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“I have no objections to that,” Damon says. “I think we all trust you to make the right call.”

That’s what this is going to take: trust. It’s not something ingrained in any of us, but it’s also something we’ve fought for with one another.

“Thank you,” I say to Damon, rising and kissing him on the cheek before turning to Timothy. “And you, too–I appreciate that you want to keep me safe, but I just want to get through this without making any more sacrifices.”

The tension in the library shifts. The fire crackles softly in the fireplace, casting warm, flickering light across the dark wood and leather. The portraits of past Kings seem to watch us with their ancient eyes as the four of us stand there, bound by something deeper than words.

Timothy steps closer, his hand sliding to my waist. “I want you to know that I’ll do anything to keep you safe,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Damon’s right. It scares the fuck out of me to think of anyone hurting you again.”

The admission knocks me back, but I’m held upright when Damon’s hand finds my other hip. Hunter moves behind me, his chest pressing against my back, lips brushing my neck. The heat of them surrounds me, three powerful bodies, three men who have claimed every part of me–heart, body, and soul.

I tilt my head back against Hunter’s shoulder as Timothy kisses me first, slow and deep, tasting like possession and promise. Damon’s mouth finds my throat, sucking gently at my pulse point while his hands slide under my shirt, palms warm against my skin. Hunter’s hands roam lower, cupping my ass, squeezing as he grinds against me from behind.

Clothes come off in a slow, reverent haze, the sharp lines of their bodies shadowed in the firelight. Timothy lifts me onto the large oak table, the wood cool against my bare skin. He spreads my thighs, dropping to his knees between them, and licks a long, slow stripe up my center. I moan, fingers threading through his hair as Damon kisses me again, swallowing every sound. Hunter stands beside us, stroking himself as he watches, eyes dark with hunger.

Timothy eats me like a starved man, tongue circling my clit, then pushing inside me, fucking me with it until I’m writhing. Damon pinches my nipples, tugging on the piercings until the pleasure borders on pain. Hunter leans down and kisses me, swallowing my cries as I come hard on Timothy’s tongue.

They don’t stop. I beg them not to stop. Because like this, there’s no outside–no danger or deceit. Just the four of us bound together.

“Fuck me,” I whisper into Hunter’s mouth, and before I can catch my breath, he slides into me in one smooth thrust. He fucks me steady and deep on the table, Damon’s cock in my mouth, Timothy’s hands and mouth everywhere–on my breasts, my throat, my thighs. They pass me between them like I’m something precious and filthy all at once.

“Christ,” Hunter groans, spilling into me. I clench around him, tongue flat, taking Damon’s cum as it coats my tongue.

They use me in a way that makes me feel so full. I didn’t understand it was possible. Not back at my uncle’s house, or locked behind a cage. I use them to steady myself. To unleash the soul deep inside that wants more than safety. I want life.

I want them.

Afterward, we collapse onto the large couch in a tangled, sweaty heap. Hands stroke skin. Lips press soft kisses. No one speaks for a long time. We don’t need to. The bond between us feels stronger than ever–forged in fire, sealed in trust. I have no doubt that we’ll find Amber and get through this together.

33

Hunter

Outside, the night air is cool and damp against my skin. A light rain came through earlier and Ares trots ahead of me across the grounds of the House of Night, nose low to the earth, tail sweeping in slow arcs as he investigates every scent. I left Arianette, Damon, and Timothy inside to go to bed. They needed rest. I needed quiet.

Ares doesn’t find anything alarming–just the usual night creatures. At one point he takes off after a rabbit, powerful body exploding into a sprint before he loses interest and comes jogging back to my side, tongue lolling. I scratch behind his ears and keep walking the perimeter, letting the cold air clear my head.

Amber.

Timothy’s first wife. The woman he locked away years ago. The one we all thought was a broken, delusional patient kept safely away from society.

Holy shit. She’s the Guardian.

It makes too much fucking sense. The ritual elements. The pagan symbolism. The way the bodies were left. The obsession with balance and sacrifice. She’d been focused on sacrificing Wick when Timothy had her committed–a fantasy of her own making that somehow spiraled into something far worse. A serial killer operating from the shadows of Forsyth for years, using the tunnels, old, discarded rites, and the fractures between the Houses.

I stand there for a long time under the dark sky, Ares pressed against my leg, letting the weight of everything we learned take hold. The night we found the hex bag, I should have known the borders had been breached. The collection of maps disguised as an art book is proof she or one of her followers had access to the house. I’d noticed documents missing, but pushed it aside as disorganization. It didn’t sit right with me that it was Graves, but what do I know? We all feel like our instincts have failed us. Were we too focused on Arianette? On the Hunt and Black Wedding? On the wrong aspects of these kidnappings and murders that should have led us to seeing this sooner?

I wonder how many nights she’d come and go from the house and we missed it.

Whoever it was, they’re not outside tonight. I whistle for Ares to follow and head into the house.

I peel off my jacket in the hallway and kick off my boots, leaving them by the door. The house feels especially quiet knowing Graves is down at the city lock-up. Soft light spills from under a few doors, but most of the rooms are dark. I approach Timothy’s quarters and freeze when I hear Arianette cry out–sharp, frightened.

I push the door open just enough to slip into the shadows near the wall.

She’s sitting up in the large bed, the sheets tangled around her waist. Damon is on one side of her, shirtless and rubbing slow circles on her back. Timothy is on the other, leaning in close, one hand cupping her face. Her bonnet has slipped slightly, revealing a fine sheen of sweat on the smooth part of her forehead.

“Take a deep breath,” Timothy murmurs.