Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ava
My brain is slamming against the inside of my skull, and that’s what wakes me up. Eyes still closed, I try to ignore the pain and force myself back to sleep, but the unrelenting pulse inside my head makes that impossible. If I’m dehydrated, then this headache isn’t going away without water.
With a wince, I sit up and pry my eyes open. The room is dark, and I’m still wearing my underwear and the thick velvet robe I wore to the ceremony.
Leaning forward, I rub my temple, which helps ease the headache marginally.
What time is it?
There are zero clocks in this room, and I have no phone, so I have no way of knowing. But as I glance reflexively at the nightstand, I notice a glass bottle of water sitting next to a bottle of ibuprofen.
I throw back a couple of ibuprofen and down the water in one go, then sink back against the pillows and wait for the procession of drums inside my skull to quiet down.
As I’m lying there, the faint sound of music drifts in through the closed windows. Again, I wonder what time it is. How long was I asleep? A few hours, maybe?
My fingers drift to the heavy pendant resting against my breastbone. I should take it off, but for some reason, I don’t. I tell myself it’s to avoid pissing Jackson off. But that’s not it. I live to piss him off. It gives me joy. So why, then?
I lift the pendant and glance down at it.
It’s circular, like a coin, etched with a crown and Latin script across the center.
I’ve never seen it before, not even when we were dating, but I instinctively know what it is.
It’s Jackson’s seal. And now it sits around my neck like a tether, daring me to deny I’m his.
Welcome to the family, wife.
I still don’t know what that means—am I his consort? Am I some kind of society wife? Ugh, I can’t think about all that right now, so I force the questions into the shadowy corners of my mind.
My body still feels tired, but my brain is wide awake now. If I were to try and go back to sleep, I know for a fact my mind would start looping scenes from last night’s ritual, like my own personal highlight reel of humiliation.
You know what I should do? I should head down to the beach and check out the party.
It’d be something to do, at least. The only thing stopping me is sheer embarrassment.
I mean, seriously, I was just fucked in front of half the Burning Crown membership.
And why? So Jackson could prove he still has control over me?
Through the fog in my brain, I can still hear him whisper, I want every last piece of you.
You know what? I am going to that fucking party. Jackson isn’t going to make me feel ashamed for something that wasn’t my fault. Plus, going down to the party is better than sitting alone in Jackson’s bedroom, trying to fall back asleep while music pulses outside my window.
With a groan, I roll off the bed and head straight for the shower.
I stand under the hot water, letting it pound over me, soaping up, trying to wash off the memory of Jackson in that robe, fucking me against the wall.
But the harder I scrub, the clearer the memory gets, and the more my clit throbs.
The further I try to banish him from my mind, the deeper he roots himself there, until even my own touch feels like treachery.
“Ugh,” I groan, abruptly shutting the water off.
I dry myself, then wrap the towel around me, and walk into the closet to find something to wear.
Picking out a bra, panties, a sweatshirt, and a pair of short shorts, I tug them on.
Then I dig a comb out of one of the bathroom drawers, and brush out the wet, tangled knots in my hair.
I wish I had my lotion and makeup, because I feel bare and vulnerable without them.
But, honestly, I’m just happy to be wearing clothes that fit, at this point.
My lips feel like sandpaper, so I hunt for my work pants, finally finding them in the hamper. I always keep lip balm on me. Always. It’s an addiction. I fish the tube out of my front pocket, cherry red, and slather it on thick. Then I slip it into the pocket of my shorts.
Without even looking at myself in the mirror—because, seriously, I’m not trying to impress these lunatics—I head down the back staircase to the kitchen.
There’s food scattered across the marble counters, waiting to be hauled down to the beach for cooking, along with discarded takeout containers and empty booze bottles. It’s a hot mess down here.
A couple of people are hanging out, doing whatever, and the first spike of embarrassment hits.
Were any of these people in the ceremony?
Did they witness my brutal humiliation? A couple of them look up as I walk in, and their gazes linger on me.
And I’ll be honest, despite my rationalization upstairs, the reality of being seen makes my skin crawl.
Ava, pull it together. You have no reason to be embarrassed. Don’t let these people get to you.
Lifting my chin, I grab a red solo cup and pour myself something out of a pitcher. It’s red and could be anything, but I’m willing to risk it for a little liquid courage.
As I’m pouring, I look up and see a note taped to one of the cabinets, written in all caps. It catches my attention because I don’t remember seeing it earlier.
brING NUTS INTO THIS HOUSE, AND I’LL PERSONALLY SLIT YOUR THROAT. —Christian.
“What the…?” I mumble to myself.
Across the kitchen, a girl with long dark hair and an oversized T-shirt is loading up a plate. At her feet, a golden retriever pants patiently—a red harness with Lucy, and Working Dog. Do Not Pet embroidered across the side. The girl glances up at me briefly, then goes back to piling up her plate.
“Fucking annoying, right?” she laughs.
I shake my head. “Seems a bit aggressive.”
“Yeah. I’d risk a beheading and take it down, but the sign is for me, actually. I’m allergic to nuts, and Christian is a little protective about it.”
Ohhh. She must be his…consort? I’m still trying to figure out the inner workings of the Burning Crown.
Brian explained the whole consort thing to me earlier, but the details are still a little hazy.
All I know is that, every year, a different consort is chosen for each Sacred Son.
Or…maybe it’s the Sacred Son who chooses? Yeah, I don’t know.
“A little protective?” I laugh, and immediately regret how judgmental it sounds.
“Right?” she laughs. “He’s crazy. But, then again, they all are.”
Preach, sister.
“So why deal with it?” I ask, taking a sip of my drink. It’s sangria, and it’s not bad, actually. “Why not leave?”
She lowers her plate to Lucy’s level. The dog sniffs it briefly, then looks away, uninterested. I guess that means it’s safe, because the girl pops a piece of bread into her mouth.
“Good question,” she says between bites, thinking. Finally, she shrugs. “I guess it’s because ‘crazy’ is his love language.”
I’m not even sure what that means, but before I can ask, her voice softens, like she’s remembering something that cut deep and never quite healed right.
“Plus, you know…there’s an incredible freedom in being with someone who doesn’t need you to be perfect. I can let my guard down, show him my worst moods and strangest thoughts, and he just nods and pulls me closer. He doesn’t love an idealized version of me. He loves the real thing, you know?”
I stare at her, unsure what to say, but my thoughts are instantly cast back to my relationship with Jackson three years ago. I felt the exact same way then. He loved me, all my flaws and everything. The certainty of it made me feel safe, like I was finally seen. Finally whole.
But that was all an illusion, in the end.
She shrugs again, almost like she’s embarrassed by her own honesty. “That kind of love doesn’t come cheap.”
There’s an awkward few seconds of silence—the kind when a stranger has shared something far too personal, and you have no idea what to say—before she smiles, and says, “Well, I’d better get this down to the basement.”
The basement? Why in God’s name would she want to go down there?
My mind flashes to images of the dark, musky space, the small cell-like room in the back, and Jackson’s fists driving into a man named Sin.
My gaze flicks to the pile of food on her plate. “You don’t want to eat that down at the beach?” I ask.
She opens the basement door and ushers Lucy ahead of her. “Do me a favor, and don’t tell anyone I’m down in the basement, okay?”
Why? Does she know the person downstairs? I’m dying to ask her, but that question feels too personal. So, instead, I motion like I’m zipping my lips. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thanks.” She starts to turn toward the basement, then pauses, like she just remembered something. “I’m Eve, by the way.”
“Ava,” I say.
“I’ll be down at the beach a little later,” she says. “Maybe we can hang out? God knows we girls need to stick together.”
“Sure.”
It might be nice to get some insight on how to survive this place, because, let’s be real, I’m not exactly nailing it.
When Eve disappears behind the basement door, I slip out the back door and follow a couple of people down a dark, sandy path to the private beach below Rush House. The sound hits first—live music thumping, people shouting over each other, laughter ringing out over the sound of crashing waves.
Smoke curls up from the makeshift fire pits that have been dug right into the sand, where seafood is boiling in giant pots.
Crab, shrimp, corn, and potatoes are being dumped straight onto paper-lined tables, steam rising into the night air as people dig in with their bare hands, fingers slick with butter and spice.
Empty bottles litter the beach, half-buried in the sand.
It’s loud, messy, chaotic, and somehow, exactly what I expected a Burning Crown party to look like.