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“I don’t know,” I say, my voice small. “We haven’t really talked about it.”

She tilts her head slightly. “Is that part of this, Ari? Learning to ask for what you need? Advocating for yourself instead of waiting for the men around you to guess?”

The question lands heavily. What she’s asking feels out of reach–a level of control and confidence I’ve never really possessed. But I know she’s right. We need to be on the same page, cohesive in every way–even in bed. Especially in bed. The three of us can’t keep dancing around the tension and fear forever.

I swallow hard and nod. “I think so.”

Sarah gives me a warm, encouraging smile. “Then ask him. That’s the first step. Be honest about what you want and what you need from both of them. See where it takes you. You might be surprised how much power there is in simply voicing your desires.”

We sit in silence for a moment as her words sink in. The weight on my chest feels a little lighter–not gone, but easier to carry.

“Thank you,” I say finally. “For listening and not judging.”

“There’s nothing to judge,” she replies softly. “You’re navigating an incredibly complex situation with courage. We can keep working on this together–at whatever pace feels right.”

She glances at her watch, then back at me. “I’ve taken up a lot of your time today, but I want you to leave here remembering this: your needs matter. All of them. Even the ones that feel messy or shameful. You deserve to feel safe, desired, and fully seen.”

I stand, smoothing down my skirt, and offer her a small but genuine smile. “I’ll try.”

As I head toward the elevator, Sarah’s voice follows me gently.

“Arianette?”

I turn.

“You’re already stronger than you think. Trust that.”

The doors close behind me, and exhaustion crashes over me. I may not be able to recover my memories or get Timothy to come back home and rely on us for support, but with Hunter?

I feel like maybe–just maybe–I can do this.

18

Timothy

The burn in my muscles feels good–honest. I grip the handles of the cable machine tighter and finish another set of rows, slow and controlled, sweat dripping down my spine. My strength has come back faster than the doctors expected. Weeks of consistent PT, real meals instead of the sludge the hospital tried to force on me, and actual sleep have made a difference. My stamina is returning. The scar on my chest pulls less with every breath. I’m not the man I was before the stabbing, but I’m getting there.

I release the handles with a heavy clack and sit back, breathing hard. My mind drifts, as it often does these days, to Arianette. As hard as it is to believe, I miss her. Not just the heat of her soft body under mine or the way she yields when I push her limits. I miss her smile. The way those wide eyes look at me like I’m something worth trusting. Even that stubborn fire I worked so hard to temper.

It’s better this way. Cleaner. Safer for her. Still, I devour every scrap of information Graves feeds me. The House of Night is stabilizing under DK’s control. Hunter and Arianette seem tense. Dance has taken a priority in her life again, which is good. She needs something healthy. There’s also something about a kitten? I shake my head. I’d rather not know.

I move to the lat pulldown machine, adjusting the weight, when I hear the door behind me. I glance up, expecting Graves.

It’s not Graves.

Remington stands in the doorway—tall, lanky, inked hands shoved into his pockets, a black marker tucked behind his ear like always. My son. My biggest regret and greatest failure all wrapped in one.

I don’t speak. I just give him a look that clearly says, What the hell are you doing here?

Remy’s mouth twists. “Your wife came to my apartment today. Another session with Sy.” My heart lurches at the mention of Arianette, but I keep my expression blank. “I mean, your new wife. Not the one you stashed in an asylum.”

I grunt, unwilling to play his games, and pull the bar down hard, the weight stack clanging.

“I thought it was weird when she said you weren’t at the House of Night,” he continues, wandering further into the gym and fiddling with the pulley on another machine. “And that she didn’t even know where you were staying. So I started thinking… where would the old man go to lick his wounds? Somewhere familiar. Safe. Quiet. Hidden from prying eyes.”

Fucking kid. He’s pushing every button he can find, and it’s working.

“I figured I’d swing by the old homestead.” He looks around. “Nothing much has changed.”