Page 45

I drag my eyes away from that scene, from that night, to where the Barons make their move, catching the girl, dragging her back through the woods, to the final scene.

The Claiming.

The painting spares no details of the ritual, starting in a series of smaller panels, top to bottom. She’s stripped, then splayed on the altar where she’s marked, blood oozing down her pale skin into dark red pools. I obsess over where our stories diverge, this woman is taken by each of the masked men. Their members on painted display, phallic and engorged. They don’t take their turns, filling the new Baroness in every orifice. Her mouth, her pussy, her ass. Her eyes are half-lidded and lazy.

This…thisis a claiming.

That dull fire throbs between my legs, the one Damon stokes into a frenzy and so quickly takes away.

I step to the right, centering myself in front of the final panel. Just beyond the trees the streaks of pink and purple indicate the sunrise and the Baroness and Barons kneel before the King. I run my finger down her spine, feeling the ridges of every bone, knowing what it’s like to be this woman, to be a part of this ritual, yet also understanding that I am different.

I step back, taking in the entirety of the mural, and can’t help but wonder: who am I in this house of darkness and night?

Feeling unnerved by the mural,I pick up the plate holding the cake and the small spoon next to it, and head back to my room. I pass the masks, trying to ignore the feeling that there are eyes behind them watching my every move. I turn at the cabinet filled with bone, fingers twisting at the bronze knob. Locked.

When the hallway splits again, I make a right, plucking the raspberry off the top of the cake. Sweet flavor covers my tongue, and I take a bite of cake.

Ugh. So good.

Sweets were few and far between at Strong Manor. I try not to shovel it in, taking small bites, which is why I think I don’t realize until I’ve taken another turn that there’s no tapestry down here, nothing familiar at all, just black frames hanging on the charcoal-colored walls. Each has rows of men, their names underneath. At the bottom it says, Beta Rho Zeta and a year.

Shadows.

Coming to the end of a hallway and another set of double doors, I try the knob. It turns easily, and I peek into the room beyond. The walls are painted a deep green, reminiscent of the forest. I’m drawn inside, looking up to the ceiling, which is still green but almost black. To my right I see a cloak hanging on ahook. I run my hands down the thick fabric, lifting the sleeve to my nose, catching the scent of earth and pine. It’s not until I see the mask next to it that I comprehend where I am.

The King’s room.

Leaving would be smart, but this is the room of the man I’m arranged to marry. A man I know little about, and the pull is strong. I step in farther and absorb all I can: the windows that overlook the forest with rows of candles perched on the sill, a soft rug under my feet, the stone fireplace set at an angle. Trinkets on top of a dresser catch my eye. A wooden dish holds a few coins and a silver ring. I set the cake plate and spoon on the windowsill and pick up the simple band–slipping the ring easily over my thumb. I touch everything, the bottle of cologne, a melted candle, a pair of cufflinks, until I get to a picture frame. I lift it to look closer and see a woman and a fair-haired little boy.

Setting it back down, I curl my fingers around the handles in the drawer. I’m inching it open slowly when I hear the echo of footsteps down the hall, and a voice.

A man’s voice.

My King’s voice.

No, no, no, no… he can’t find me here. No one can. That much I know for sure. Spinning around, I run forward, slamming into the footboard of the bed. The bed is huge, carved black wood–definitely big enough to hide something underneath. I duck down, shoving my hands under the edge of the comforter, feeling around for space to hide, but it’s blocked. Bolting up, my eyes ping between two doors. One has to be a closet. I make a choice, grabbing the knob and stepping into the dark space. I inhale the scent of leather and wool. Definitely a closet. I slowly close the door–almost close the door. Whoever is coming has already entered the room and I don’t want to risk the click of the latch falling into place.

“Any idea if Trudie knows what’s coming?”

That comes from Graves. Who’s Trudie?

“Doubtful or she would have been on the doorstep by now.”

My heart skitters at the sound of the King’s voice, thrumming so loud I’m terrified he’ll hear it.

“The offer to notify her myself is still on the table, Timmy.”

I hear the sound of drawers opening, and footsteps near the bed. I line my eye up with the slight gap, but can only see the vague outline of movement.

“Unfortunately,” the King says, “telling a mother her son was killed during BRN initiation falls to one person and one person alone.”

The context of their conversation snaps into place. He’s speaking of Armand, and Trudie must be his mother.

Graves' voice moves closer, too close, and I instinctively take a step back into the folds of the clothing. “What are you planning on telling her? The truth?”

“According to the coroner, Armand died from a slit throat, made by the blade that I gave him for the hunt.” Outside the door, I hear the rustle of fabric and quietly shift in an attempt to see. I catch a swath of flesh, the hard lines of his back. “That could be collateral damage,” the King moves, pulling on a black shirt, “a stupid mistake or petty squabble between the men as they fight over their prey.”

“That could be…” Graves repeats, the sentence left unfinished.