the manor kitchens. Of learning which details mattered and which didn’t. Understanding that power often looks like preparation.
“Tell me what you need,” I say, feeling my shoulders straighten. “And I’ll make sure it happens.”
Is this another test? Maybe. But it’s one I’m not afraid to take. The King needs me steady at his side, and I will not fail him. Not again.
The music hits me first, bass thumping through the old stone walls of the BNZ dormitory like a heartbeat on steroids. Laughter spills out from every corner, loud and loose. Usually, the dorm is fairly quiet; no one wants the King to come checking up on them.
Damon leads the way around the back of the House of Night, Hunter a step behind me. My heart clenches every time Ares darts ahead, his gait stilted. I hate myself for him getting hurt during the fire. Probably more than Hunter does.
When the dog gets to the building, he drops to a sitting position, waiting for us to catch up.
The two-story building used to house the monks who lived on site.
It’s made of thick stone blocks, narrow windows and arched doorways.
Now it’s half dorm, half fortress for the Barons’ Shadows.
The rest of the brotherhood lives in campus housing.
We push through a side door into the first-floor common area.
The party is in full swing. A massive flat screen blasts a video game, controllers passed between guys sprawled on sagging couches.
Girls, Crypt Chasers, the ones who orbit the Shadows like moths to black flame, lounge across laps passing joints and clinking shot glasses.
I recognize Bronwyn from the Fury tucked under Slade’s arm.
The air is thick with weed smoke, spilled beer and the tang of burned popcorn someone forgot in the microwave.
Empty red cups litter every surface. A couple in the corner is half a second from disappearing into each other’s clothes.
The room vibrates with an infectious energy. I tug on Damon’s sleeve and ask, “What’s happening?”
“School’s out, Sister,” Hunter says. “Classes are off for the rest of the week. Everyone is blowing off a little steam.”
I gape at the scene. Not at the debauchery. I got my fill of it after Damon’s Fury win and the night of my wedding. No, that’s not my issue.
It’s the absolute destruction happening in the house I’m supposed to make presentable in less than twenty-four hours.
Ares trots into the room, nose to the floor, then drops under a coffee table to lick at a suspicious stain. Hunter mutters something in German; the dog sighs and slinks back to his side.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, hands twisting together. “This is a disaster.”
It only gets worse when we move past the chaos and into the dining hall.
It’s a big space with vaulted ceilings and long wooden tables that could seat forty easily, but right now it looks like a frat house crime scene.
Tables are sticky with spilled drinks, chairs pushed everywhere and cigarette butts ground into the stone floor.
The ancient chandelier overhead is dusty, crystals dulled.
Windows filmed with smoke and fingerprints.
It reeks of… I don’t want to think about what it reeks of.
“Fucking animals.” Damon surveys the mess with his hands on his hips. “What do you want us to do first?”
I clutch the black binder Graves handed me like it’s a lifeline. Its weight feels heavier than the leather and paper inside. He put me in charge. Everything has to be perfect for tomorrow’s rite.
“I’m not sure,” I admit, voice smaller than I want. Smaller than a woman who is supposed to be in charge.
“Well, what does your book say?” Hunter nods to the binder, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is.
I flip it open to the tab marked Dining Hall–Setup.
There’s a diagram on a piece of yellowing paper.
The tables have been rearranged into one long continuous line, with no head or foot.
Simple iron candlesticks down the center.
Plain white linens. Platters spaced exactly so.
Place settings minimal, pewter cups, wooden plates, no utensils except knives.
Everything grounded, intentional. Sacred, almost.
I look up from the page at the actual room, at the built-up damage that comes from not taking care of things. I have to wonder why it was allowed to get this far? Who let it happen?
“I don’t think we can do it.” My stomach sinks. “It’s too much.”
“Fuck that,” DK says, pushing off the wall where he’s been leaning, arms crossed. He strides back toward the party room, filling the doorway with his frame. “Hey! Get your asses in here. Now.”
The demand is followed by groans and complaints that ripple through the common room, but bodies start moving. Guys shuffle in, some dragging half-dressed crypt chasers by the hand, others still holding cups or joints. They crowd the entrance, annoyed, music still thumping faintly behind them.
“Party’s over,” Damon declares, voice flat and final.
Someone boos, and a kid in the back argues, “Come on, man, it’s the first night off break. We deserve it.”
“Are you talking back, Kimball?” Damon asks, and the kid’s mouth instantly shuts. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“Everyone needs to quiet down,” Hunter cuts in, calm but edged, “and listen to the Baroness.”
The room quiets fast. Every eye swings to me.
I feel my heart slam against my ribs. All of these eyes have been on me before.
When I was splayed out on the altar or tied to the cross in the woods.
They all watched me at the wedding and supported Damon at the Fury.
None of them has ever looked at me as a person with an ounce of authority, but that ends now.
Today. I lift my chin and remember the years at Strong Manor watching the staff orchestrate dinners for hundreds—silent, efficient, unflinching–I can do this.
I step forward, binder open in one hand.
“Tables need to be pushed together into one long line down the center, no gaps and no head or foot.” I look up, searching the faces until I land on two I’m familiar with. “Jace and Slade, can you handle that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” they say at once.
“I need a group of you to gather the chairs and arrange them along the table. All trash, cups, bottles and everything off the floor and out of the room. Windows need to be opened because holy cow, it smells awful in here.”
“It does?” someone asks.
My nose wrinkles. “Can you not smell it?”
Carson shakes his head. “Not really.”
“Well, it’s awful. Smells like a mixture of feet, bong water, and I think something died in here.”
A couple of guys laugh, and my shoulders ease.
“Mateo,” I look at him directly, “grab a crew and find rags and hot water. The tables should be scrubbed top and underside. The chandeliers need to be dusted, so if someone knows where a stepladder is, that would be helpful. Once all of that is complete, we can sweep and mop the floors.” I pause, scanning faces, landing on a few of the girls.
“We have linens in the storage room off the kitchen. They’ll need to be pressed.
Iron candlesticks go down the middle, exactly twelve inches apart.
Platters and chalices come out last, after the room doesn’t smell like a dive bar anymore. ”
There’s a beat of silence, then to my absolute shock, a flurry of movement.
Grumbling, but movement. Slade and Jace start shoving tables around the room, muscles flexing as they line them up end-to-end.
Girls, some rolling their eyes, others jumping in, head to the kitchen for supplies.
The windows are opened and a cool, fresh fall breeze wafts into the room, cutting through the haze of stale beer and weed.
Ares pads around supervising, tail wagging like this is the best game ever.
Over the hustle I hear a high-pitched voice complain, “Does she really think she can tell us what to do?”
I turn. It’s Bronwyn, arms crossed, hip cocked, lips pursed in that little pout she’s perfected.
The room stills for a second, eyes flicking between us.
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks, but I don’t look away. Damon catches my eye across the room, his pierced eyebrow lifting in challenge. He’s not going to step in. He’s not going to defend me. I wanted this. I have to own it.
I step forward, voice steady even though my heart is hammering.
“Bronwyn,” I say, loud enough for everyone to hear, “you can stay and help clean, set up, and make this room worthy of tomorrow’s rite…
or you can leave. For good. If you’re only here to fuck around and party, then you’re not wanted.
If you want to be good for only one thing, then fine, but I think the men of BNZ deserve something better. So decide. Right now.”
The room goes dead quiet. Even Ares stops and sits.
Bronwyn blinks, mouth opening then closing.
For a long moment, she just stares at me, like she’s waiting for someone to laugh or tell me to back off, but no one does.
Then she scoffs, flips her hair, and turns on her heel.
“Whatever. This is lame anyway.” She stalks out, heels clicking on the stone floor.
One other girl hesitates, glances at the others, then follows Bronwyn out the door without a word.
The rest stay.
Slade lets out a low whistle and goes back to moving tables. Jace smirks at me, like he’s impressed. The girls who stayed dive back in with renewed energy, like they get that they’ve just been handed permission to prove they belong here for more than just the after-parties.
Damon’s lips quirk up at the corner, and I’m going to pretend it’s pride. Hunter just nods once, already rolling up his sleeves, moving to help Carson wipe down the longest table.
I exhale, steadying myself.
Tomorrow, this room will be transformed, low firelight, stone and iron, and quiet respect. Tonight, it starts with me giving orders.
And for the first time in my life, everyone listens.