Chapter 5
Arianette
"Baroness?”
“Mmhm…”
“Everything okay in there?"
Graves’ voice echoes off the tile, softened by the sound of water.
"Yes," I call back, adding, “I’ll be finished in a minute,” though I have no intention of rushing.
The shower is hot–almost scalding–and I let it burn against my skin until I can’t tell if it’s washing away the cold or boiling something deeper out of me. Steam curls around my face, heavy and sweet, filling my lungs like a borrowed breath after being held under too long.
It feels like a luxury to stand here. The shower itself was made for the King–walls of smooth blueish-gray glass tile that catch the light. Twin showerheads hum above me, pouring warmth from both sides, the spray powerful and even, wrapping me in heat.
It’s both a privilege and a punishment to use his personal bathroom. A privilege because it’s so nice. A punishment because they don’t trust me enough to walk down the hall to my own room and bath.
The water glides over every curve, slick against my skin, turning the air dense and sweet with the scent of expensive soap—something floral and clean, left for me.
The King’s products sit on a separate shelf, untouched.
What I reach for instead is the squat jar tucked beside them, its lid already loosened, like someone expected this.
I hesitate only a second before opening it.
Shea and something richer–coconut, maybe. Real. Not perfumed nonsense. My chest tightens at the small mercy of it. Graves must have anticipated it, like he seems to do with everything.
I work the product between my palms until it melts, then carefully smooth it over my scalp, down the length of each braid, methodically. I press my fingers in, easing the tightness in my muscles that the river left behind.
Only then do I let the lather rise.
It’s thick and silky, the kind that coats your hands and feels too soft to belong in a house where people are punished.
A place built for comfort, not cages. I tilt my head back, close my eyes, and let the sound drown everything else–the forest, the creek, Damon’s voice, the look on Hunter’s face when he had to touch me.
For a little while, all I know is heat and the rhythm of water against tile, the illusion that this moment—this small, stolen grace—might be mine.
They hate me. I thought I’d experienced Damon’s rage, but the way he behaved at the creek had been worse than ever before. If Hunter hadn’t been there…
I swallow and try not to think about that. It’s obvious that if they don’t find a use for me soon, a purpose for the new bride of the House of Night, I’ll stay in that cage until the King decides to get rid of me once and for all. I’m sure his Barons would be happy to take care of that for him.
For a few fleeting seconds, I let myself imagine I’m someone else.
Someone who didn’t run, didn’t burn, didn’t ruin everything she touched–but then, through the foggy glass shower door, I see the mirror across the room, swallowing my reflection.
I almost like it that way, partially obscured.
I’m not sure who Arianette Hexley is anymore, anyway.
Whoever she used to be is gone, eroding away with every passing day.
Outside the shower, I hear movement. A small cough.
Time’s up.
I turn the knobs, regretting the way the heat vanishes.
Carefully, I squeeze the excess water from my braids before wrapping them, protective even now.
When I open the shower door, Graves stands there, his expression as unreadable as ever.
He’s always been gentle with me–never cruel, never rough–but I know where his loyalty lies.
With the King. With the house. With the rules that keep me caged.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he’d said after we got home, and they left me standing before him, clutching my wet clothes against my stomach, shivering through and through.
See? Kind.
Now that the river and muck are scrubbed away, my body wrapped in a robe and my hair secured tight in a towel, I follow Graves to the small table where I’ve seen the King eat his breakfast each morning. A tray waits there: tea, sandwiches, fruit, and sweets, neat as something from a dream.
I blink slowly, absorbing it, then pinch the inside of my elbow.
“Why do you do that?” he asks.
“Do what?”
“Get that faraway look. And the pinching.”
I dig my nail in harder. “Sometimes I have to make sure things are real.”
“This is real, Arianette,” he says. “Sit.”
He also takes a seat, and I wonder if that’s normal for the man who assists a King. His legs cross casually, and he studies me for a moment; the way I’m hunched into myself, feet pulled up into the chair. “I assume things didn’t go well on your excursion today.”
Neither of my Barons spoke when we returned home. Damon dropped his wet clothes on the doorstep and stormed off toward their room. Once it was obvious that Graves was taking custody of me, Hunter followed.
“No,” I say softly. “I can’t give them what they want.” He pours steaming tea into my teacup and I wrap my hands around the warm china, letting the steam kiss my face.
“Not yet, at least.”
I don’t feel confident that there is any way for me to earn back their faith. I look around the table. At the tea and cakes. “What is this about? Is he letting me out of the cage?”
He shakes his head and gives me a sympathetic grin. “No, not yet.”
My stomach sinks, and I realize how much I’d been hoping that was the case. Instead of telling him that, I ask, “How’s he doing?”
Graves tilts his head, studying me. “Do you really care?”
“Of course I do. We’re married. He’s my priority.”
He pours a drop of milk into his tea before asking, “Was he your priority when you ran away, set that fire, and killed your uncle?”
The question hits like a slap. I flinch, gripping the edge of the table. “That wasn’t–” I start, then take a breath. “I wasn’t running from him. That was about…”
The excuse flounders on my tongue. Not because there isn’t one, but because there are too many.
How I failed to please the King on our wedding night?
Or the disgusted way he looked at me the morning after?
Did I do it because of the way he took the rod and used it on me?
And then there is Damon and Hunter, and the way they came after, soiling and spoiling me.
I take a deep breath, those wounds still raw, especially after today. “I would tell him if he ever spoke to me again. If he even acknowledged I existed.”
“What’s done is done.” He picks up his teacup and takes a sip.
“You didn’t hear this from me, Baroness, but keeping you locked up like this—it’s wearing on the house.
The boys need balance as they focus on the work the King has challenged them with.
But right now, anger is festering within the frat, making them distracted.
Caging betrayers isn’t our way. That’s the practice of East End. ”
I study him, uncertain whether to feel hopeful or insulted. “So what am I then?”
“An exception,” he says quietly. “And exceptions always cause cracks.”
The wind moves through the tree leaves, and something painful twists in my chest.
“They hate me,” I admit, eyes stinging. “And everything I do makes it worse.” I swallow, “Today was proof of that.”
Graves watches me over the rim of his teacup, eyes half-shadowed. The air between us hums with something unspoken until he finally says, “You caused a wound that needs to be healed, Arianette. So deep that your Barons and every Shadow can feel the disturbance it caused.”
My fingers tighten around the cup, the tea has gone cold. “How do I do that? I can’t bring my uncle back. Or un-set that fire.”
“You aren’t the first Baroness to cause destruction.” He gives me a small grin–gentle, almost proud. “A certain personality is required to take on the role; therefore, there are measures in place for acts like yours. A way for everyone to move forward.”
Hope stirs in my chest so quickly it hurts. “What is it? What can I do?”
“It won’t be easy.” His gaze meets mine. “Like the Hunt, the rites and rituals come at a cost.”
“I’ll do it. Whatever it is.” My voice shakes, but I mean it. I survived the Hunt. A kidnapping. My childhood and a fire. Them. Whatever these men want to throw at me, I can handle it. I know I can. I will.
He studies me for a long moment, the civilized tea and snacks forgotten between us. “You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
I can’t handle another day like today.
Graves nods once, as though sealing a pact. “Then I’ll set it in motion,” he says quietly, rising from his chair. “And you will prepare yourself for the ritual of Noctis Crucem.”
The words linger in the air, heavy and unfamiliar, like smoke that refuses to clear. Graves reaches for one of the tiny sandwiches and takes a bite–every motion steeped in civility and quiet decorum.
Something tells me the ritual, the Noctis Crucem, will be anything but civil.
I’m awake when the iron door rattles and opens with a creak, the sound cutting straight through me.
Heavy footsteps meet me before the masked men grab for me–they’re here.
This is it. One stuffs a gag, rough and thick, into my mouth, while the other shoves a blindfold over my eyes.
The men, I know they’re men, they always are in Forsyth, smell of smoke, incense, and liquor.
I know better than to fight. Fighting only gets me in trouble, and more trouble is the last thing I need.
I let them drag me across the floor. My thin shirt and panties do nothing to soften the movement, and I wince with every bump and scrape.
Behind me, I hear the sound of the metal door of my cage latching shut.
I think of the fire. The screams. The way I ran.
The way Hunter could barely speak to me in the hospital.
The way Damon looked in the bed next to mine, his skin peeling and raw. His lungs fighting for every breath.
I deserve this.