Chapter 38
Damon
The hallway outside the bedroom is dim, just the low glow from the sconces along the wall.
A few days ago, I was able to trap the mama cat down by the boathouse and bring her back to the dormitory.
Now she and her kitten are warm and safe in the dorm laundry room.
I slow when I hear the voices coming from the bedroom, low, raw, and unmistakable.
I stop just outside the cracked door. Arianette’s voice cracks through first, small and shaking.
“He’s afraid I’m the crazy girl they found by the creek.
The girl who killed Armand. Who set my uncle’s house on fire.
” A wet inhale. “You all think I’m going to crack again.
Fall apart in the middle of a party and ruin everything.
Timothy thinks it. You think it. Even Damon probably does, even if he won’t say it. ”
My stomach drops like a stone.
Hunter’s reply is quiet, steady. “That’s not true. None of that is true. He doesn’t even know you killed Armand, so I’d stop saying that.”
It’s a weak argument, and she knows it.
“See?” She laughs bitterly. “You think the same.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why else won’t you fuck me?”
The question lands like a punch. I feel my jaw lock so hard my teeth ache.
“You know why.” Hunter’s voice is firm. Definitive.
But she’s not finished, she keeps going, voice rising, fracturing.
“You’re just like him. Pretending like things aren’t about me when they are about me.
You all act like it’s for my own good, like you’re protecting me, but it’s really because you don’t trust me to handle it.
You think I’m scared of pain? I can take whatever you give me, Hunter.
I can take whatever he gives me. You all still think I’m weak.
Or na?ve. Or a child. I’m none of those things. ”
Her voice cracks on the last word. I hear the sob she tries to swallow.
“I survived Strong Manor, being kidnapped and dying. I survived Armand and the Hunt. My time in the cage when every time someone looked at me like I was broken glass waiting to cut someone. I’m still here.
But you look at me like I’m going to shatter if you push too hard.
Like one wrong move and I’ll be back in my mind, the place where I can barely find myself. But I won’t. I can’t.”
Something hot and furious uncoils in my chest, and I don’t wait to hear Hunter’s response. I turn, stalk down the hall, boots hitting the runner hard enough it does nothing to muffle the sound. My hand’s already in my pocket, fishing out the keys to Hunter’s truck before I even reach the foyer.
Graves is rounding the corner of the hallway, and I almost crash straight into him.
“Jesus,” I mutter, running my hand through my hair.
“Everything okay?” he asks carefully.
“You know where he is?”
Graves doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I would assume at his office in the hotel.”
I’m already moving toward the door.
“DK, what exactly are you doing?” Graves calls after me.
“Trying to make sure he doesn’t make a stupid fucking mistake.”
Graves laughs–short and dry. “Good luck, but maybe phrase it a little more respectfully.”
“Don’t fucking count on it.”
The cab is cold, but I’m so angry I’m sweating under my jacket.
The truck roars to life, and gravel sprays behind the tires as I peel out of the drive, headlights cutting through the dark.
The city is quiet, Christmas lights strung across lampposts, storefronts glowing gold and red, but I barely see any of it.
My hands are tight on the wheel, knuckles white.
The Maddox Hotel looms downtown, the neon ‘M’ hovering over the skyline. I screech into the circular drive, park crooked right in front of the entrance, not bothering with a spot. The valet starts to protest; I flip him my keys without looking back.
Inside, the lobby is hushed–marble floors, low lighting and the faint scent of pine from the massive, elaborately decorated tree in the corner.
The furniture is sleek with modern lines, so different from the heavy stone and fireplaces of the House of Night.
Two sides of the same coin. Timothy Maddox and the King–same man, different masks.
The desk clerk opens his mouth. I don’t slow down.
“Mr. Maddox is expecting me,” I say, already past him, heading for the private elevator.
I exit on the top floor, and the hallway is silent except for the soft hum of a building this size.
His office door is ajar, light spilling into the carpeted corridor.
He’s waiting–standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, back to me, hands in the pockets of his dark trousers, the university and much of Forsyth sprawled below.
I push the door wider and step inside. When he doesn’t turn or acknowledge me, I figure I may as well dive in. “You may not give a shit,” I say, voice low, “but I just wanted you to know that Arianette is a fucking mess right now, and it seems to be your fault.”
Timothy finally faces me. His expression is calm–too calm. The mask is back, even without the steel and metal. “If the Baroness can not regulate her emotions over a trivial Christmas party, then she’s proving my point.”
“You’re fucking with me.” I’m intentionally provoking–wanting to see if I can shake any emotion out of him. It may just get me killed.
“You didn’t see her at the ascension,” he says, not taking the bait. “I can’t risk her breaking down at another event like that. I barely got her out of there without causing a bigger scene.”
I step closer. “I’m calling bullshit on that.”
His eyebrow lifts. “Tread lightly, Kemp.”
“I won’t. Not about this.” I shake my head, anger boiling over.
“That girl takes every fucking thing we throw at her, has taken everything that’s been done to her, and no one in this goddamn city can judge her for being a basket case.
You keep telling us it’s our job to watch and protect her, but how the hell are we supposed to do that when you’re the one making it worse? ”
He exhales through his nose. “I’ve been nothing but patient with that girl. I could have torn up the agreement when Remy abandoned the Barons, but I didn’t. I’ve given her a home, a family, a royal title—”
“You’re really playing the martyr right now? Like you didn’t walk away with something in that deal?” I circle the desk, getting closer. “And don’t pretend like you don’t like her in your bed… just like we do.”
His eyes narrow. “Is that what this is about? Me breaking your fuck toy?”
“What if it is?” I ask, feeling no shame. “We worked hard to get her where she is, and taking her to a lame party seems like the very least you could do to keep her from burning down someone else's house.”
His eyes and jaw tighten. “None of that is relevant to the Mercer holiday party and her ability to function like a normal person.”
“I think it is.” I step closer, close enough that he has to tilt his head slightly to meet my gaze.
“Because my biggest question is–since when do you give a shit what other people think? It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing the mask or not; you’re a powerful man.
People fear and respect you. Who the hell cares if you’ve got a batshit crazy wife that gives amazing blow jobs and lets us do every single thing we want to her without complaint? ”
The room goes still. Just the soft tick of the clock on the wall and the distant sound of the city below. The phone on his desk rings, cutting through the tension like a blade.
The King doesn’t flinch. He reaches for it without looking away from me and lifts the receiver to his ear. His expression stays calm–too calm, the kind of calm that means he’s already decided how this conversation ends. He listens for a long beat. Nods once, twice.
“I see,” he says. “Interesting. Thank you for the call.”
He hangs up, the click loud.
I wait for the argument to reignite. For him to tell me I’ve crossed another line, that I don’t get to speak to him like that in his own goddamn hotel. But he doesn’t. Instead, he sits, leaning back in the chair, fingers steepled under his chin.
“That was Max,” he finally says. “They tested the hair tie for DNA.”
My pulse kicks up. Curiosity slices cleanly through the anger. “Did they find something?”
“Yes.” He lets the word hang, heavy with implication. “The DNA found was male.”
I blink. “No female at all?”
He shakes his head once. “None.”
“Do they have a name?”
“Not yet, but they can do further testing.”
I open my mouth to ask more questions I already know he doesn’t have the answer to, but he holds his hand up. “Go,” he says, voice quiet, but still tinged with annoyance. “Get back to the house and tell Hunter what we learned. See if he has any ideas.”
I stare at him. He stares back. The silence stretches–thick, electric, and dangerous. The argument is definitely not forgotten.
I turn, walk out, and let the door close behind me with a soft, final click.
I don’t care if I overstepped.
I don’t care if he’s angry.
I only care that when I get home, she’s still breathing, still fighting, still ours.
The house is dark when I get back, just the little light over the door guiding me back in.
I kick off my boots in the foyer, hang my coat, and head toward the wing of the chapel where our bedroom is located.
The panicked voices I heard earlier have gone quiet.
I push the door open softly, bracing myself for the worst.
Ares spots me first, lifting his head from the end of the bed, tail wagging once before he settles again.
Hunter’s sitting on the floor, back against the bed in the low light from the bedside lamp.
Above him, Arianette’s curled on her side in the middle of the bed, knees tucked up, breathing slow and even.
She’s finally asleep. Her eyelashes are thick and long, fanning over her cheeks, and the tension has bled out of her shoulders. She looks small. Fragile.
Mine.