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“Looks like you’ve caused some trouble, Sister.” Damon’s words come out as a taunt, which, to me, feels like a bold choice, considering the circumstances. “Killing a Baron,yourBaron, seems pretty fucking stupid.”

The girl says nothing, just lifts her chin in defiance.

When she’d walked into that ceremonial circle, I hadn’t been impressed. She seemed small. Lost. Overwhelmed. But out here,covered in blood and dirt, with that knife steady in her hand, I see something else—something fierce simmering beneath the surface. Her slender neck, the way her hair falls loose and wild around her face, those soft lips pressed into a line—I catch myself watching, looking for what I’d missed between then and now. How I’d missed it.

She’s dangerous.

Damon smirks, and glances over at me. He’s also coated in sweat, pieces of his dark, slicked-back hair falling onto his pale forehead, covering the bloody pentagram. He’s still got the bow tight in his hands, knuckles white with tension. “An act of defiance like this could lead to immediate death.”

“Do it,” she dares, “and bring my body to the King. Lay me at his feet.Thensee whose blood will be spilled.”

He looks like he’s considering it–and it’s fair. Killing her would be an act of loyalty, we’ve just declared our fealty to the King, but something about this whole thing seems off. How did she get the upper hand? Armand is a big guy, twice the size of her, and although I don’t believe a fucking word of his hunting stories, she shoudn’t have been able to take him down.

“He’s right,” I say, moving closer. I can breathe easier now, but the adrenaline continues to pump through my veins. “We could kill you for this.” My hand shoots out, fingers clenching around the soft column of her throat. She gasps and struggles against me. My palm aches from the cut but I ignore it, tightening my grip. “A sacrifice no one in Forsyth would argue.”

“You won’t.” Her words come out in short gasps. “You’re different from him. Both of you.” Her blood-soaked and dirty fingers pull against mine. “He wasn’t one of you. He wasn’t loyal to our King.”

“And how the hell do you know that?” I ask, my curiosity more genuine than I’d like to admit.

I’d joked earlier about Armand being from East End, but the kicker is that I’m from there too. Just different ends of the spectrum. He grew up behind iron gates and private security, a family crest above the fireplace.

Armand’s family has power. Mine? The opposite. They take care of the powerful.

That’s the food chain in Forsyth. Someone like me, smart but broke, doesn’t rise. I get noticed for doing things quietly, not loudly. I’m the kind of person they ask to fix their car, update their computers, be their tutor–then pretend I’m not in the room. And if I’m lucky, they toss me a scholarship and call it charity.

But for some reason, it offends me that this girl notices it right off.

She licks a splatter of blood off her lip. “His blood is wrong. Tastes like sin and treachery.”

Christ, this woman isn’t just a killer. She’s deranged.

Damon walks the perimeter of the area, kicking over leaves and rocks, like he’s looking for any other weapons. He bends suddenly and picks up something soft and pliable. Carrying it over, he holds it out and it only takes a second for me to realize what they are; dirty panties.

“He did this?” I ask.

She nods.

He tried to rape her.

Damon, who has said nothing about me having the girl by the throat, walks toward me slowly, unwrapping the black cloth from around his hand. I release her, pushing her toward him, and watch as she sags and takes a gulp of air. He reveals the cut the King gave him on his palm. It’s dark, but still fresh, and he holds it up to her face and asks, “You said his blood tasted wrong. What about mine?”

She grabs his wrist and pulls his hand close to her face, tongue darting out and laving the wound. I watch them in both horror and fascination, a clench deep in my belly. “Salty,” she says, “like the earth.” She drops his wrist, unimpressed. “But none of you are him.”

“Him?” Damon asks, curling his fist.

“My King,” she breathes. “Even if he gives me to you, I will only belong to him.”

“Is that what you really think?” Damon asks, his voice slightly muffled under the bandana. “Becauseifyou survive the night–which I’m not so sure will happen when the King finds out what you’ve done–you’ll belong to us, too. And right now I see a stupid, crazy bitch who thinks she’s better than her Barons. That she’s smarter than her King, who, by the way, hand-pickedusfor leadership. Including the one you killed. Who gaveyouto us, not the other way around.” He laughs, empty and hollow, the sound reverberating against the dark night. “It seems to me that maybe before we finish out the ceremony, you need to learn a lesson.” His hand, the one without the cut, lands hard on her shoulder. “Get on your knees.”

Fuck.

“No,” she says with an authority she doesn’t possess.

He cuts me a look, maybe asking for permission. I shrug, more than willing to see this play out. “I don’t give a fuck what you want, you Baron-killing cunt.” He shoves her down, her knees scraping against the dirt. “Open your fucking mouth.”

She clamps it shut, but his fingers grip the sides of her jaw, forcing it open. He makes a loud noise in the back of this throat and bends over her, their foreheads nearly touching. Lifting the bottom of his mask, his lips part and a glob of spit hangs between them and lands, slimy and warm, against her tongue. She coughs, gagging, but Damon’s having none of it.

“Swallow it,” he commands, thumb grazing over her throat, forcing the muscles to relax. Her body reacts instinctively and I see the bob of her throat as she swallows. She gags again, but he forces her mouth closed and holds it shut with his dirty fingers. “That’s a good girl. I knew you could do it.”