Chapter 30 #2
Lex gestures to the sleeping child, blissfully unaware of the tension threading the room.
“You all came here today to anoint the new Psi Nu Zeta leader of East End. A leader who will have the best interests of our community at heart.” He pauses, scanning the crowd with a wry edge.
“Although our son is the most amazing baby in the world—and no, I will not be taking any questions–I think that’s something we all agree an infant can’t do. ”
A ripple of laughter moves through the audience.
Arianette flinches at the sound, shoulders jerking before she stills them again.
Lex doesn’t slow. “A Queen can, though.”
Verity’s gaze snaps to him, frowning. What are you doing? she mouths.
The same question burns on my tongue.
The audience murmurs, confusion spreading like static. Wicker’s arm slides around Verity’s waist as Lex steps forward, addressing both her and the gathered Royals.
“The members of PNZ have taken a vote,” Lex says clearly, “and we’ve all offered our Oath of Fealty to Verity Sinclaire.”
Arianette’s breath goes shallow–too quick, too tight–and I feel the barely contained tremor start again under my hand.
Still not ready, I think. Not for the public.
Not to represent the House of Night, but this is beyond propriety.
She’s barely holding it together, and staying here any longer…
she’ll fully unravel. We need to get out of here, and fast.
“Over my dead bodies,” I proclaim, standing abruptly. I adjust my gloves. “Women may not take the place of a King.”
“Actually,” Wicker says, leaving Verity’s side. “There’s nothing in any of the bylaws that says anything about what’s between the person’s legs.”
Arianette curls into herself and whispers a single word, over and over again, so low that I can’t hear it.
“It’s almost as if you forgot about women entirely,” Pace joins in, adding to the fray. “But accidental as it may be, the language specifying heirs is largely gender neutral. Verity is Rufus Ashby’s only surviving heir.”
Lex sighs, pinning me with a fed-up stare. “You and the other Kings wanted us to choose one ruler. Take it or take it.”
I wrap my hand around Arianette’s upper arm and haul her to her feet, already turning us toward the aisle, toward escape. She sways, unsteady on her feet. I bend close to her ear, my voice low and lethal.
“Keep it together.”
Behind us, the ceremony grinds on–attention mercifully pulled elsewhere. For once, I’m grateful for another woman and child stealing the room from me. I spot a side door and cut for it, shoulder angled, authority parting the space in front of us.
Cold air slams into us the moment I push outside.
I spin her around and push the veil over her forehead, getting a good look at her face.
Her eyes are glazed, unfocused. Wrapping my hands around her upper arms I give her a shake.
“How dare you embarrass me like this,” I hiss.
“I knew you weren’t ready. Not ready to stand beside me.
Not ready to support me like a Baroness, much less a wife! ”
Her breath stutters, quick little gasps punching out of her chest. Tremors rack her body, violent enough that I feel them through my grip. She doesn’t look at me. She can’t. Her mouth keeps moving, the same words tumbling out, broken and frantic.
“What is this? What is happening? Stop. Stop it now.”
A memory flashes–Hunter after the vigil, careful but direct, telling me she might need more help than we can give her.
No.
I shove the thought away. I refuse it outright. We are enough. I am enough.
The cold seeps in fast, biting through silk and skin. Goosebumps race across her bare arms, her chest. Our coats are still inside, hanging neatly where they belong, but there’s no going back. Not now. Not like this.
I seize her hand and drag her along the side of the palace, our footsteps cracking against the cobblestone. She stumbles and nearly goes down.
“For Christ’s sake,” I snap, spinning back, scooping her up before she can fall. I pull her into my arms, her weight light and wrong against my chest.
She whispers constantly now, a soft, broken chant, like something she’s clinging to just to stay tethered. I’ve barely made it around the curve of the building when Kendrick rushes toward us, arms already lifting to help.
“No,” I bark. “I’ve got her.”
He checks himself instantly and pivots, running ahead to clear the way–past the line of waiting vehicles, past the other drivers pressed to the stone, cigarettes glowing as they watch.
They see everything.
The humiliation hits me full-force then, hot and suffocating, because this isn’t a stumble or a scene or a momentary weakness.
This is something else.
Something worse.
Something that’s happening again.
I get her into the car and sit with her, her body shuddering uncontrollably in my arms, her teeth chattering as she keeps whispering that same word, over and over, like a prayer or a curse. I listen, trying to make sense of it, trying to control it, having no fucking clue what it means.
“Periwinkle.”
The back seat of the car feels smaller than it should. It’s not just the size of her dress, or the way my tie feels too tight. It’s the unchecked emotion filling up every single inch of space.
Traffic is a snarl outside the tinted windows–the Purple Palace valets stacked cars on top of one another, making it impossible to exit quickly. Kendrick’s hands are white on the wheel, but he hasn’t said a word about the holdup. He knows better.
Arianette is curled against the door, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around herself like she’s trying to disappear.
Her breathing is all wrong–short, ragged hitches that sound like she’s drowning on dry land.
Mascara tracks black rivers down her cheeks, lipstick smeared at one corner from where she’s been biting her lip bloody.
She keeps whispering the same word over and over.
“Periwinkle.”
I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what set her off in the solarium–something one of the Princes’ said? No, it started before then. A look from the Queen? The weight of the gown she’s wearing? The promise I made her keep earlier in the day?
I’m out of my fucking element. Women like her, fragile in ways that aren’t visible until they shatter, have never been my territory.
The last time I tried to handle a woman–a wife–breaking like this, it was Amber.
Twenty years ago. Screaming and clawing about the shadows in her head, the whispers of what they wanted her to do.
I had her admitted. I did the same to my son after his little friend was murdered.
Saint Mary’s, the place I lock away my troubles.
Is this the curse for taking on the mask all those years ago?
Do all baronesses eventually crack under the crown we put on them?
Feel too much, see too much, carry too much until the seams split?
Will Arianette end up in a white room with soft walls, staring at nothing while they pump her full of whatever stops the screaming?
No.
Not her.
Not again.
Anger boils in my veins and I want nothing more than to shake her into compliance.
Instead, I take a deep breath and steady myself before I do something different.
I fight my nature and instincts by reaching across the seat, hesitant, palm sliding down the outside of her arm.
Goosebumps rise under my fingers; she’s ice cold despite the heat flowing from the vents.
She flinches at first, then leans into the touch like it’s the only tether she has.
“Kendrick,” I snap. “Turn up the heat. Full blast. I don’t want her going into shock.”
The vents roar to life, warm air flooding the cabin like a furnace.
It doesn’t help. She’s still shaking hard enough that her teeth chatter.
I curse under my breath and pull her toward me.
I fight my instinct, giving her time to pull away if she needs to.
She doesn’t. She collapses against my chest, face buried in the crook of my neck, fingers twisting into the front of my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll vanish.
Her breath is hot and wet against my skin, coming in little panicked puffs.
Kendrick glances in the rearview. “I’m going to see what the fuck is holding everything up.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just steps out, leaving the heater running, and shuts the door with a firm click.
The silence that follows is deafening. Just her shallow breathing, my heartbeat and the distant murmur of engines idling. I should call him back. I shouldn’t be alone with her like this, not when she’s this raw, not when I’m this useless.
But then I remember how she was with Damon.
The way he’d handled her the night she came back from seeing Kelsey’s body on campus.
He hadn’t talked her down with words. He’d just…
let her rest her cheek on his thigh, fingers in her hair.
He’d let her take from him and the panic stopped.
I’d watched the two of them, jealous as hell that he had that kind of intimacy with her, that quiet power to anchor her when everything else failed.
I swallow. Shift so my shoulder is against the door, legs spread enough to make room. “Arianette.”
She doesn’t respond, just presses closer.
I lift her chin gently with two fingers. Her dark brown eyes are glassy, pupils blown, streaked with black tears. “Do you want me to help you calm down?” My voice comes out rough. “The way Damon does?”
A tiny nod–barely there, but enough.
I don’t think. Just act.
I yank my dress shirt out of my trousers, fingers fumbling the buckle, the zipper.
My cock is already half-hard from the proximity, from the way she smells like jasmine and the softness of her skin.
I pull myself free–heavy, thick, the head flushed dark–and guide her down with a hand at the nape of her neck.
Her mouth opens on instinct. Warmth envelops me in one slow slide, soft lips stretching around the girth, tongue flattening instinctively along the underside.
No teasing or performance. She takes me deep enough that I feel the back of her throat flutter, then settles–cheeks hollowing just enough to hold me snug, no bobbing, no sucking.
Just warm, wet, steady pressure that makes my pulse thud heavy in my ears.
I exhale hard through my nose and cup the back of her head, holding her in place.
My other hand strokes down the column of her throat, thumb resting on the leather collar.
She responds with a subtle swallow around me, her body relaxing inch by inch.
The shivering eases. Her breathing stutters, deepens, syncing with the rise and fall of my chest. She’s quiet now, except for the soft, wet sounds of her mouth working gently around me whenever she swallows.
It’s not about getting off. It’s about grounding her.
About giving her something solid, something real to focus on when the world is spinning too fast. My cock twitches once, involuntarily, and she hums–a tiny, soothing vibration that shoots straight to my balls.
I grit my teeth, force myself to stay still.
The driver’s door opens. Kendrick slides back in, cheeks flushed from whatever argument he just won with the valets.
He doesn’t look back–just starts the engine, eases us forward as the line finally breaks.
Once we’re through the gates and back on the road toward home, I trace the edge of her jaw where it stretches around me with my thumb.
“Is that any better?” I ask quietly.
She doesn’t answer with words. Just releases me slowly–black-stained lips dragging along the length until the head pops free with a soft, wet sound.
A thin string of saliva connects us for half a second before it breaks.
She sits up, eyes clearer now, focused. The panic is still there, lurking at the edges, but it’s quieter. Manageable.
She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and nods once–small, certain.
“Yeah,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “Better.”
I regret stopping her so soon, but we’re almost back at the House of Night, the forest trees swallowing the moonlight. I tuck myself away, re-zip, and smooth my shirt back into place like nothing happened. But my hand stays on her–palm flat against her thigh, anchoring her to me.
She leans into my side, head on my shoulder.
I don’t say anything else.
I just hold her.
And for the first time in twenty years, I don’t feel like I’m failing someone who’s breaking.