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“You aren’t being sent to kill, but I assure you this will be a fight.”

I wrap my hand around the grip, feeling the comforting weight in my hand. A tickle of excitement flutters in my gut. As I adjust the strings, the King steps toward Hunter.

“You already have your weapon,” he says. “One sharper than any blade. One quieter than any arrow.”

He taps his temple. Once. Twice. Then points at Hunter. “You listen. You wait. You watch.”

A silence drops across the room. Heavy. Intentional. I glance over at Hunter, and yeah–his breath’s caught. I don’t miss it. He tries to keep his expression flat, but I see the flicker. Whatever this is, it’s hitting him somewhere deep.

The King steps in closer, into Hunter’s space.

“You’ll see the cracks where no one’s looking,” he says. His voice is lower now, but I hear it all. Every word. “You’ll find what they bury. You’ll witness what they want to hide. And I have no doubt, you’ll find the girl.”

There’s something about the way Hunter nods–slow, measured, almost reverent. Like he’s finally being seen for what he is. Not a kid. Not just a voice behind a mic or a freak with a dog. Something colder. Smarter. Meaner.

And maybe I get it.

He’s not like the others, puffed up and swinging weapons around. Armand’s over there practically jerking off to the knife in his hand. The others are tense, waiting for orders. But Hunter? He’s already writing his own script.

The King steps back, satisfied, and Hunter just stands there. I’ve seen killers. I’ve seen manipulators. Whatever he is, he’s the kind that waits ‘til the lights are out and the locks are off.

And I get it, now more than ever–why he’s dangerous.

Why the King chose him.

The moment passes and the King looks over our heads and announces, “Bring in the girl.”

My shoulders tense in anticipation. ‘The Girl’ is the biggest perk of being a Royal in a Forsyth frat. The Lords have their Lady, the Dukes their Duchess, and of course the Princes’ and their Princess, who has just given birth to the newest heir. The Baroness belongs to us, and I’m itching to get my hands on her.

The hard click of heels echoes off the stone path, and I turn my head in that direction. I blink in confusion when I see the woman walking into the ring. She’s gorgeous. Sexy as hell, in a black dress and five-inch heels. She’s bold and strong, and I realize immediately that although she's a Baroness, she’s notourBaroness.

“Regina, my Sinister Sister,” the King says, gesturing for the woman to approach. “Lovely as always. Have you prepared your sister for the ceremony?”

“Yes,” she says, climbing the steps to the throne. She bends and presses a kiss against his neck. “She’s all ready for you, Daddy.”

On the other side of Hunter, I don’t miss how Armand’s eyebrow arches at the endearment.

He’s the only one of us who has seen the new Baroness, apparently sent to pick her up from the hospital. It’s known that this girl, Arianette Hexley, was snatched off the streets and held captive for three weeks. Hunter reported on the situation on his show and it’s been all over the news. Images of her were locked down, apparently for her safety, or maybe at the King’s command. Armand didn’t say much about her, just that she was unhinged, and should be ‘fun.’

Movement from the path draws my attention and like a shift of fog, she emerges. I soak her in, this girl that will belong to us. She’s nothing like the woman that walked in before her with confidence and grace. She’s smaller, a little younger, and her eyes catch me off guard, big and brown,uneasy. Her straight hair frames her neck–brown skin smooth, soft-looking. Skin I’m itching to touch.

I worry the ring in my lip, checking out her tits. They’re full, nipples peaked at the cool night air, and I can already imagine them threaded with my needle, the heavy weight of a piercing atthe tips. Her waist tapers before flaring out into curvy hips and my fingers curl, thinking about what she’ll feel like.

She steps into the torchlight, and it’s impossible not to notice the circles under her cautious eyes or the timidness in her walk.

“Arianette,” the King greets her, “welcome.”

I watch how he looks at her, trying to see if there’s a hint of something there, an attraction or affection. It’s known that they are arranged to have a Black Wedding, which makes no sense in the scheme of things. No one has told us how this will work. Isn’t he married already? Although I’ve never seen this wife. How will we share the girl who is married to our King? All I see is formality. A contract among the elders in the community.

Forsyth is weird as fuck, and here I am with a bloody pentagram painted on my forehead, about to dive in head first.

Arianette passes in front of us, her long, thin limbs moving gracefully. She’s not shy, her gaze skimming over the three of us. It’s hard to tell in the torchlight, but I think she bares her teeth.

I try to get a read on her, but it’s hard.

On the outside, she may look easy to break, malnourished, and weak, but prison taught me not to underestimate anyone. This girl was chosen for a reason.

“Come close,” the King tells her, and she moves to the bottom step, the hem of her dress swishing against her calves. Regina sits on the arm of his chair, his hand trailing over her thigh as he stands. “These are your Barons, sworn to the brotherhood by blood and oath.” His hand lifts, a finger pointing at each of us. “Armand, Hunter, and Damon.”