Page 12 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

A rianette

Pain.

That’s all I feel as the weight of a cloak is thrown over my shoulders and I’m led back through the cold underground tunnel. The damp scent is overpowered by the coppery blood that has seeped into every one of my pores.

It aches in my chest, like that knife had carved all the way into the bone.

It throbs in my pussy, a pulsing reminder of the invasion–the denial –I’d survived, of the overwhelming current brought on by fingertips.

And then my skin. It’s cold and raw, the bloody marks tightening as they dry.

Their hands had been all over me. In me .

I didn’t understand what the King meant when he said I would be claimed. I didn’t know that it meant more than being caught and carried back before being anointed Baroness. I didn’t know that it meant my soul would be taken too.

Or maybe I didn’t know I had that much left to be stolen.

The night is a blur. This always happens. My memory is short. Flawed. Periwinkle . When I look down at my hands I can’t remember everything that they’ve done. If they’ve hurt or helped. Or if those things are the same.

I’m led through the maze of passageways, twisting and turning under the earth. I try to count turns, gain my bearings, thinking we’ve walked far enough to get back to my room. It’s not until we reach a stone staircase that I pause, sure that this isn’t the route we came before.

“Where are we going?” I ask, unsure if I can go any farther. The adrenaline of the night has slipped away and exhaustion is creeping in.

To my shock, the Shadow speaks. “You’re moving to the House of Night, Baroness.”

“Oh.” I frown. “Where was I before?”

“The catacombs, beneath the cemetery.”

He starts up the stairs and I follow until we reach a thick wooden door at the top.

Another Shadow waits there and we exit into a hallway.

The temperature rises immediately and a shiver creeps across my skin from the difference.

The floors are hardwood, and lights made of iron hang from the vaulted ceilings.

I’m taken to another wooden door and let inside.

Regina waits for me.

She must be able to tell that I’m on the verge of collapse, because she doesn’t speak, just takes my hand and leads me across the room. I barely process the soft carpet or the large, iron bed tucked against the wall. My body and mind are both numb as she gently pries the button from my palm.

She holds up the hard black circle, her eyes narrowed. “Is this his?”

His .

An unspoken name for an unspoken act. I nod, and I feel numb as she pushes me into the steaming shower, adjusting the nozzle away from the wound on my chest. The water is a reprieve, an excuse to finally let the hot, angry tears fall.

I let her wash me, scouring the dirt and blood off my body.

She gently works soap down the lengths of my hair, but all I can feel is the pounding heat burning into my scalp.

It’s the kind of pain that is welcome, that reminds me I’m still alive.

I’m no help, letting her lift my hands and feet.

The hard bristles of a brush run under my nails, against my heels.

I want to tell her it’s no use, nothing will remove the sins.

“Sins don’t wash off.” The voice is stern. Male. “They’re imprinted on your soul.”

“What did you say?” Regina asks.

I blink at her, and then around the shower stall. It’s just the two of us.

“Nothing,” I mumble, trying to draw myself back to the surface. Regina shuts off the water and grabs a large gray towel, wrapping me in the soft fabric. “Thank you.”

She pats me down, carefully drying off every inch of skin and my hair, wrapping the same color robe around my body.

She points to a small vanity chair and I sit, watching as she rummages through the drawers with those long, manicured nails.

She squeezes the water from my hair and removes the towel, letting the damp strands fall down my back.

Gently, she massages jojoba oil onto my scalp.

Her touch is the opposite of what I experienced during the Hunt.

From the bottom drawer, she removes a first aid kit, along with a clean towel.

“Can I check your wound?”

Modesty left me hours ago, and I let the sides of the robe fall away. The pain radiates from the center of my chest.

“This is going to sting,” she warns me, unscrewing a jar. The scent of alcohol hits me, and she dabs a cotton ball over the top. “Ready?”

I nod and close my eyes. The first touch is cold, the second a flash of burning pain. I bite down on my bottom lip and hold back a cry. Periwinkle. I search for that place, the fields and flowers, but it’s harder and harder to get to.

“Take a deep breath,” she says. I in-and-exhale, trying to fight the panic. The smell of alcohol fades and I catch a hint of her spicy perfume. It’s sexy and dark, just like her. Her next touch is more gentle, the smooth swipe of ointment covering the jagged flesh.

Opening my eyes, I ask, “Why are you doing this?”

She shrugs and unwraps a flat, square bandage. “I’m not sure.”

“Did someone help you after your hunt?”

She shakes her head, her long braids falling over her shoulder.

“No. I came back here and crawled in the bed in the other room.” She swallows, like she’s trying to hold something back.

“I was alone. Scared. I thought about ending it all.” I try to meet her eyes, but her gaze is focused on my wounds and her lashes are so thick I can’t.

“But I also knew I was chosen and that’s an honor. An honor I needed to accept.”

Her words hit home, more of a salve than the one spread across my chest. A question nudges the back of my mind and I summon the courage to ask. “You called him ‘Daddy’ out there.”

“I’m his Daughter of Darkness.” She looks up at me with a small smile. “Or I was, until tonight.”

“He called me Daughter too, but…”

There’s going to be a wedding, and I’ll be his wife. I can’t be both. Also, I don’t know what it’s like to have a father. I was raised at Strong Manor, by nannies hired by my uncle.

“You have a different path, Arianette,” she tears off a strip of tape and adheres it over the bandage, “one that I don’t envy for you.

But you were chosen for a reason. We all are.

The King is wise. He will take care of you and in return you will take care of him.

Your Barons will become your world. Whatever demons were chasing you on the outside…

you don’t have to fight them alone anymore. ”

It’s simple, too simple, and from the expression on her face, it’s clear she knows it.

“And in return?”

She gently touches the gauze on my chest. “That mark means something in Forsyth and it means something in this house. That oath you repeated? The blood spilled? That’s a contract between you and the men in this house.

” She takes my hand and squeezes it. “You belong to them, Baroness, body and soul. By serving them, you are serving your King.”

We share a long look and a feeling that I didn’t have when we first met burrows in my chest. Before, Regina was this graceful Royal who knew all the answers. Now, I see her for what she truly is, a warrior.

Me? I’m not sure that’s the right word. I feel on edge. Raw. Ready to explode.

What she’s saying is that I have to trust these men–trust the King–but if they showed me anything tonight it’s that that isn’t possible.

Everything that transpired was out of deceit and fear.

Distrust. And worse, Armand showed me there’s something dark in this house–a threat to the very man he swore an oath to.

He may not have worn the beast’s mask, but he was a demon that had to be slayed.

How can I be sure there aren’t more?

“This is exactly why you have to die.”

I’m flattened on my back, a hand clamped over my mouth, keeping the scream locked in my throat. My hand raises, fingers curled, prepared to lash out.

“Jesus, Baroness. Do you ever just quit?”

Not until he’s dead for good.

My fingers tighten–to nothing. No knife. I blink, and the hazy form of the man in front of me solidifies. It isn’t Armand, even though he does have a puckered wound at the neck.

A ghost?

No. This man is alive, dark eyed and breathing. He no longer smells like the dirt and decay of the forest. He’s clean. Soapy. I wonder if the fingers splayed across my mouth are the same ones that touched me down there.

Damon.

“Dreaming about the Hunt?” he asks, keeping his hand over my mouth. He thinks I’ll scream if he removes it. He’s right.

I nod, listening to my heartbeat pulse in my ears.

“Remembering what it was like to kill a man?”

Again, I nod. The memory floods over me every time I close my eyes.

He’s so close, his body straddling mine. It’s still daylight outside, probably just a few hours since Regina helped me into bed. Before she left, she tucked my hair into a silk bonnet, and I pull it off now, letting my hair cascade down my shoulders.

I take him in, that dark hair pushed away from his forehead.

I get the sense his color is off. His cheeks are still a ruddy pink from the heat of the fire, but underneath his tan skin, he’s pale.

For the first time, I can see the rest of his face, the various metal pierced and poked through his skin.

His jaw clean, freshly shaved, revealing the hard lines of his features.

“I’ve never killed anyone,” he confesses.

“But I have been killed.” He lifts his chin, showing me the scar.

“My heart stopped–at least that’s what they say.

” I watch him. Watch those piercings in his cheeks that look like dimples.

“But don’t worry, Baroness, I’m not going to tell anyone what you did.

Especially the King. Not as long as you behave. ”

With his eyebrow arched, he slowly removes his hand from over my mouth. I swallow back the scream, understanding this game. Secrets. I’m good at secrets, even when they claw at my insides trying to escape.