Chapter 20
Arianette
“No.”
The word has been echoing in my head since he said it last night, cutting through the quiet of his doorway. There was no hesitation in his voice. No room for misunderstanding. He doesn’t want me. Not as a real wife, anyway.
I can stand beside him at formal events, smile prettily while he hosts the boys from Beta Rho.
I can be the Baroness who organizes dinner parties and rituals.
He can take me in the dark when the need gets too strong, claim me in secret, quick and silent.
But as a woman who shares his bed every night?
Who wakes tangled in his sheets, who pleases him however he wants, who builds a life beside him?
No.
The rejection sits heavy in my chest as Damon, Hunter, and I push through the doors of the DKS gym. The Fury is already in full swing, apparently a Thanksgiving break tradition, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with sweat and watery beer. A huge banner stretches across one wall:
DKS THANKSGIVING FURY–ALL PROFITS TO THE VICTOR’S CHARITY OF CHOICE.
The crowd roars as the current fight ends, the crowd evenly split between whoever was up there fighting.
I’m dressed like the gothic princess they expect, knee socks, a short pleated skirt that barely skims my thighs, and a cropped brN tee slashed at the collar so it hangs off one shoulder.
I’m starting to understand the expectations of me a little better, who my men want me to be when I’m standing by their side.
I kept it in mind when I got ready for tonight.
Heavy eyeliner wings at the corners of my eyes and my lips are painted a dark ebony.
As we push through the crowd, eyes flick down to the scarred pentagram branded just above my tits; I don’t bother hiding it anymore.
I earned these scars. I survived them. DK’s hand slides around my waist the second we’re inside, possessive, thumb slipping just under the waistband of my skirt to trace slow, soothing circles against my skin.
The touch steadies me, even though I still feel the sting of the King’s rejection.
There’s a break between fights, and Mateo’s back in the locker room getting ready for the second round.
It’s a redemption of sorts, since he was too messed up last time to get in the ring.
The main event still hasn’t been announced, and the speculation is loud that it’s going to be something exciting.
An epic matchup between two heavy hitters.
We’re next to the line for beer, close enough to overhear the chatter. Some DKS guy in front of us laughs. “I heard it’s an Ashby-Maddox rematch. This time, Ashby’s getting frisked for weapons.”
His buddy snorts. “Don’t forget Bruin was the first one to bring a blade to the Fury. And Perez—”
“RIP.”
“Left without a fucking finger.”
A cluster of girls nearby in LDZ colors, short skirts and glossy lips, giggle over their seltzers.
“Maybe Lex and Rath?” one suggests, eyes bright. “I’d double my donation to see those two slicked up and going at it.”
Another rolls her eyes. “Lex just had a baby. Give the man a minute to breathe.”
“Whitaker and Remy, then,” a third says. “Battling it out for hottest blond in Forsyth.”
“Please,” the first scoffs. “Then you’d have to include Tristian Mercer, because that man is straight fire.”
DK leans down, mouth brushing my ear. “Gonna go check on Mateo. Make sure he’s good.” He nods at Hunter, who lifts his chin in return, then squeezes my waist once before disappearing into the crowd.
Hunter guides me toward the stairs that lead up to the balcony, the raised platform where the Royals watch.
We pass Killian’s section first: he’s sprawled in his chair like a bored king, Story is perched on his lap, legs draped over one armrest. Tristian Mercer lounges to Killian’s left, and as we pass, he leans in to press a kiss on Story’s throat.
Rath sits on the right, arms crossed, dark eyes scanning the gym.
Story and I make eye contact for a second, hers curious, mine guarded, but we don’t speak. No one does.
Next is Simon Perilini in his throne-like chair with Lavinia curled in his lap. Her two other Dukes aren’t with them, but I notice the pattern: only chairs for the Royal men and their Kings. The women, Duchess, Lady, Princess, sit with or on their men. No seat of their own.
Simon’s expression turns curious when he sees me, and he straightens up, his big hand holding Lavinia by the thigh to keep her in place. He nods to Hunter first, then says, “Baroness.”
“Hi.”
“How are you?”
The question is loaded, code for: Did you remember anything else?
There’s a slight shift from the Lord’s section as they take in the exchange.
“I’m fine,” I reply, reaching out to grab the back of Hunter’s jacket.
“You’ll be at the meeting on Monday?” Lavinia asks.
“I’ll be there. I’m excited to help.”
Hunter keeps moving, dragging me with him and effectively cutting off the conversation.
We pass the Prince’s section, empty, and head to where the King waits, masked and dressed in all black, posture straight, hands resting on the arms of his chair like he was carved from the Shadows themselves.
Hunter nods to him and takes the seat on the King’s right without a word.
I know better than to push Hunter in a setting like this, so I don’t follow him. There’s an empty chair to the left, clearly meant for Damon when he returns.
I stop in front of it.
No.
The word rings again, cold and clear, sending a ripple up my spine like ice water.
I don’t sit.
Instead, I step forward and stop directly in front of the King. Close enough that my knees almost brush his. Close enough that I can feel the weight of his attention behind the mask.
He looks up at me.
I hold his gaze, or where I know his eyes are, and wait, wondering if another rejection is coming.
After a long beat, he offers up his hand, palm open on the armrest, an invitation, quiet, but unmistakable. God knows how many eyes are on us right now. The entire balcony feels like it’s holding its breath, or maybe that’s just me.
“Yes?” I ask, licking my bottom lip. The word is loaded with everything I’m not saying.
“Sit, wife,” he grunts, voice low and rough behind the mask. His hand circles my wrist, firm with no hesitation, and guides me down onto the edge of his chair. I brace one hand on his shoulder for balance, feeling the hard muscle beneath the black fabric.
His body is fantastic. More mature than Damon and Hunter, but no less impressive.
He treats his body like a temple, that much I learned from my time in the cage.
He’s disciplined, and last night, standing in the bedroom doorway, I felt the power of his strength when I touched him.
I feel it now, just sitting next to him.
“You think this is a game?” he asks quietly, so only I can hear.
“I think you confuse me,” I reply, stiff, the words clipped. “The rules change every time I’m near you.”
“There’s only one rule between us, Daughter,” he says, tone flat, controlled. “And that’s for you to serve at my will. Right now, you need to look like the sexy little vixen that I know you are and make everyone in this room wish you were in their bed tonight.”
I go still, heat flashing through me, anger and hurt. Shame. But I don’t argue. Not here. Not with everyone, including the other Royals, watching.
Below, the buzzer sounds, signaling that the next fight is about to start.
I see Damon in the support role in the corner, and one of the girls, Pamela, who stayed behind to help with the dining hall clean-up.
Pamela’s dressed in all black, tattoos snaking up her arms. When Mateo jumps in the ring, she leans in and gives him a good luck kiss.
His fight is against a Prince named Livingston, who charges in swinging wildly from the first bell.
Mateo is faster, leaner, all precision. He ducks a haymaker, slips inside, and lands two pummeling shots to the body that fold Livingston in half.
A knee to the ribs, an uppercut, and it’s over in under a minute. Clean. Brutal.
Final.
We both stand, the King first, pulling me up with him as the crowd erupts.
The Barons section roars loudest down on the floor.
Mateo raises a fist, blood on his teeth, sweat shining under the lights.
Damon gives him a high-five and a hug, and there’s just this feeling…
a sense of belonging that grows with every day that passes with these men. An understanding of family.
When the noise dies, and it’s time to sit again, the King doesn’t let me slide back to the edge of the chair.
Instead, his hands grip my hips and reposition me until I’m settled across his lap, thighs draped over his, skirt riding high enough to show the tops of my tights. The shift is subtle enough to look casual to anyone glancing over, but there’s no mistaking the possession in it.
I feel him immediately, hard, thick, pressing up against me through the thin barrier of fabric.
His arousal is undeniable. The King likes winners.
Victory. He doesn’t speak. Just settles one arm around my waist, his strong fingers splayed low on my stomach, holding me in place.
I shift, just a little, grinding down, testing.
He stiffens beneath me, breath catching behind the mask.
I’m not willing to let him reject me again. Not tonight.
I lean back against his chest, letting my head rest near his shoulder, and roll my hips once more, in small, teasing circles that drag the seam of my skirt against him.
His grip tightens. Damon appears at the top of the stairs with two beers in hand, scanning for us.
He spots the empty chair meant for him, then me on the King’s lap, and something flickers across his face, amusement, maybe warning, before he hands the second beer to Hunter and then takes his seat.