Page 2 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

A rianette

October

One, two, three, four.

One, two, three, four.

Tendu

Plié

Arabesque

Sauté

“Ow!” The ottoman flips over, clattering on the stone floor. I grab my toes, hopping on one foot. “Fuck!”

That hurt.

Dropping to the floor, I cross one leg over the other. Wiggling each toe, I inspect the damage. After the last few weeks of my life I’ve learned my body is tougher than I thought, but breaking my toes? That’s something I’m not sure I’d survive.

I can’t sleep. Not since I came here. Not for long at least. It’s too loud. The sound of the other girls is a faint hum, etched on the inside of my skull. The crying. The whispering. The hurt.

The beast.

Instead, I push the heavy pieces of furniture out of the way and create a little space. If I keep moving, I won't fall asleep. If I keep moving, no one can hurt me. If I dance, the noises in my head, in my heart, will fall still.

Awake, I barely remember what happened out in the woods, even less what happened before. The doctor in the hospital said he thought I’d been drugged. Maybe.

Or maybe that’s just how my brain works.

The only thing that’s ever locked firmly in my mind is what I learned in dance class and the rules.

My uncle had a fondness for them, even pinning them to the Manor wall so no one could forget.

But the rules don’t seem to matter here.

Not in this cold, barren place. Or if they do, they’re a different set of rules I haven’t been told.

I think I’m just waiting.

Satisfied my toes are still in one piece, I look up, catching myself in the huge floor-to-ceiling mirror propped against the wall. My hair is down now, no longer twisted into the tight, organized braids I used to wear. Instead, it spills loose, dark strands brushing over the slope of my clavicle.

I twist, checking to see if the bruises I woke up with in the hospital have faded.

They’re ghosting along my ribs, still visible under my brown skin.

They bloom like violets across warm-toned skin.

The scars at my wrists are raised, ridged, stubborn.

I lift my hair and find the healing mark behind my ear, the skin there slightly lighter, tight with new memory.

Every mark tells a truth, even the ones I can’t remember.

They don’t vanish–only settle deeper, like stories etched beneath the surface.

Shadows.

That’s what the Baron King’s loyal followers are called, Shadows.

Is that what I am now too?

I don’t think so. I’m destined to be a bride.

A king’s bride. The Black Wedding must be soon, although I’ve lost track of days.

There are no windows in this room. Even at the Manor daylight streamed in.

We had time outside–mandatory. No one likes a sickly child.

Here, the heavy, wooden door only opens when one of the men brings me a meal.

They’re cloaked in darkness too. Silent, only their eyes and foreheads visible, the bottom half of their face obscured.

I know they are one of the shadows, a Beta Rho.

They leave the food on the end of the bed, taking the prior tray, eaten or not, and then leave, as silent as they came.

The only person I’ve seen, or spoken to, since arriving is the doctor from the hospital, Dr. Stallworth. He comes in to check on my injuries. To make sure I’m healing. He’s nice, but men often pretend to be. Right before they take.

The rest of the room is similarly utilitarian. The bathroom is spare, with basic toiletries. Nothing sharp. Nothing poisonous.

They know better.

The unused bed is small, but not uncomfortable–which is why I stay clear.

An armchair with carved arms and legs, the match to the ottoman, sits in the corner.

A closet, securely locked. The walls are bare other than one shelf filled with books.

I pulled one out and the spine cracked, the brittle, musty pages turning to dust.

I stand, flexing my toes, straightening my spine.

This isn’t a place of life.

It’s nothing more than a chamber of death.

Tendu

Plié

Arabesque

Sauté

Tap, tap, tap .

I stare at the door. No one has ever knocked before. Normally, there’s just the sound of the metal key, scraping against the lock.

I blink, unsure if I made it up. That happens sometimes.

Another knock follows, louder this time. Knuckles rapping against the wood.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice cracking, dry from disuse.

“Arianette,” I hear, the voice muffled but distinct. Female. “May I come in?”

I look around, wondering if I’m being watched. If this is a test. Heart pounding, I step to the door and press my ear to the wood.

“Who…” I swallow, trying to make my voice stronger. “Who is this?”

“Regina. The Baroness.”

The Baroness.

“Oh.” Butterflies come alive in my gut. “Yes. Please.”

When the door swings open, she’s not alone, one of the shadows holds the key, but I’m not interested in him.

I’m focused on the woman; her straight spine, full lips, and painted eyes.

Her dress is black. Sheer. The sleeves drape gently over her shoulders, like spiderwebs.

The neckline plunges, exposing the soft curve of her breasts.

She’s gorgeous. Elegant. Royal.

“You can leave,” she tells the man, taking the key from him and sliding it into her pocket. He nods, her directive unchallenged. She shuts the door behind her, then appraises me. “How are you feeling?”

Well, that… that is a loaded question.

Are my bones broken? No. My bruises are healing. The wounds are no longer infected. But the nightmares, the day-mares. They seep in at the edges–a cacophony of voices. Some here. Some there. Some buried deep inside my chest. The home. The beast. The sensation of mud between my toes.

I give the answer I’ve learned is the only one people want. “I’m fine.”

Her dark eyes sweep over the room, at the pushed-aside furniture. Instantly, I’m jealous of her smooth, ebony skin. There are no scars around her wrists. No bruises refusing to fade. “It feels like ages since I was in this room.”

“You’ve been here?” I ask, trying to imagine her on the little bed. In the stark bathroom. How could someone so beautiful, so gorgeous, come from this dull place?

She nods. “Before the Hunt.”

“The Hunt?” I repeat, the words drawing out a flicker of a memory.

Forsyth is filled with ceremonies, and there is nothing rich people love to talk about more at parties than the royals and their traditions.

I’ve never been a part of one. Never seen the spectacle, but on the nights I danced for these people I heard things, the retellings, the awe. “You mean the Barons’ Hunt.”

“I mean, the Baroness Hunt.” She runs her hand over the wooden finial on the corner of the bed. A gold ring with an onyx stone glints on her finger. “I had the barons give you my room. For luck.”

“But,” I start, trying to organize my words. My understanding, which, frankly, is limited. “I’m arranged to marry the King. My uncle set it up. We’ll have the wedding. I’ll be his wife. I can’t also be Baroness.”

Regina cuts her eyes at me. “You can, and will, be anything the King wants you to be.”

“What are you saying?” I ask, but the room has become muted, my heartbeat thudding heavily in my ears. I’ve been hunted before. Wasn’t once enough?

“The King is prepared for you to fill both roles. That of his wife and the Baroness to his men. First, you have to prove your worth and that happens in the hunt.”

“Will there be other girls?”

“No,” she says, lips curved down in a frown. “Not this year.”

She crosses the room and stands before the closet door, taking out a flat metal key and unlocking it.

Inside, a single outfit hangs. Regina leans in and pulls out the hanger, turning to show me a dress with narrow straps that cross over the shoulder.

“This was also mine.” Her fingers run down the fabric, pausing on a tear.

“You’re to put it on and wait. At midnight you’ll be taken from the crypt to the starting point. ”

My mind spins. Whirling fast, like a pirouette.

After placing the dress on the bed, she turns to me and takes my face in her hands, thumbs smoothing down my cheeks.

“Despite contracts and deals inked in blood, you have to prove yourself, Arianette. In years past, there have been four others. One for each point in the star. North, south, east, west, and the undeclared. This year, there is only you, which means the hunt will be vicious. The Hunters will be more ruthless. You aren't just proving that you’re worthy to be Baroness but to be the King’s Bride.

” Her long, lacquered nails drag along my skin.

“You’ve survived one hunt. You can do it again. ”

“How?” I ask. “How did you do it?”

“In the past, you needed to last the longest, beat out the other girls. This time, it is you and only you. Time is your only weapon. Keep quiet. Hide when you can, for as long as you can. The hunt only lasts until dawn, which means the longer it takes for the Barons to find you, the less time they’ll have…

” She swallows, hand fluttering to her chest. “The less time they’ll have to claim you. ”

I don’t know what that means. What any of this means. “I’m supposed to be a bride. I’m supposed to serve the King.”

“There is room for only one female in the Baron King’s crypt, but like him, you have to earn it.”

There’s one more question that I have. One I'm afraid to even speak aloud.

“Will it hurt?”

I see the pity flicker in her eyes.

“Pain is the gatekeeper to destiny.” She takes a step toward the door. “And that’s what this is, Arianette, for all of you. A night of claiming destiny.”