Chapter 22
Arianette
Hunter waits outside the studio, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He straightens when he sees me, eyes scanning my face like he’s checking for cracks.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low.
I nod, forcing a small smile. “I’m fine. Just… still a little tender.”
He doesn’t push, just falls into step beside me as we head toward the library.
The massive four-story brick building is quiet, peaceful after the barking commands of my dance instructor.
High ceilings, dark wood shelves and the faint smell of old paper and coffee drift from the café downstairs.
We climb the stairs to the second floor, where the study rooms line the back wall, glass fronts, small tables and a few chairs.
Story and Lavinia are already inside one of them, books and laptops spread out.
Story looks up first, her brown eyes watching me through the glass. She waves us in. Lavinia is next to her with that gorgeous blue hair falling in waves over her shoulders. I can’t help but stare at the intricate death’s-head moth tattoo peeking above the neckline of her sweater.
Their men are here too, or at least two of them. Tristian Mercer lounges against the wall behind Story, arms crossed, tense. Sy stands near Lavinia, posture rigid. His eyes only soften slightly when he sees me.
We step inside the pressure cooker, and I can only assume tensions are high after the bloodbath on Friday night. I take one of the two remaining empty chairs, wincing when my ass hits the plastic seat.
Lavinia watches me closely, then sighs and rolls her eyes. “This is a charity meeting, boys. Not an undercover operation. Give us some space.”
Sy’s jaw tightens. He leans down, kisses Lavinia hard, possessive, lingering, then straightens and heads for the door without a word. Tristian whispers something in Story’s ear, brushes his knuckles along her cheek, and follows.
Hunter gives me a final look and the door clicks shut behind them.
Lavinia snorts. “Your cheeks are so fucking red right now. What the hell did he say?”
Story’s cheeks only burn brighter. “Just reminding me of what we’re doing after this.”
“Sex in the stacks.” It’s not a question. “Never change, Mercer.”
To my surprise, Story just sighs. “He heard where the meeting was and canceled his other plans.” She smoothes out the short skirt she’s wearing. “He picked this out just for the occasion.”
Lavinia wrinkles her nose and glances over at me. “Do I even want to ask why you’re perched like you’re sitting on glass?”
Jesus. Is it that obvious?
“Don’t worry,” Lav says. “The only way to earn your status as a House Girl is if you walk funny every once in a while.”
Story shoots Lavinia a glare. “Okay. Let’s just get to it.”
She’s been doing this longer than any of us, knows the rhythm of the toy drive and the Panhellenic expectations.
We sit around the table, laptops open, notes scattered.
The plan is simple, but big: collect toys all over Forsyth, distribute to kids in the hospital, families in shelters and low-income neighborhoods.
Drop boxes at every frat house, sorority, and campus building.
A big push on social media. Raffles. Maybe a holiday event.
Ideas bounce back and forth. Story wants to add a “toy wish list” so donors know exactly what kids need. Lavinia suggests a collection at next Friday’s Fury. I listen, nod, jot notes, and an idea pops in my mind.
“What about…” I start, then reconsider.
“What about what, Arianette?” Story asks.
“Well, what about asking WXFU to run some promotions during their shows? I know Hunter would do it, but he works the overnight shift, so I’m not sure how many people hear that, but I bet the other DJ’s would be happy to add it in.”
“That’s a great idea,” Lavinia says, making a note. “We can give them a list of donation drop off points to announce every day.”
I grin. “I’ll talk to Hunter about connecting with the rest of the staff.”
“I’ll check with Verity about a list from the hospital to make sure all the kids are covered there,” Story adds.
When we finally pack up Lavinia says, “I love it when we do things like this, the good stuff, you know?”
“Same,” Story says. “The carnival is fun and the blood drive was a really good turn out. Giving back washes away a little of the ick for the other shit that goes on around here.”
“It’s easy to get caught up in the glass bubble of being a Royal,” Lavinia says, shoving her notebook into her backpack. “I know I grew up in that bubble, but there are a lot of kids outside the system that need a little boost. Kids in foster care or whose parents are having a hard time.”
As we step outside the little glass box where the guys are waiting, a weird feeling settles in my chest. Before I can process it or anything else, Tristian has Story by the hand and is leading her deeper into the library. Sy pushes off the wall and strides over.
“Everything go okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Lavinia says. “We’ve got a pretty good plan. The kids of Forsyth should be in good hands this Christmas if we have anything to say about it.”
Again, I feel that twinge, but Sy is looking at me, speaking to me. “It didn’t seem like the right time to talk at the Fury, but how are things? Any new memories?”
I glance at Hunter and he gives me a quick nod. “Yeah, a few. Nothing that clear, but it feels like the layers are peeling away.”
He smiles. “That’s great. I’m glad the hypnosis helped.”
“Me too.” Again, I glance at Hunter and even though we haven’t spoken about it, we both know that it may not be the hypnosis revealing memories. It seems tied to other situations, like after I’ve experienced physical pain or fear.
We separate, Sy and Lavinia heading toward the stairs, while Hunter leads me to the elevator. He stands next to me as we wait, watching me carefully.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice low. “Did something happen in there?”
“No.” I hesitate. The words feel too big, too fragile.
“Then what?”
“There are other gaps,” I say finally. “In my memory. About Strong Manor.” I swallow. “And the kids I grew up with.”
The ones who lived in the same cold halls, shared the same basement classroom with Mrs. Whipple’s ever present ruler and colder voice.
The ones in stiff uniforms, whispering at night when the guard dogs were quiet.
The ones who disappeared, one by one, taken away in the middle of the night, their crying echoing down the corridors until it stopped. Always left behind. Always me.
Uncle Owen said they never existed. Said they were figments, my mind breaking under the weight of whatever happened to me. But I remember their faces. Their names. The way they looked at me when the switch came down, like they knew it could’ve been them.
“I remember them. The other children living there with me. There were lessons in the basement. Dogs that patrolled the grounds.” I look up at him and then away, unable to take the scrutiny.
“There were punishments and crying. They were real. But Uncle Owen… right before the fire, he said they weren’t. That I made them up.”
The elevator doors open and we step inside. Our images, distorted and misshapen, reflect back in the shiny elevator doors. “I don’t know what’s true anymore. Even when the memories come, how can I be sure?”
The elevator lurches and I fall into Hunter. Instead of stepping aside, or giving us distance, his hands, firm and warm, hold me upright.
He doesn’t let go.
“We’ll figure it out,” he says quietly. “I promise.”
I want to believe him, but everything tells me that we won’t.
Not before something terrible happens.
Damon and I walk in silence, the cold December air biting through my coat.
My ass still throbs on occasion, usually when I take a step, stretching the healing flesh farther than it wants to go.
It’s a dull, insistent heat under my skirt, but I don’t complain.
It’s a reminder to be better for my husband, and of how I can be useful to Hunter.
Damon is quiet, but close, his hand on the small of my back, thumb tracing a slow circle that’s half comfort, half claim for anyone watching. To the outside world we’re a united front. No one needs to know the pains we experience in the House of Night.
The list Story sent us takes us across campus.
We staple posters on bulletin boards in the student center, tape them to lampposts, and hang them on the lobby windows of every dormitory.
We move fast, the posters dwindling by the time we hit East End, the sky turned a bruise-purple, streetlights flickering on.
We stop outside the last spot on the list.
The Gentlemen’s Chamber squats on the corner like it owns the block. Non-descript with windows tinted so dark you can’t see inside. The East End Princes own it; everyone knows that, but with Verity focused on baby JJ, we volunteered to cover the territory. Damon’s originally from there, after all.
Music thumps and spills out to the parking lot, bass heavy enough to feel in my chest. Damon stops beside me, eyes on the door, mouth curving into that slow, dangerous smirk he saves for when he’s feeling playful.
“You wanna go in?” he asks, voice low, teasing. “See what East End tits look like?”
My pulse kicks up. “We’re just hanging posters. We can leave one with the bouncer.”
He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “We can do both.”