Chapter 29 #2
“It’s pretty,” he says. Then, more honestly, “Too pretty.”
“Too pretty?” I echo.
He gestures vaguely. “You look like you’re about to go to a fucking garden party.”
Jade hums in agreement. “Tell me more about what you want to present at the ceremony.”
“Present?”
“Yes, like who do you want these people to see when you walk in the room?”
“The Baron King’s wife,” I say instantly.
“And?” she prompts.
I glance back at Damon and he’s listening too, waiting to hear what I say. The truth is I haven’t thought much beyond that. My goal, since I can remember, is being the Baron King’s companion. His wife. But the way Jade and Damon look at me makes me feel like that isn’t enough.
God. I know it isn’t.
“I want to look strong,” I admit. “Not like the drowned rat that was pulled from the river that everyone felt sorry for, or a child handed from one man to another as part of a transaction. I want to look in control.” My heart pounds. “Of my body. My men. Of my life.”
Jade nods, a grin spreading across her mouth. “Oh girl, yes. All of that. All. Of. Fucking. That.”
The dress comes off.
The next one is darker–deep emerald, structured, with a deep neckline and a cinched waist that flares into a heavy, full skirt. Jade tightens the straps and sends me out of the dressing room. My hands smooth over my hips.
This time I have Damon’s full attention. “Okay,” he says. “That one’s dangerous.”
I preen despite myself. “Dangerous good or dangerous bad?”
He squints. “Like one wrong move and the fabric will swallow you.”
I lift the skirt, or try, but he’s right. I can barely control it.
Jade clicks her tongue. “Damn shame. The color loves her.”
“Next,” I say, already stepping back.
The third dress is… dramatic. Too dramatic. High neck, long sleeves, severe lines that make my reflection feel unfamiliar, like I’ve borrowed someone else’s body.
I step out anyway.
Damon blinks. Then snorts. “Who is that?”
“Exactly,” I mutter.
“You look like you’re about to fire someone,” he adds. “Or curse a bloodline. Which would be okay except you’re going to celebrate the new Prince and I think it may start a war.”
Jade winces. “Yeah. No. That’s definitely not what we’re going for.”
Off it goes.
I change and change again, bare feet against the hardwood floors, fabric whispering over my skin, each version of myself flickering and disappearing in the mirror. One has a tight corset that pushes my breasts up to my chin.
“Jesus. Your tits look amazing in that,” he says, then grimaces. “Too amazing. Like, distractingly so. Jesus Christ.” He rubs his hands over his face. “Absolutely fucking not.”
Another, this one blood red with a straight, floor-length skirt, earns a slow nod. “I like that slit,” he says. “But you’ll trip on the stairs.”
“I will not.”
“You absolutely will.” His fingers twitch and I think he may push out of that chair and come to me, but Jade steps between us.
“He’s not wrong.” She unzips the back. “But the goal here is to not overshadow the Princess, but look good on the arm of the King while showing just enough personality to make people look twice.” She tilts her head and studies me. “Wait here, I’ve got something in the back.”
She comes back carrying black.
Liquid satin spills over her arms like ink, catching the light without shining.
“I was trying to avoid black because it felt so… predictable, but I want you to try this.”
When I slip into it, it glides over my skin, cool and smooth, strapless, then draping all the way to the floor. The cut is classic–almost traditional–but there’s an edge to it. Something unapologetic in the way it moves with me.
Jade grins as she secures the tiny buttons up the back, and I step out.
Damon’s head snaps up.
His expression changes instantly–eyes darkening, jaw tightening, that familiar hungry focus locking onto me like I’m the only thing in the room. The twist of jealousy I felt earlier over him knowing Jade fades because of that look.
“Fuck,” he says. “You look like a badass in that.”
Jade grins, pleased. “Honey–yes.”
Heat rushes to my face. I turn slightly, watching the black satin against my warm brown skin, the collar at my throat, the metal pentagram resting where it always does. Power layered on power.
“You like it?” I ask him.
He’s on his feet in seconds, crossing the space and settling his hand on my hip, firm and grounding. His thumb presses in lightly, possessively, like he needs to remind himself I’m real.
“You look like a fucking wet dream, Doll Baby.”
I fight a grin and lose.
“Do you think he’ll like it?” I ask, softer now.
Damon’s mouth curves. “He’d be a fool not to. And you know I don’t think the King is a fool.”
I turn back to the mirror.
For once, I don’t feel like I’m pretending. I feel like the kind of woman that will make my man, my King, proud that I’m on his arm.
It’s early when I’m called to the King’s bedroom the next morning.
Damon and Hunter are still in bed. My new dress is hung on the closet door and a pair of shoes are still in a box next to it.
Today is for celebrating what’s good in Forsyth.
A new baby. A mother’s dedication. It’s not a day for death, but life, and we Barons celebrate both.
My bare feet sink into the thick carpet as I push the heavy door open without knocking.
A presumption. One I’m sure I’ll pay for.
He’s at the table by the window, sitting in nothing but loose black linen pants slung low on his hips.
A soft black mask covers the upper half of his face, turning his eyes into shadowed slits that catch the light like polished emerald.
His skin is still flushed from the ice bath–pale gooseflesh raised along his shoulders and chest, nipples tight from the cold.
His abdomen is lined with hard muscle and my fingers twitch, wanting to touch him, to remember what it feels like to be his bride.
A tall glass of green smoothie sits at his elbow, condensation beading down the side. He doesn’t look up right away. Just keeps scanning the report in front of him, pen tapping once, twice, against the paper like he’s measuring my heartbeat.
I stop a few feet from the table, hands loose at my sides even though every nerve wants to fidget. “You asked to see me?”
He sets the report down.
“Yes.” His voice is calm, almost bored. “The ascension is this afternoon. I’ve been told you’re prepared?”
“Yes.” I keep my tone even. “I have a dress that I think will be appropriate. And that will make you happy.”
He finally lifts his head. The mask makes his expression unreadable, but the way his gaze drags over me–from my recently straightened hair brushing over my shoulders to the collar around my throat.
I can’t quite hide the tremble in my fingers.
“It’s not about making me happy, Arianette.
” He leans back in the chair, thighs spreading wider under the table. “It’s about serving your role.”
I lift my chin. Swallow the sharp thing that rises in my throat. He notices–of course he does.
“What?”
“Why can’t it be both?”
His lip curls. “Excuse me?”
I hesitate one heartbeat too long.
“If you’re going to come into your King’s quarters and talk back, you better be ready to back it up.”
“I’m doing my best to serve my role,” I say, quieter than I mean to. “But you won’t allow me to fulfill it other than showing up when you need someone on your arm. My Barons have learned how to use me and I…” I swallow, determined to see this through, “... and I think you should do the same.”
The room goes still. Even the air feels thicker.
His eyes skim over me again–slower this time.
Down the column of my throat, over the thin crimson tank that clings to my breasts and stops mid-stomach.
He travels down, past the waistband of the matching shorts with a black lace trim.
Damon picked them out because of the loose leg, and the access it gives him during the night.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, thighs pressing together instinctively. He notices that, too.
“Come here.”
It’s not a request.
I step forward. Close enough that I can smell the mint of the smoothie on his breath, the clean frost still clinging to his skin.
He reaches out without warning–long fingers curling around my wrist, thumb pressing hard against the pulse there until I feel it jump under his touch.
“You want to be used by me, my wicked little Daughter of Darkness?” His voice is low, intimate, dangerous.
“Is that why you’re standing in front of me like this?
Proving that your mouth could be used for better purposes?
Why your nipples are already hard under that little shirt, begging for attention you haven’t earned? ”
“I’m here to serve you, Daddy. However you want.” Heat floods my face, my chest, lower. He yanks me forward until my hips bump the table edge, forcing me to brace both hands on the wood to keep my balance.
“Look at me.”
I do. The mask hides half his face, but his mouth–those cruel, perfect lips–curves just enough to make my stomach clench.
“You want to fulfill your role?” He slides his free hand up the inside of my thigh, stopping just short of where I’m already aching.
“Then stop pretending this is about permission. This is about obedience. About knowing your place is on your knees, or bent over this table, or spread open for inspection whenever I decide. Not when you decide.”
His fingers brush the seam of my shorts, barely grazing the piercing, and I gasp, hips jerking forward before I can stop them. He chuckles, dark and quiet. “See? Your cunt’s already weeping for it. I can smell you from here.”
Shame and want twist together until I can’t tell which is winning. My thighs tremble. I want to close them; I want to spread them wider. To give him what he wants, but mostly wanting him to want me.
He leans in, mouth hovering an inch from mine. Close enough I can feel the cold radiating off his skin, the heat of his breath against my lips. “Show me your pussy, Daughter.”
He releases my wrist only to slide both hands to my hips, spinning me until my back is to his chest. Then he pulls me down–hard–until I’m straddling one thick thigh, shorts riding up.
I shift the edge of my shorts aside, feeling the warm heat between my thighs.
“Touch yourself,” he orders, voice rough in my ear. “Show me how badly you want to serve.”
I brush my fingers across my clit–tentatively. I’ve done this with Hunter, pleasured myself at his command, but the King–my husband–is different. One slip up, one wrong move, and the walls will come slamming back down again.
“Is that really enough, Arianette?”
I shake my head and make a deeper circle, spreading the sticky heat around. I graze the piercing and heat ripples across my nerves. It feels good, but it’s the way his hands clamp on my hips, pulling me back into his chest, guiding and controlling, that sends sparks up my spine.
“Good girl,” he breathes against my neck and his teeth pierce my earlobe. “Feel how hard I am under you? That’s what your obedience does.”
I whimper, head falling back against his shoulder. My clit throbs with every roll of my hips. So close–so fucking close–and he knows it.
He stops me with bruising fingers.
“Not yet.”
I whine–actually whine. “Daddy, please.”
His cock twitches and he laughs softly. “Excel in your role tonight at the ceremony and maybe after, when you’ve proven yourself worthy, I’ll let you come on my cock.”
He lifts me off him like I weigh nothing and sets me on my feet. My legs shake. My shorts are soaked through; I can feel it cooling against my skin.
He stands, towering, mask still in place. Adjusting the obscene bulge just below the V carved between his hips.
“Go get ready,” he says. “And don’t touch yourself or let one of your Barons touch you. If I find that even one finger has been inside you before I say so, I’ll edge you in front of the entire frat until you beg for mercy.”
I nod, throat too tight for words.
He catches my chin, tips my face up.
“Say it.”
“I won’t touch myself. I promise.”
His thumb drags slowly across my bottom lip. “Good girl.”
He turns away, back to his report, like nothing happened.
I leave on unsteady legs, the reminder of his promise pulsing between my thighs. Tonight isn’t just the ascension of Verity to Princess. It’s going to be the ascension of me, as the King’s one true mate.