Chapter 34
Arianette
“That was delicious. We haven’t had a traditional meal like that in…” Timothy pushes the charcoal sweater he’s wearing up over his elbows, “... well, a long time.”
Yes, Timothy. He has a name. And a face. And hands that make me feel alive.
Timothy, my husband, with the most exquisite cheekbones and soft lips. Timothy Maddox, whose name lights up the Forsyth skyline.
“I had no idea goose could taste like that,” Damon adds, rubbing his stomach. “Good job, Doll Baby.”
“The cook did the heavy lifting,” I reply, cheeks burning from the compliment. Across the table, Hunter’s finger swipes chocolate syrup off his plate, his tongue darting out. “I just sourced the ingredients from the recipes I found.”
After Timothy revealed himself to me that trust expanded to other areas.
He’s still protective, but I have a little more freedom.
With no school or dance class, I’ve spent the last few days embracing my role as Baroness.
Like everything else in the House of Night, there are archives holding the details, describing everything from house management to formal wear, from rituals to meal planning.
I found a box of recipes, and inside it had everything I needed to plan a traditional winter solstice meal.
I stand, pushing back the dining room chair, and reach for his cleaned plate. His hand stops mine. “Not now,” he says. “We can sort this later.” He rises, linking his fingers with mine. “Come, let’s continue the celebration.”
Hunter and Damon walk ahead, and Timothy holds me back. “Thank you for making dinner special.”
“Of course.” I’ll do anything for him. He just hasn’t realized it yet.
He moves suddenly, pushing me against the wall, fingers grazing over the hem of my skirt. “It was very challenging to get through dinner with you looking so incredibly enticing.”
The dress I’m wearing is deep burgundy, with long sleeves that flare at the wrists. The corset-laced bodice pushes my breasts high enough that all three of my men have struggled to keep their eyes away. His erection throbs against my lower belly.
He closes his eyes and inhales. “Later. I’ll have my way with you later. We have a long night ahead.”
Down the hall, Damon opens the double doors to the den.
It looks nothing like it did the night before my wedding, when Uncle Owen handed me over to the King.
Tonight, the cold, sterile room glows soft and warm, the fire in the massive stone hearth crackling steadily, sending little sparks dancing up the chimney.
Evergreen boughs drape the mantel, studded with small white candles that flicker in brass holders.
Their light catches on the deep red and gold ornaments hanging from the branches of the potted tree in the corner, everything golden and intimate.
“Who did this?” I ask, taking it in.
“Hunter spent the afternoon chopping wood and I collected the evergreen,” Damon admits, cheeks turning a little red.
He’s in all black, including a soft sweater that clings to his shoulders.
The light glints off his piercings, drawing my eyes to the reminder over his eyebrow, ‘Remember you must die.’
Tonight isn’t about death. The winter solstice is the shortest day and longest night of the year. It’s about hope and renewal, the return of light and rebirth.
Hunter approaches the fireplace and selects two more logs from the stack on the hearth, placing them atop the deep red embers.
His green shirt falls open at the throat, a glimpse of tattooed skin visible, and when he works the poker, the muscles in his forearm tighten, a subtle, undeniable reminder of his strength.
They sit, and Timothy pours mulled wine for everyone–even a glass for himself. I hover, glancing at the potted evergreen tree in the corner and the three gifts I placed there earlier. I decide not to make a ceremony of it. If I think too hard, I’ll lose my nerve.
“I have something for you,” I say, gathering the gifts in my hands.
The boxes are plain dark wood, no wrapping paper, just tied with thin black thread instead of ribbon.
I pass them out one by one, palms still warm from clutching them too tightly while I waited.
“For solstice.” Then I add quietly, “I made them.”
Timothy opens his first.
He doesn’t touch what’s inside right away.
Just looks. I watch his face, recognition giving way to understanding.
He knows what it is. Not just jewelry, but a ward.
When his fingers finally close around the knotted cord–a thin black leather thong threaded with tiny jet beads, a single obsidian knot at the center–he does it carefully.
Reverently. Like he understands the weight of a token made for the day.
“Graves helped me find some books in the library, and I looked up the symbolism of the winter solstice.” The words rush out. “Each knot represents one of us–bound together on one string as we celebrate the year’s longest night together.”
Outside, the night presses close against the tall windows–black, heavy and endless. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, suddenly unsure, heat crawling up my neck. “I just thought–”
Timothy speaks before I can finish. “This is perfect, Baroness.”
The word lands warm in my chest, and I feel my shoulders drop a fraction when he slips it over his wrist.
Hunter opens his next. His cord is similar, but different–black leather again, but the knot at the center is bloodstone, deep green flecked with red. He runs his thumb over it once, twice, then looks up at me with that slow, crooked smile that always makes my stomach flip.
“Thank you.”
DK’s is last. His knot is black too, but threaded with a thin strand of silver wire that catches the firelight. He doesn’t say anything at first–just pulls it on. Then he reaches out, hooks a finger in the neckline of my dress, and tugs me gently forward until I’m standing between his knees.
He presses his forehead to mine for a second. “Thank you, Doll Baby.”
I swallow hard. “You’re welcome.” Pushing up my flared sleeve, I reveal a matching one around my wrist. “I made one for myself, too.” The fire pops. “So, we match.”
The candles flicker. For the first time in a long time, it feels like we’re moving forward. Timothy takes a sip of wine and says, “We have gifts for you as well, Arianette, and I’d like to go first.”
He crosses the room and lifts a rectangular velvet box from the antique desk against the wall.
It’s been sitting there the whole evening, quiet and patient, like it knew it would be seen eventually.
He gestures for me to sit, and I lower myself onto the velvet chaise, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears.
“This has belonged to the Barons for generations,” he says, holding the box with both hands now. “And I’d like for you to have it.”
The box is too big for a ring and too thick for something simple. When I lift the lid, light scatters immediately, catching on stone and metal. My breath stutters.
“Oh,” I say softly. “This is… beautiful.”
A tiara rests inside, its stones set in layered arcs of blue and green, fanning outward in a feathered design. The colors remind me of deep water and old forests. Of things that watch from the dark and endure.
Timothy lifts it carefully, reverent.
“The peacock,” he says, “has long been a symbol of renewal. Of watchfulness. In the old pagan traditions, it was believed to guard sacred thresholds–its many eyes seeing what others could not. It sheds and regrows its feathers, again and again. A reminder that nothing truly beautiful is ever lost. It simply becomes.”
He places the tiara on my head, adjusting it until it sits just right. The weight is unfamiliar, but grounding.
Then he leans down and kisses my forehead.
I don’t think about the jewels. I look at him. And for a moment, seeing his face–unguarded and steady–is just as dazzling as the crown itself.
“Thank you. I will cherish it.”
When I glance up again, Hunter is already moving. He reaches the fireplace mantel and lifts a smaller box, dark wood worn smooth at the edges. He brings it to me without ceremony, but his eyes stay on my face, searching.
I open it.
A music box hums to life, the sound soft and tinny, imperfect in a way that makes my chest ache.
Inside, a ballerina begins to spin. Her skin is warm brown, painted with care, her arms curved gracefully overhead as she turns and turns.
As the lid tilts fully back, I see the inside–one word engraved into the wood, simple and precise.
Periwinkle.
The music keeps playing, the ballerina spinning steadily, endlessly.
Hunter clears his throat. “I found this in an antique shop in town and then made a few modifications.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.
“I know this means something to you, a place of peace and calm, and I thought maybe we could use it for something else. A signal for me to stop when you need me to. No questions or explanations.”
“I love it.” My fingers brush over the word, aware that this is more than just a safeguard for Hunter, but proof. Proof that I am seen. That my voice matters. That even in the dark and in pleasure, there are boundaries meant to be honored. “Thank you.”
Damon shifts on the sofa, sets his wine glass down, and rises. He stops in front of the velvet chaise lounge angled toward the fire. “I have something for you.”
The others watch–Timothy from his armchair, Hunter from the couch–but there’s no tension, only quiet anticipation.
I sink onto the chaise, legs tucked to the side, hands resting in my lap.
The firelight dances across Damon’s face as he sits next to me.
There’s only a heartbeat before his hands trace the edge of my corset bodice where it cups my breasts, thumbs brushing the swell just above the fabric. My breath hitches.
“Been thinking about this all day,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “How these would look with something new.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black velvet pouch.
He hands it to me, and I tug on the gold string, unraveling the bow.
I pour out the contents, and two tiny silver rings settle in my palm.
They catch the firelight–delicate sterling hoops, each set with a small, deep garnet that looks almost black until the light hits it just right, flaring blood-red.
My nipples tighten under the fabric just from the sight of them. “They’re beautiful.”
“They’ll look even better on.” His fingers are warm when they slip under the edge of my bodice, tugging the fabric down just enough to bare both breasts. He takes his time, thumb circling the silver bar already there, teasing until I shift on the chaise, thighs pressing together.
“Easy,” he whispers.
He works carefully–gentle but sure–unclasping the old bar. He leans in and laves the spot, getting it slippery with the swipe of his tongue. He eases the old piercing out and I gasp, fingers curling into the velvet cushion.
The new ring slides through easily. He fastens it and gives the garnet a gentle tug. “How’s that?” he asks, as pleasure-pain sparks straight to my core.
I swallow. “Good.”
He repeats the process on the other side–same slow circle of his thumb, same lick and careful removal.
When the second garnet is in place, he sits back and looks at me.
The firelight turns the new rings to tiny flames against my skin.
My breasts rise and fall faster now, nipples flushed, dark and aching.
Damon reaches out and cups one breast in his palm, thumb brushing the new hoop once more.
“Perfect,” he says, voice rough. Then, softer, just for me, “You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”
Hunter and Timothy watch us–quiet, hungry, approving. The room feels smaller, warmer, the air thick with the scent of pine and arousal and woodsmoke.
Damon leans in, presses an open-mouthed kiss to the curve of my breast, right above the new piercing. His tongue flicks once against the garnet, sending a fresh spark straight between my legs. When he rises up onto his knees again, he cups my face in both hands, thumbs brushing my cheekbones.
“You ready to show them?” he asks, voice low and rough, eyes dark with promise.
My breath catches. I glance past him–Timothy still seated in his armchair, legs spread, one hand resting on his thigh like he’s holding himself in check; Hunter already standing, arms loose at his sides, gaze locked on me like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at.
It’s then that I realize what’s happening: I’m his gift to them.