Chapter 31
Arianette
I step out of the car onto the gravel drive, but my legs buckle like they're made of water, knees giving way before I can catch myself.
The world tilts but before I hit the ground strong arms scoop me up–effortlessly, like I'm nothing more than a feather caught in the wind.
The King's chest is solid against my side, his heartbeat steady through his shirt, and I curl into him without thinking, face pressed to the crook of his neck.
I wait for him to carry me down the hall to the room I share with the Barons–the familiar space with its tangled sheets and lingering traces of Damon and Hunter. Where at least I know they’ll use me, give me something to hold onto other than this aching fear in my chest.
But he doesn't. He turns the other way, shoes echoing on the stone floor as he heads toward his quarters. The door swings shut behind us with a heavy thud, sealing us in. No one else. Just him. Just me.
He sets me down gently on the thick rug, hands lingering on my waist until he's sure I won't crumple.
I stand there, heart slamming, waiting for the storm.
The rebuke that'll cut deeper than any knife.
The punishment–maybe the cage again, cold bars biting into my skin while he watches me break.
Pain for the humiliation I brought him tonight, retaliation for the scene in the solarium, shame poured over me like acid. I deserve it. All of it.
But nothing comes. No harsh words, no grip turning bruising.
Instead, he spins me around, fingers brushing the nape of my neck as he starts pulling out the pins that held my veil and hair in place.
One by one, they clatter to the floor like tiny accusations.
His touch dips lower then, grazing my shoulders in a way that sends sparks skittering down my arms. He gently combs through my hair with his fingers, laying it neatly down my back before he finds the long row of buttons down the back of my dress, undoing them with unhurried care–each one popping free, exposing more skin to the air until the black satin whispers down my body and pools at my feet like spilled ink beside the iron bed frame.
The fire crackles in the massive fireplace across the room, flames dancing orange and gold, but it doesn't touch the chill inside me.
I'm shivering hard now, teeth almost chattering, and it's not the cool draft ghosting over my bare breasts or the fact that I'm standing here in nothing but sheer black lace panties, the ones that hide absolutely nothing. The ones I wore for him.
It's fear, raw and twisting in my gut. My body's wired tight, every nerve screaming, waiting for the hammer to fall. Whatever he does now–it's going to be worse than before.
Confusion hits when his mouth lands on the curve of my shoulder–not a bite, but a wet, sucking kiss that pulls a gasp from my throat.
His hands are gentle as they guide me toward the bed, palms warm on my hips, steering me like I'm something fragile he wants to keep whole.
He nudges me under the covers, heavy silk and down folding over my skin, tucking me in with a tenderness that feels like a lie.
I close my eyes, brace for the shift–for the moment the sweetness turns sour.
Fabric rustles nearby. The soft click of a belt buckle, the whisper of clothes hitting the floor.
The mattress dips, and then he's sliding in beside me, naked heat pressing against my back. He pulls me close, one arm banding around my waist, drawing me flush against him. His chest hair tickles my spine, his abs flexing with every breath, biceps like iron locking me in place. And there–God–his cock, the one I’d suckled all the way home, that he’d allowed me to soothe myself back into a state of functionality with.
It’s thick and rigid, nestling right against my ass, the velvet heat of it branding me through the thin lace.
It feels good. Safe. Warm in a way that sinks into my bones and makes my eyelids heavy.
But it's a trick, isn't it? A cruel setup before the fall.
Is this even real? Or am I still trapped in the solarium, deep strains of music dragging me back?
Maybe I never left the cage at all–maybe this is just another layer of the nightmare, his kindness a phantom that'll dissolve when I reach for it.
"Stay with me, Arianette," he murmurs, voice quiet and close, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
He changed his mask at some point, removing the heavy bronze one for something lighter and less concealing.
"Something scared you tonight. Something that triggered an emotional flood, a physical storm.
As uncomfortable as it is, it just means your body's alive. Responding. It's a good thing."
A good thing? I try to latch onto his words, but they slide around in my head like oil on water.
Outside the dance studio, my body has only ever betrayed me–twisting me into panic, into submission, into pain from the very start.
Another shiver racks through me, violent enough to make my muscles ache, and he holds me tighter, his frame curling around mine like a shield.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says, breath warm on my neck. "We're going to get through this. Together."
"H-h-how?" The word stutters out, teeth clashing over it like I'm freezing from the inside.
His fingertips trail down my arm, light and soothing, skimming the side of my breast in a way that makes my breath hitch.
My nipples tighten instantly, the piercings tugging with a spark that shoots straight between my legs.
His hands are strong, confident–different from my Barons.
No fumbling edges, no frantic hunger. He takes his time, like he has all night to put me back together.
Lips press to my neck, soft at first, then open-mouthed, sucking gently at my pulse point until I arch without meaning to.
He kisses lower, trailing down my spine in a slow path of heat–wet, lingering touches that make my skin hum.
Down to the little divot just above my ass, where he lingers, tongue flicking out to taste the salt there.
Then he's rolling me onto my back, the covers slipping away, and his fingers hook into the waistband of my panties.
He eases them off, inch by inch, the lace dragging over my thighs until they're gone.
He sits back on his heels, eyes raking over me–hungry, dark, taking in every curve, every scar, every trembling inch.
I wish I could see his face–see what he looks like as he touches me.
His cock juts thick between his legs, the head already glistening.
He wraps a hand around it, gives it a long, lazy stroke from base to tip, thumb smearing the bead of precum like he's savoring the ache.
"Open your legs," he commands, voice rough velvet.
They fall apart on instinct, knees butterflying wide, exposing everything.
His hands slide up my thighs, big, callused palms spreading me even wider, thumbs digging into the soft inner flesh until I'm splayed open for him.
He bends down, face burying between my legs, and plants a small, reverent kiss right on the metal piercing at my clit.
My legs tremble harder, but he holds them steady, pinning me in place.
Then his tongue–hot and flat–presses against my pussy, leisurely lapping, teasing the ring with flicks and circles until I'm delirious, hips bucking up for more.
"Oh god," I breathe, the words tumbling out in a haze.
Confusion swirls with the pleasure, because I embarrassed him tonight, humiliated him in front of everyone with my panic attack.
But these hands, this mouth... they're the touch of someone who cares.
Someone who wants to mend the broken pieces, not shatter them further.
Daddy.
"I'm going to lick this pussy until you come on my tongue," he promises, breath hot and ragged against my slick folds.
"Then I'm going to fuck you, baby girl, until your brain and body can think of nothing else.
Until you know–deep down–that you're mine, and that nothing outside the House of Night can reach you. Nothing can hurt you.”
Mine.
The word echoes in my chest, warm and claiming. My hands reach for him, fingers running over the hard planes of his chest, tangling in the soft hair that dusts his pecs and tapers down in a tempting trail over his abs, leading straight to where he's throbbing for me.
He dives back in, tongue delving deeper now, swirling around my entrance, dipping inside just enough to make me clench then dragging up to suck on the piercing with gentle tugs that send lightning through my veins.
His beard scrapes my inner thighs, rough and perfect, marking me.
I thread my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, grinding against his face as he groans into me, the vibration buzzing straight to my core.
He's sweet about it, kissing my folds like they're something precious, whispering "good girl" between licks, but dirty too, letting my excitement coat his chin, his lips shiny when he pulls back for air.
My hips rock faster, chasing the build, and he lets me, encourages it with fingers spreading my lips wider, exposing every sensitive inch to his assault.
The orgasm crashes over me sudden and hard, back arching off the bed as I cry out, pulsing on his tongue while he laps it all up, humming approval like I'm the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.