1
Arianette
The days pass in glimpses of sunlight and shadows, the nights in darkness and solitude. Iron walls, hard floors, and the tight, stretched feeling in my chest. No one speaks to me. No one touches me. Wait. Dark panic rises up my spine. Am I even here? Yes. I pinch my skin, digging my broken nails into my thighs. I’m here. I’m alive. Just locked in another cage. The solitude is interrupted by the quiet clink of keys, with gestures of silent instruction. I’m required to be clean. To eat. To swallow the capsules set in front of me. I put my face in the sunlight for ten minutes a day and stretch my aching, cramping muscles. The requirements are civilized–just like my captor. My husband. There is no barbarism here. Just contrition. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. The words echo in my mind, never uttered. Do I believe them? Am I sorry? Do I feel bad for setting the Manor on fire and killing my uncle? I know the truth. I feel it deep in my gut. No, I do not. Even in the confined, small space, I’m not idle. I was raised better. I was raised to serve, to attend. I use the time to learn about the man I’m bound to. I study his habits and routines. His tendencies and quirks. There’s a particular towel he likes to use after shaving and a well-worn pair of slippers placed next to the bed, the suede molded to the shape of his feet. There’s the ring on his finger. The one given to him when he became King. He never takes it off. From dawn to darkness, the days pass. Three? Four? I’ve lost count. I watch, peering out from behind the iron scrollwork, quietly absorbing everything about the man I married as he prepares for each day. Graves wakes him early, rousing him from a restless sleep. He rises, stretching out the corded muscles in his arms and back, running his fingers through the dark hair on his chest. He sleeps naked, in nothing but the soft fabric of a mask, his features hidden. When he rises, I get a view of his hard erection jutting from between his thighs as he walks to the patio just outside his suite. I can’t see what he does there, but I hear it, the slosh of water and muttered curses. Some kind of ice bath, I’ve come to realize, timed by Graves, his soothing voice carried in from the outside. A punishment? Self-inflicted torture? I’m not sure. When he reemerges, his skin is pink from the cold, his body dripping and wet, a black towel slung around his slim, firm hips. His routine, like mine, is set. Like the smoothie prepared by Graves, or the mug he drinks his coffee from. The pottery looks handcrafted, mottled blues and greens, with a small brownish chip along the rim. The coffee inside is black, other than a dose of oil blended into a froth. My husband reads the paper and studies a rolled-up sheath of paper, stored securely in a tube with a seal on the side, embossed with silver initials, SM. Strong Manor. He never looks at me. Not once. But he’s aware. I can sense it. Smell it, low and cloying in the air. The night we shared meant something. I know it did. I felt it, and he did too. In my mind, I plead with him to release me from the cage, to throw me on the bed and fuck me until there’s nothing left but me and him. It never happens. He leaves. For hours on end, but I still absorb him. His scent. His secrets. From my cage, I can see that the photograph of his wife and son has been removed from the dresser. Out of guilt? Maybe. He’d spoken of them in harsh, regretful terms. Yet still… Yet still, he had no hesitation in taking me as his bride. Giving me his vow. Claiming me in his bed. Making me his own. The photograph has been replaced by something new, someone new–me–living and breathing. Locked up tight. Running a finger over the brass charm affixed to the collar around my neck, I feel the ridges of the pentagram, and I swallow, the band tightening. It’s a reminder of who I belong to and who is in control. He acts as if I’m not here, but there’s no mistaking that he keeps me close. That he wants me near. That his collar around my throat signals to the world that I belong to him. The King, my husband, can pretend all he wants, but I’m still here. And that’s all that matters. * * * “There are no other children, Arianette.” My uncle stands before me, his face shifting like smoke, eyes hollowed by the light. The fire builds around us–slow at first, then greedy. Heat breathes against my back, licking up my spine. I can’t tell where the room ends or where the flames begin. “Your mind plays tricks on you. You know that.” He’s right. But also wrong. The children. The children… I’ve seen them. Heard their laughter echo down the halls. Felt their tiny hands tugging at my skirts, soft hair brushing my palms. They’re real. They were real.
“Liar!” I scream, the word cracking in my throat. “Where are they? Where did you hide them?” The air warps. The beams above us groan and blister. My uncle looks up, mouth open–not speaking, just a shape of terror before the sound disappears into the fire. The scream melts before it reaches me, swallowed whole by the heat. The world folds inward–light, ash, sound–and then– I jolt awake. My body rigid. The scream trapped behind my teeth. Smoke clings to me even now, days later, that faint trace of ash forever lodged in my lungs. I smell it all the time. I think it’s inside me. I shiver, not just from the memory. My skin is damp, cold with sweat. Heart beating in my chest. I’m back there. I’m here. I’m bent over, rod thrashing against my backside. I’m in the woods. Armand’s body pressed against mine. Blood spilled. Eyes vacant. I’m not alone. I sense him before I’m fully awake. It’s not the King. He doesn’t lurk. He owns the room. It’s not Damon. I haven’t seen him since the hospital. I don’t need to ask why. He risked his life for me. He’s angry. They’re all angry, blaming me for running, for the fire, for the hurt and pain. No. I’m familiar with the person hiding in the shadows. I’ve felt his blade. Tasted his skin. He watches because he has to. Always watching. Never touching. Something holds him back–a darkness that shifts under his skin, behind his eyes. A darkness that itches under my skin, a scab I want to pick and peel. “Hunter?” I whisper, voice dry from disuse. “Is that you?” There’s a beat. The longest moment, where I start to wonder if I imagined it. If I’ve imagined everything. Maybe none of this is real. The House of Night, or the King’s room, or the wedding, or the hunt. “Your mind plays tricks on you. You know that.” Maybe I’m still there. Still locked away in that other cage. The sounds of sobs throbbing in the back of my head. Maybe… except, I hear the slightest movement, followed by a low command. “Komm.” Then the door eases shut with a quiet snick, and once again, I’m alone. * * * Sleep rips away, replaced by rough hands on my arms and the clang of iron. “No!” I shout even though I don’t know who I’m fighting. Real? Dream? I push away the murkiness and force my eyes open. Blink. Blink. Blink. Real. The iron door of the cage swings open with a metallic groan that echoes in the dim room. My heart slams against my ribs, confusion crashing over me like a wave, my solitude shattered. I blink again into the low light, disoriented, my body stiff from the confines, but instinct kicks in fast. The scents hit me first: the clean edge of masculinity mingled with something wilder, feral. It's Damon and Hunter. No one else moves like this, silent predators closing in. Another hunt? "Easy," Damon's voice rumbles, low and commanding, but there's no gentleness in it. His grip tightens on my upper arm as he hauls me out, my bare feet hitting the cold floor, knees buckling slightly from days of immobility. I gasp, surprise twisting into recognition, my eyes darting to Hunter's shadowed form nearby, his gaze fixed on me with that unyielding intensity. He doesn't speak, just stands there like a sentinel, ready to enforce whatever comes next. Graves hovers a few steps away, his presence as composed as ever, but his eyes hold a flicker of something–regret? Pity? He's positioned by a small table, the one where my husband eats his breakfast, a silver tray laid out precisely, glinting under the soft lamp light. Two items catch my eye immediately: a syringe, its needle capped, filled with a clear liquid, and a small metal gun, compact and mechanical, more of a tool than a weapon. My stomach drops. I know what this is. Control. More of it. "What—" I start, my voice hoarse, but Damon cuts me off with a shake of his head, his fingers digging in as he forces me toward the table. I twist instinctively, panic flaring, but Hunter is there in an instant, his hands clamping down on my shoulders from behind, holding me still. He's stronger than he looks, I know that now, his lean frame unyielding, and I feel the heat of his body against my back, a reminder of boundaries he's never crossed. "Keep her still," Graves orders, his tone flat, businesslike. No room for argument. The King’s assistant steps forward, uncapping the syringe with efficiency, his expression neutral as if this is just another routine. I buck against Hunter's grip, my breath coming in short bursts–I'm not going down without a fight, not after everything–but Damon's free hand grabs my chin, forcing my head up, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "For fuck’s sake, hold still.” I try to squirm but they’ve got me locked tight. “This is for your own good, Arianette. No accidents. No complications. We can’t have you getting knocked up.” Birth control. The realization hits like a slap. As if the cage and the collar weren’t enough, they’re marking me as property that needs managing. I snarl, trying to jerk away, but Hunter's arms lock tighter, one hand sliding to pin my wrists behind my back so hard that I whimper. Graves approaches, the needle gleaming, and before I can protest, he swabs a spot on my upper arm with cool alcohol. “If you’re still it should only be a small prick. Like a bee sting,” he says, voice calm and soothing. It doesn’t work, but he’s right, the sting is quick–the plunger depresses, the liquid burning as it enters my vein. I hiss through clenched teeth, muscles tensing, but it's over in seconds. Forced compliance, injected into my bloodstream. I'm still reeling when Damon nods to Graves, who sets the syringe aside and picks up the metal gun. Hunter shifts his hold, one hand tangling in my hair to tilt my head sideways, exposing the skin behind my ear. My pulse races—tracker. I know what it is. I already had one clawed out of my skin once before. "No," I whisper, voice breaking, but Damon's expression hardens, unmovable. “It’s for your protection,” he says calmly, “and standard for any Baroness.” I wiggle, remembering the bloody mess my neck was when they removed the one my uncle injected when I was so young I don’t even remember getting it. Even without the memory, I know it’s going to hurt. "Stay still," Hunter murmurs, his breath warm against my neck–the first words he's spoken to me in what feels like forever. It's almost gentle, but his grip isn't. Graves presses the device to the spot just behind my earlobe, the cold metal sending a shiver down my spine. A click, a burst of pressure, and pain flares hot and bright, like a jolt rushing under my skin. I yelp, body jerking, but they hold me firm until it's done. A small chip, embedded, invisible, but eternal. Trackable. Owned. They release me then, stepping back as if nothing happened. I slump against the table, hand flying to the tender spot, feeling the slightly raised bump under my skin. Tears prick my eyes, not from the pain, but from the humiliation, the finality. Damon watches me for a moment, something unreadable in his gaze, before turning away. "Back in the cage," he says quietly, and Hunter guides me there without a word, the door clanging shut behind me once more. Graves clears the tray and they leave me alone again, marked and medicated, the blooming bruise on my arm and the lingering pain in my neck the only proof confirming that this is not another nightmare. ...
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