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It’s the most I’ve heard her speak in years. The most I’ve allowed. I let her tirade sink in, the realization that she’s still the same. Nothing has changed her. Not the medication, the therapies, nor the time alone.

She’s sick, delusional, and there’s nothing that can help her.

“So you’ll marry her then? And what? Breed her? Create another heir? One that you don’t push away?”

“If I plan to create with my bride, it is none of your concern.” I stand and look down at her. “The wedding will take place on Samhain. It’s a spiritual wedding, not a legal one. As much asI would like to sever ties with you, I will remain your spouse legally so that I can ensure that you never set foot outside these doors again.”

I don’t wait for a response. There’s no point. My wife was lost to me long ago, lost to her delusions and narcissism. I will not allow that madness into my house again, not with Amber or with Arianette.

This wedding, as much as it’s an obligation, is also a fresh start. I have a new future awaiting me, a new bride, and I have no choice but to embrace them and finally move forward with my life.

20

Damon

There’san energy about Friday Night Fury that’s contagious. The fights, the booze, the Scratch being passed hand to hand. Everyone is high on something, including adrenaline. It’s probably something about establishing the pecking order among the Royals.

“You’ve been to fights before?” Hunter asks as I muscle my way through the crowd standing outside the gym to get to the door.

“I got in my first fight when I was sixteen.” I’d tried earlier, but never got past the DKS bouncer parked by the entrance. Later, when I rushed DKS, I went to a few fights with the guys but I don’t mention it–another lifetime and all of that. “Paid the bouncer off with a quarter ounce of weed. You?”

“Nah.” Hunter grabs Arianette’s bicep, pulling her around two cutsluts dry humping against a car. He pauses. “Fuck, she’s beautiful.”

I eye the girls. “If you’re into gutter-trash, sure.”

“Not the girls, dipshit, the car. Mint-condition 1976 Trans Am.” He nods appreciatively at the matte-black muscle car. “That’s what I was doing at sixteen. Modifying the engine on my car with upgraded fuel injectors. I would’ve loved to have gotten my hands on this one.”

Arianette’s quiet, but listening, eyes wide as she takes in the car, the crowd, and everything else. “What about you, Baroness? This your first Fury?”

“My uncle never would have let me go somewhere like this.” I haven’t even tried to hide the boner I’ve been sporting since she walked out of her room tonight. It’s not just the short-shorts with criss-crossing ties that reveal a thin strip of flesh down her hips, or the cropped, black tank with a square neckline, or the fishnet stockings. It’s the fact I can see those hard little bars pressing against the tight fabric, a secret reminder of who she belongs to. “Ever.”

The bouncer, a thick-necked DKS named Dillon, is manning the line. On a whim, I grab Arianette, pulling her body close to mine. Jutting my hips into hers so she can feel me. In her ear, I explain, “This is our first time going in as Royals, which means everyone will be watching.” I dip my face towards hers, planting my mouth against the hot, salty skin under her ear. I drag the hard ball of the piercing along her jaw, and look up to find Hunter watching us through lidded eyes. Little perv. “You remember the rules, doll baby?”

“Stick close,” she says, fingers touching her lips. “Don’t talk to anyone, men or women.”

“That’s right.” I grab her by the ass and squeeze. Jesus, I’d give up my best piercing kit just to fuck her once, hard and quick. Get it over with so I could think about something else.

“DK!” Dillon’s voice carries over the crowd. He waves me over, and we skirt in front of the growing line. “It’s been a while. Heard you’re a crypt keeper now.”

From anyone else, that comment may have put me on edge, but Dillion’s an okay guy, and more importantly, a customer. I’d had the dude’s dick in my hand when I pierced his foreskin about six months ago.

“I may have declared.”

One of his bushy eyebrows lifts. “Huh. I thought you were solidly independent.”

“Things change,” I reply nonchalantly, then add, “How’s the work? Healed up?”

“Yep. No complaints.” He makes a show of gripping his belt buckle, then nods to the entrance. “Go ahead. Fights are already starting.”

“Royal treatment,” I joke, bumping fists with him as we cut the line. “I could get used to this.”

Inside, there are more people in line for beer than watching the early fight going on in the ring. It’s LDZ in gold vs PNZ in purple, younger guys–probably freshman. “Tucker, get your fucking shit together!” I hear shouted from above. The three of us look up, and I see the Lords sitting in the upper level, Dimitri Rathbone leaning over the railing. “If you lose this match, you’ll get two beatings tonight!”

A dark-haired woman steps next to Rathbone, and he slides an arm around her waist.

“Who’s that?” Arianette asks, head tilted up. Her fingers are curled around my belt loop, sticking close.

“Dimitri Rathbone,” Hunter says.