Chapter 19
Timothy
The call came just after dawn.
Saint Mary’s Solarium never rang unless something had shifted, and I knew that before I ever lifted the phone. The nurse’s voice was careful, measured, the kind professionals use when they don’t want to alarm you, but don’t want to lie either.
Amber was regressing.
She’s spending most of her time alone in her room now. Curtains drawn. Meals untouched. No longer speaking to staff. No longer participating in therapy. Folding inward, retreating to some place no one else can follow.
A familiar place.
“Do I need to come?” I’d asked, dreading the answer.
“I don’t think it will matter, sir.”
It never does.
By the time evening settles over the House of Night, the weight of it still sits heavy in my chest, an old, dull ache I’ve learned not to name. I’m tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix. Not physically. Soul-deep. The kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying ghosts that refuse to stay buried.
“It’s time.”
“I know.”
Graves stands in the doorway, my heavy coat in his hands.
The Rite of the Shadow is one of my favorite events of the year.
It’s less formal, no cloaks or robes. No bloodshed.
I’d like to say I didn’t understand the dread in my gut for what should be a celebration, but that’d be a lie.
Sliding the mask over my face, I cut my eyes at Graves one last time, as if the act means that if he can’t see my expression then he can’t read my mind.
“Then stop procrastinating.”
As if.
“Where is she?” I ask, striding past him and down the hall.
“She’s already over at the building, putting the final touches for tonight.”
“Do you really think she’s ready for this?”
“I think that the Baroness is full of surprises.”
Daddy?
Her voice echoes in my head. That one little word that feels like a rocket launched below the belt.
Over the years, the Baronesses have called me variations of the term.
I allowed it, putting myself in an authoritative role, but Arianette?
The way she says it, fuck. It’s like a virus injected into my skin.
I couldn’t help but go to her under the cloak of darkness that night.
Watching her… no, commanding her with Hunter set something inside of me on fire.
The way he handled her. The way she took it.
Christ. I’d controlled myself behind the glass, but once I returned home, the urge to find her was overwhelming.
The knowledge she was just on the other side of the building. Her soft body, her tight, warm pussy.
I’d caved.
Again.
“Tonight is about celebration,” Graves reminds me as I exit the chapel. “Don’t overthink it and try to enjoy yourself.”
I cross the yard, heading toward the dormitory. Lamplight flickers in the windows, a warm glow beckoning me to join. When I enter the dining hall, I see her immediately.
Arianette stands near the long table, speaking softly to one of the Shadows, binder tucked against her side.
The colors are a deep red against black.
The bodice fits close, structured enough to suggest intention rather than invitation, the lace at the neckline a quiet edge.
It isn’t meant to draw the eye so much as hold it, the way a blade does when you know it’s sharp.
She’s breathtaking.
Her skirt falls mid-thigh, not scandalous enough to protest, but short enough that every step threatens revelation.
The fabric moves when she does, lifting just a fraction, enough to draw my eye to the smooth line of her legs and the dark stockings hugging them.
Lace kisses her skin high on her thighs, a shadowed promise rather than a display, and the glimpse feels earned rather than given.
I’m never sure if Arianette knows what her body does to the men around her.
If the clothing she wears is an intentional tease.
I suspect she doesn’t, but from the way DK and Hunter watch her every move, I’m not the only one aware of it.
It’s as if she knows exactly how long it takes a man to look away… and chooses not to spare him.
The stockings alone are enough to make a man weak, to conjure ideas of peeling them off. I think of the way her legs hugged my shoulders as I pounded into her the other night. How tight everything about her felt. Her arms, her legs, her pussy.
Christ. I’m fucking hard as a rock, and I haven’t even touched her.
The contrast of it all, the soft fabric, firm leather, bare skin and hidden lace, feels calculated in a way that makes my jaw tighten.
And the worst part is how naturally she wears it.
No fidgeting. No self-consciousness. Not tonight.
She stands like someone who knows the power of what’s visible and what isn’t.
Like she understands that desire intensifies when it’s teased out one breath at a time.
I tell myself this is inappropriate. That she is too young for my attention, too good for my thoughts, too bound to a role neither of us chose. But my eyes betray me anyway, tracing the line of her legs, the hint of lace, the promise hidden just out of reach.
If this is what she looks like simply standing at my side, then I am in far more danger than I care to admit.
She turns and our eyes meet.
Something flickers across her face, and for once, she doesn’t lower her gaze. She doesn’t wait for instruction.
She simply comes to me.
“You’re early,” she says quietly.
A lie. But I allow it.
I look around again, taking in the transformed hall. The tables aligned into one unbroken line. The iron candlesticks, measured and exact. The absence of a head seat. No hierarchy carved into the wood.
Balance.
“You accomplished this alone?” I ask, well aware of the state it had been in twenty-four hours ago.
I used to try to demand some order and cleanliness in the dorm, but learned early on it was futile.
The best I can do now is send in a cleaning staff bi-weekly to make sure it hasn’t turned into a bio-hazard.
She shakes her head. “Goodness, no. I had help.” She nods toward the men gathering along the walls. “They did all the heavy lifting.”
I follow her gaze.
They stand taller than usual. Cleaner. Focused. Not dressed in ceremonial robes or masks, not tonight. Tonight, they are simply men who showed up.
I’m impressed.
I extend my arm.
She takes it without hesitation and side by side, I escort her to the table. Not King and possession. Partners. I guide Arianette to the seat beside mine where DK and Hunter stand by their chairs. She is so small next to me. Not fragile, more like something honed rather than delicate.
That’s when I notice the two men at the other end greeting some of the seniors and look down at Arianette. “Did you invite them?”
“I saw a page in the binder about the guest list. It says that the former Barons should be invited to help celebrate and transfer the rites.” She worries her bottom lip. “Was that wrong? Should I not have?”
“No,” I hold her brown eyes with mine, “it’s exactly right.”
It’s the little details that make these ceremonies impactful and seeing Liam standing near the far end, broad and tattooed, is the perfect example.
Billy is beside him, quieter, long, light brown hair in a neat ponytail.
His eyes hold the kind of wisdom earned through consequence.
Bloody and definitive consequence. Their psyche marred by the loss of their brother and his ultimate betrayal.
It’d been a relief to have that past us and for new leadership to step in, but seeing them here now is an honor to the positions they held.
They incline their heads to me.
I return the gesture.
When all are seated, I grab Arianette’s hand and hold her in place by my side.
“Stand with me,” I say quietly.
She nods, shoulders squaring a little.
“While the world around us gives thanks for the bounty in their lives,” I say, voice carrying without effort across the long table, “we gather for another reason. We’re uniquely attuned to the ways of nature.
To the cycles of the moon and sun, the seasons as they unfold around us, from the bloom of birth to the decay that follows.
We give our thanks with each and every body we receive and submit to its final resting place. ”
I pause long enough to study the faces of my Shadows, boys who walked into this house wide-eyed and hungry, and emerged as men.
“Tonight is not about conquest or command,” I continue. “It is about acknowledgement. About honoring your sacrifice. Your loyalty to Beta Rho Nu. To the House of Night. To your brotherhood and to your King.”
A low chorus answers me, murmurs of assent, fists striking wood in steady rhythm, heads bowing.
Someone starts a slow clap that catches like fire, spreading down the table.
Slade pounds Jace on the back hard enough to jolt him forward; Jace laughs and shoves him back.
Mateo lifts his horn in salute to Carson across the table, who grins and returns it.
DK leans over to Hunter, muttering something that makes the normally reserved Baron bark a short laugh and slap the table.
The energy rises, cheers, whistles, brothers calling out names, slapping shoulders, pulling each other into quick, rough embraces.
Pride swells in my chest watching them; these are my men, young and fierce.
“Your representation for Beta Rho goes far beyond your service to the House of Night. You’re excelling in the classroom and on the field.
” I nod at the boys mid-table, their bodies primed from lacrosse.
“You give and take beatings every week at the Fury–”
“Matty’s kicking ass tomorrow night!” someone shouts, and a hand roughly rubs Mateo’s head.
I raise a hand, and the room quiets almost instantly, the last echoes of laughter fading into attentive silence.