Chapter 4
Timothy
The fire in the hearth crackles low, throwing shadows across the shelves that tower to the ceiling, doing little to fight the chill seeping into the stone walls as winter approaches. It’s formally a library, although recently it often feels more like a cage of my own.
I sit at the mahogany desk, fingers steepled, staring at the blueprints spread before me like a map to a war I never wanted.
The architect’s signature is scrawled at the bottom, as well as the title: Strong Manor.
The blueprints were part of the bargain, the reason I’d upheld the contract long after my son chose another path. It was worth it, I told myself.
But now? I feel nothing but exhaustion and regret.
Arianette.
My jaw tightens. I haven’t looked at her since I had her dragged to my room and locked in the iron cage in the armoire across from my bed.
Haven’t spoken. Haven’t needed to. The isolation is punishment enough–or it should be.
She betrayed us and put the entire organization at risk with her reckless tantrum.
The library is dim, and I push the blueprints spread across the desk under the lamp.
In front of me is another section of Forsyth’s arteries, laid out in hard lines indicating concrete and steel.
I know the storm drain system by memory.
I’m familiar with the old service tunnels that run beneath the riverfront warehouses.
My finger stops on the narrow corridor that passes under the Hexley family crypt.
Owen’s name etched on the newest plaque.
It’s a reminder of how I didn’t control what belongs to me.
Again.
One bullet. One shallow grave in the pines.
The girl disappears, the threat she poses disappears, and the people still breathing under my protection stay that way.
Except Barons aren’t killers and Arianette has information we need locked away somewhere inside.
No, I’ve done what I’ve always done. Locked the problem away.
Removed them from being a threat. It’s worked before. It’ll work again.
I lean back in the chair, the old leather sighing like it’s tired of holding me together.
Somewhere in the back of my skull Amber’s voice drifts in, childlike and disjointed.
Try harder, I’d told her. Fight the demons, control your mind.
I told Remington the same thing when he was twelve and the walls started talking back to him.
Lock it down, son. Control it. Be stronger than the noise.
He wasn’t.
Neither was she.
I’d lost them both.
The blueprints swim for a second. I blink hard, drag a palm across my eyes, and pretend the sting is just fatigue.
Arianette is a liability–wild and furious, half-broken in ways that make my skin crawl because I recognize the fracture lines.
I swore I’d never let another person I’m responsible for slip through those cracks.
I thought having her close would provide relief.
I sure as hell didn’t trust her out of my sight, not after what happened the last time I left her alone.
But having Arianette so close adds its own layer of stress.
I fall asleep thinking of our wedding night.
The tight way her pussy squeezed around me, and how her soft body felt in my hands.
I wake knowing she’s within arm’s reach, and it’d be so easy to unlock the cage and claim her the way a man should claim his wife.
A knock sounds at the door–soft. Hesitant.
“Enter,” I call, grateful for the interruption.
Graves steps in, closing the heavy oak door behind him with a click that echoes against the stone walls.
My assistant. My shadow. A year younger than me, lean as a blade, eyes cautious as he takes everything in.
He’s been with me since the beginning, before I ascended into this role.
He doesn’t flinch from blood or secrets, but this afternoon, his shoulders are tight.
“Sir,” he starts, then stops, before he clears his throat.
I lean back in the chair, the leather creaking. “Spit it out, Graves.”
He shifts, gaze flicking to the blueprints, then the cup of tea I haven’t touched. “I think it’s time to discuss the next steps of the Baroness' punishment.”
I don’t answer that. I don’t have to, I’m the goddamn king, after all. But I wait.
“The frat’s... unsettled. Arianette’s betrayal—it hit hard. The Baroness is here to support the frat, and right now, there are rumors spreading through the dormitory. The Shadows are being asked questions when they’re on campus.”
“Since when do we care about rumors or questions?” I ask.
“Fair.” He holds my gaze. “But it goes beyond that. The other Kings are watching.”
“You think I give a shit about the children running Forsyth? They’ve got their own damn houses to worry about.
” I snort, bitter. “Payne has Agent Knight living and fucking in his whorehouse while he pretends to figure out who’s snatching women off the streets.
Perilini has to wrangle a Lucia and a Maddox, and the Ashbys are knee deep in shit-stained diapers and midnight feedings.
” Graves looks like he’s fighting an eyeroll, so I do it for him.
“Look, I’ve locked her up like the liability she is and used my resources to cover up her actions. What else do you want me to do?”
His lips press thin. He’s holding back. I can taste it.
“Say it,” I snap. “I don’t have time for your bullshit today, Gibson.”
Graves meets my eyes, steady. “The group can’t splinter over this. Leadership is required.”
“That’s what Hunter and Damon are for.”
“They’re green,” he says, echoing my own thoughts like a damn mirror. “And as angry and pissed off as you are. Maybe more.”
I surge to my feet, chair scraping back. “They have the right to be pissed. Her actions were dangerous—not just physically, but to our reputation. To everything I’ve been working for. The whole damn reason I brought her here.”
The words hang heavy. Brought her here. It’s not exactly true.
Our bloodlines were arranged long ago, but I did bring her here after she was found on that riverbank, crowned her bride of the Baron King, and bound her to me in a ceremony that threatens to shake the foundations of the House of Night.
She was supposed to be collateral, nothing more than a pawn in a larger game. Instead, she wreaked havoc.
Graves nods at the papers on the desk, voice softer now. “Did you not get what you bargained for?”
I follow his gaze. The blueprints. Hexley’s promise: the secrets buried under long-forgotten parts of Forsyth.
They could be the answer to everything. My fingers trace the inked lines, the elegant curves of our city's tragic history.
"What are you suggesting?" I ask, drawing him back to the reason he came here.
"The Barons have methods in place for situations like this. Rituals for healing." Graves sounds uneasy as he says it. He should. What he's invoking isn't for the weak.
"You don't think she's been through enough?" I ask. Compassion isn’t one of my attributes, but the Baroness has proven that her mind is fragile, although her spirit continues to simmer with fire.
"She got off easy with the Hunt,” he reminds me.
He's right. Normally, there would be five girls being hunted, one from each territory in Forsyth, along with an undeclared.
The last one standing would belong to the Barons, and they would truly claim her on that altar in front of the Shadows.
Due to the requirements of Arianette being a virgin when we married, we had to make adjustments to the ritual.
"Due to that, it’s possible that she isn't as bonded to the group as past Baronesses,” he continues.
I lean back in my seat, the leather shifting with the movement, and consider what he's suggesting. Noctis Crucem.
The Cross of Night.
It’s the kind of ritual buried deep in the texts. The one the founding Barons used when a Baroness hesitated to do her duties. Forty brothers. One woman. A single night beneath the stars.
Graves watches me, patient as stone. He knows I’m picturing it: her smooth skin under torchlight, the ropes binding her to the hardwood.
The way she’ll fight at first, because she always fights, before the rite breaks her open and rebuilds her into something that belongs to all of us, not just to me.
My wife.
Their Baroness.
The thought should enrage me. Instead, it coils low and hungry in my gut.
I rise, crossing the room to a bookcase with a glass door. Removing the key from my pocket, I unlock and open the door, then pull out the worn, leatherbound tome.
“Do it,” I say, voice steady, the words tasting like iron and incense. “Prepare Noctis Crucem. Tell the others the King has spoken.”
A flicker of relief crosses his face before he takes the book from me, one Baron to the other, hoping to keep our house in order despite the chaos surrounding us.
“As you command.”
The heavy door closes behind him with the soft finality of a crypt sealing shut.
I stand by the fire in the dim study, alone now, and let the silence settle like ash. Then I smile because soon, my bride will finally learn what it truly means to wear the weight of the Baroness title.