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“I’ve been thinking about getting one of those, you know,” he grins, cocky and sure, and grabs the front of his pressed pants. “Prince Albert.”

“That would fit.” Hunter snorts. “With you being East End and everything.”

“My mother is East End,” he sneers with the cocky arrogance of privilege. “I’m a free agent.”

Armand is the kind of guy that rumors and gossip follow around like a fan chasing a teen heartthrob. Being a piercer is akin to being a bartender or hairstylist. People get nervous around needles and then get chatty as fuck. They love to talk while we’re working and the wayward Prince has been brought up more than once.

Hunter’s right. Armand’s East End all right. Born and raised. But he vanished for a bit, sent out of the country or something by his rich parents, presumably to cover up something. That’s the detail no one is sure about. Drugs? Assault? Something worse?

Honestly, I don’t give a shit. Not about him, or Hunter, or the dog. Well, the dog is okay. Right now I’m just reminding myself that there’s enough air. Enough room. It’s temporary. This isn’t the first time I’ve been caged up in a room with other men that I don’t know, but the circumstances are very fucking different.

I lean against the wall, stone cold and wet behind me, and try not to think about how deep underground we are. How long it might be. How the fuck I got here in the first place.

Nothere-here–not just the tomb vibes and damp socks. I meanhere. Forsyth. This tunnel. These freaks. This… second chance.

Because none of this was supposed to happen.

Back when I was a freshman, I was normal. Or trying to be after years of trouble. Forsyth U, class of god-knows-what. I lived in a dorm like everyone else. My roommate? Remy fucking Maddox. Son of one of the richest men in Forsyth. He talked in riddles and painted like he was haunted. We got along, sort of. He’d zone out with charcoal under his fingernails, I’d make grilled cheese on an illegal hot plate. We bonded over late-night noise and the fact neither of us really fit in.

He’s the one that pulled me toward DKS. Not on purpose. I don’t think Remy pulls anyone. He just drifts, and you either get caught in his wake or you don’t.

I got close. Rushed. Went to the Fury. Saw some shit.

But something about it–it didn’t sit right. Not the way Saul Cartwright watched me like I was dirt under his fingernails. I wasn’t legacy. I had no royal connection. To him I would be nothing but a gunrunner–expendable. So I backed out. Dipped before I got the brand or whatever it was they were planning.

Then I got locked up.

It wasn’t even a glamorous charge. Dumb mistake, second offense. They gave me twenty-four months. A long time to be nobody.

But inside, I did what I was supposed to. Kept my head down. Took classes. Punched through credits like they were drywall. They had this weird program–some partnership with Forsyth, some rehab-through-education shit. I passed every test.

I didn’t think it’d matter. I figured I’d ride it out, maybe knock a few months off if I stayed clean.

Then outta nowhere, a guard pulls me aside and says, “You’ve got a benefactor.”

I thought it was a joke. Or a setup. But the paperwork was real. Someoneanonymouswas willing to cut my sentence down to 72 days. Not months.Days. On one condition: I had to re-enroll full time at Forsyth U.

I didn’t ask questions. I signed whatever they put in front of me. What the fuck else was I gonna do? There’s no pussy in prison.

The black envelope showed up on my doorstep–the shitty efficiency I lived in just off the Avenue. It was late summer, the week before classes started. The handwriting on the envelope was in bronze, my name handwritten in fancy script:

Damon Anthony Kemp

On the back, a thick glob of bronze-colored wax, a raised pentagram, announcing the sender.

The Barons.

I’d glanced over my shoulders, making sure that no one was watching. There was someone, but it was just Old Lady McAfee chain-smoking on the steps while she played a game on her phone.

Still, I didn’t open it until I was inside, using a knife to loosen the wax seal. I’d be a fucking liar if I pretended like the contents didn’t shock me.

Damon Anthony Kemp,

You have been invited to rush Beta Rho Zeta for the fall semester.

August 30th, Midnight

Forsyth Cemetery