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“So,” I ask, working up the nerve to ask the question that’s bothered me all night, “do I need to worry about anyone other than Bronwyn?”

Jane shrugs. “Not if you stake your claim.”

“Claim?”

“Show everyone that they belong to you–especially DK. He’s going to be hot after taking down a Duke.”

The guys Claimed me with a knife and needles. Isn’t that enough?

“I’ll give you a hint, Baroness, since it’s your first Fury, first victory and first post-win party,” Gloria teases, moving close like she’s sharing a forbidden secret. “When the Barons win their matches they always get a little gift from their Baroness.” She winks. “Usually in front of the whole party.”

I’m inexperienced, but I understand the implication. “Everyone?”

Jane takes one last look in the mirror and says, “Yep.”

“Don’t worry,” Gloria adds, putting her lipstick back in the black purse slung across her chest. “It’s a Crypt party. You won’t be the only one.” She grins. “See you there.”

I’m still standing by the sink when Hunter sticks his head in a few seconds later.

“You ready?”

I really don’t think I am.

22

Hunter

The driver,one of the younger guys in BRN, pulls the SUV onto a dirt road. It’s pitch black outside, the only visibility coming from the car headlights. The three of us sit in the backseat, Arianette squeezed in the middle. As much as I’m not a fan of physical touch, I’m getting used to the Baroness by my side. She’d spent half the match perched on my lap, and the rest up under me, like she was seeking protection.

“You feel good enough to go in there?” I’ve kept a close eye on DK since he got out of the ring. He took a few solid hits and a concussion isn’t out of the question. His eyes aren’t dilated, and he doesn’t seem sleepy. If anything, there’s a crackle of energy rolling off his body.

“I feel good.” His hand slides down Arianette’s thigh, toying with the little string that laces up the sides of those shorts. “Better than good.”

I’m not always good at identifying people’s emotions, which is why I definitely can’t tell what the Baroness is feeling right now. She’d been into the fight, seeming to understandwhat DK was going through better than he did. I heard her counting under her breath, then saying it was like a dance. Maybe so. Martial arts tends to move at a choreographed pace. It may have been the crowd following the match, or even the exchange between the Dukes and the Baron King. Whatever it is, something has her tense and on edge, and DK touching her leg probably isn’t making it any better.

For her at least. I can’t take my eyes off of them.

The car rolls to a stop, gravel crunching underneath the tires. Before we get out, DK turns on the overhead light, the glow catching the silver and black of his piercings, each one carefully back in place once the fight was over. He opens the silver box the King gave him. Nestled inside the black velvet are three red pills with a gold pentagram stamped on the side.

“What are those?” Arianette asks.

“Phantom Bliss,” I tell her. DK and I both experienced the drug during recruitment. It’s all natural, made from a compound created by the King himself.

“Something that is going to make the night really fun,” DK says, handing me one pill, and taking the other. “Give me your tongue, Baroness.” Her mouth opens, tongue unfurling and flattening to receive the pill. He drops it on and says, “Good girl.”

I swallow my own pill, remembering how the first time I tried it, I felt too out of my body. I hated how I felt out of control, but I gave it another shot on the final night of recruitment, which was just a big, gluttonous, party. For once in my life, I was able to embrace the way I felt in my skin. Not awkward or strange, but warm and loose.

Our driver leads us to the ivy-covered door that groans at the hinges. Straight ahead is the black opening of a stairwell curling down into the earth. I feel the bass before I hear it–distant, pulsing, like the heartbeat of some slumbering god. The air changes. Heavier. Wetter. Scented with something floraland decaying at the same time. Perfume and rot. Ahead of me, Arianette is already descending, her fingers grazing the stone wall like she's tasting the place through her skin. Each step takes us deeper, passing the sconces flickering along the walls, flames catching in iron cages. The stone underfoot is worn smooth from years of footsteps wearing it down. I’m constantly surprised at the various entry and exit points of the Barons’ tunnels–seemingly spread underneath all of Forsyth–but the room the stairwell leads to is something entirely different.

The chamber is massive. Vaulted ceilings arch like the ribs of a giant beast. Everything is stone–walls, floors, even the bar in the far corner, carved right into the foundation like it grew there. The light is low and golden, flickering from the sconces and the braziers scattered around like ceremonial offerings.

And everywhere is what we’ve been promised as part of the sacred society: decadence.

It’s different from Noir Sanctum, mostly in that these aren’t masked people I don’t know. I know the bodies draped over cushions, sprawled in threes and fours, sipping from goblets or licking red dust from their fingertips. Familiar with the group sitting on floor cushions, passing rolled-up cigarettes from mouth to mouth. Across the room, a girl from my engineering class is feeding Mateo–half-naked and lounging on a sofa with three crypt chasers–like a pagan god. A couple makes out in the corner, his head bent, sucking on her tit. Laughter bubbles up from a corner, the too-loud, too-loose kind that only comes from being absolutely fucked up.

And at the far end–the thrones.

There are two, and I have to assume one has been removed–disappeared the same way Armand vanished from our lives. Iron, brutal and regal. Their spines curve like twisted vines, barbs at the tips. Red velvet cushions drip over the metal waiting for us to arrive.