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My teeth start to chatter as Graves reaches for a towel and clicks the button on the side of the watch. “Time.”

“Thank god.” My muscles scream as I grip the sides of the tub and pull myself up. Water rushes down my body and my cold skin meets the warmer air with relief. I waste no time getting out. As I wrap the towel around my waist, Graves places a robe over my shoulders. Warming up gradually is the key.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, handing me a cup of freshly poured tea, “I think it’s likely that Stein had it coming. Whoever eliminated him probably did you a favor.”

I can’t argue with that–and I don’t. He was killed by his own weapon. A humiliating defeat. Armand was here for a reason, hand selected like every other Baron during my reign, but Graves is correct. Anyone who can’t survive The Hunt is aliability–especially this year when the stakes are so high. There’s no room for error.

“What does my calendar look like today?”

He smirks. “Is that your way of asking if there’s time for a nap?”

“Is that your way of saying I’m getting too old for this bullshit?” I snap back. “Because if it is, fuck you.”

“Not a chance,” he smirks. “You’re in better shape than you were when we were in college.”

He’s right. Back then, youth and genetics were all I needed to get through the day. I lived the hard, partying life that comes with being a royal and never woke up with a single hangover. A random crypt chaser and a dash of regret maybe, but a hangover? Never. After I became King, I realized I needed to take care of myself. Not just for me, but for the men I lead. For my daughters. Our motto may be, ‘Remember you must die,’but that doesn’t mean today. I don’t fear death, but I sure as hell do everything I can to stave it off. I lift weights, practice Jiu-jitsu, meditation, and yoga. Twice a year I commit to a spiritual journey on ayahuasca. I eat well, foregoing sugar and supplementing when and where I can. My body fat is under ten percent. And yeah, I shrink my balls in ice water every goddamn morning. Whatever it takes.

“I’m not saying you need a nap,” Graves continues, “butthere is time for you to get some rest before Dean Hexley arrives.”

Fuck. I’d forgotten–no–blocked out the meeting with Arianette’s uncle. Insufferable bastard. “What time?”

“Two PM.” He walks over with the teapot. I wave off a refill. “While you’re dealing with him, are there any special instructions for the girl?”

“No.” I shake my head. “She’s to be treated like any other Baroness.” I’m not sure what to make of Arianette. She’s not the kind of girl I’d normally pick for The Hunt, but the choice wasn’tmine. That arrangement had been made years before. There’s an edge of unpredictability about her that I don’t understand, or like. She’s obviously a fighter–she managed to escape her kidnapper when none of the other girls missing have been seen or heard from again. Well, at least alive. But there’s also a fragility about her that makes me wary that she’s up to the task of being a House Girl and even more so, my bride. “From what I witnessed tonight, I suspect the men will have their hands full.”

“Excluding…” he prompts.

“Yes, her virginity.” I fight an eye roll. The price of virtue in Forsyth is overinflated. Personally, I don’t give a shit, but under the circumstances of our contractual agreement, Arianette must stay pure until our wedding night. “Other than that… she’s theirs to break in as they see fit.”

The Baronesses, or my Daughters of Darkness, are under my purview as King, but the Barons will see to her training. Technically, I’m still married to Amber. And despite her betrayal and descent into madness that has kept us apart for decades now, I’ve remained faithful to the spirit of our vows, by never divorcing her or taking on a new partner. The Baroness allows me the appearance of companionship without the obligation–although things will change with the Black Wedding. If things had gone differently, Remington would be marrying the Hexley girl. He’d be a Baron and in line for the throne, unfortunately his allegiance is not with his blood family, but with the Bruin-Perilini clans.

It even would have been possible to rearrange the agreement for Whitaker Ashby to take his place. His Baron blood is more pure than my own. But the Ashbys have circled around the Princess–their Princess–and he is as unlikely to return to BRN as my own son.

No, there are burdens of being King that fall to me and no one else. Not my son, Ashby, or the newly chosen leaders of DKS.That decision was made when I killed my cousin and banished my wife for her sins.

I am the one that wears the mantle,the mask, even when it requires me to do things I’d rather not.

And marrying Arianette Hexley is one of those things.

The Dean is notoriously punctual,arriving exactly at two on the dot. I’m masked and waiting in the library when he’s ushered in by one of the senior members of the fraternity.

“Dean,” I gesture to one of the chairs by the fire, “it’s always a pleasure.”

Arianette’s uncle, Owen Hexley, is anything but a pleasure. The man in front of me is well dressed, his shoes Italian and his watch Swiss. He has no royal ties, no bloodline that grants him privilege in the city. His obligations are to the university and the well-being of the students. Academia is competitive. To get to the position of Dean, or more accurately, Provost, at a university like Forsyth takes a particular skill set, one more in line with a politician than the duties held by the Kings of Forsyth. He’d wash his hands of all of us if he could, but the frats and the university are interconnected. One doesn’t exist without the other. We need him for our continued recruitment and he needs us to keep his doors open and pockets lined.

I’ve known Owen Hexley for a long time, but today I see him in a different light. He’s no longer the slim, studious, man that I knew in college, having bulked up over the years. But his eyes… they’re a deep brown and carry a haunting intensity.

Arianette has her uncle’s eyes, and a flash of her gazing up at me from the altar, ready to sacrifice herself to me and her Barons, strikes me like a bolt of lightning.

“I received the announcement that my niece was initiated as Baroness last night.”

Five letters went out this morning, hand delivered by my men. Four to the separate territories, and one to Strong Manor, to the man sitting in front of me.

“She achieved her status at sunrise,” I tell him. “It was a moving ceremony.”

“I’m sure,” he says, giving me a wary look. The mask makes people nervous, a benefit I thoroughly enjoy. In addition to hiding my true identity, it allows me the freedom to speak the truth more freely, in a way I couldn’t as Timothy Maddox. “My niece isn’t supposed to be a mere House Girl,” he reminds me, crossing one leg over the other. “She’s to be your bride.”

“I’m well aware.” I try not to bristle. A man with this much power over me should be strapped to the teeth. Instead his weapon is a piece of paper more powerful than any gun hustled down on the Avenue. “The wedding is still on,” I tell him, “but you and I both know this arrangement is in name more than reality.”