Page 20 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

“No, she can’t,” Damon replies, a small smirk on his mouth.

“Because here’s the thing, sister, the King has given us our orders, and we’re here to prepare you for him, and the one thing he doesn’t want is a mouthy bride who talks back.

” He moves his hand behind my head, his thumb grazing my neck.

“He wants a good girl that follows directions. Don’t you want to be a good girl for him? ”

All I want is to serve my King, and make him happy. “Yes.”

Damon’s thumb dips underneath the collar of my sweater. “Then show your Baron why you were crying.”

My hand shakes as I reach for the top button on my cardigan and push it open.

With my eyes focused on the shiny knobs of the old-fashioned looking radio, I loosen button after button, until the smooth, black satin camisole is revealed.

Damon’s finger pulls at the collar, dragging the loose fabric away to expose my breasts.

“Fuck,” murmurs Hunter, seeing the piercings for the first time. “When did you do that?”

“Yesterday afternoon. You were crashed out.”

Hunter reaches out, his finger flicking the hard knob at the end of one of the bars. I hiss, choking back a sob. His eyebrow arches and he bobs his head. “Nice.”

Damon’s wide hand slips under my breast and lifts it with a surprisingly gentle touch. “They look good,” he says, inspecting it. “It’s normal for them to be sore–it could take weeks for the pain to ease. Did you clean them this morning like I told you to?”

“Y-yes.” He drops his hand, and the weight of my breast sags, tweaking the piercing. “Are you finished?”

Damon shrugs. “For now.”

Hunter steers the truck off of the property, and I quickly cover myself back up, buttoning the cardigan to the very top.

The cab feels so tight, my legs cramped over the hump in the middle.

Damon’s thighs are spread apart, taking up most of the space.

I distract myself looking out the windshield, taking in the driveway splitting the forest, different looking in the daylight.

The trees are changing colors, the tops filled with bright red, yellow, and orange.

It was summer when I’d walked out of that dance studio–the afternoon air steamy. One minute I was walking home the next–

“Planning an escape?” Damon asks, draping his arm over the back of the seat.

“No.” I blink, drawn out of a memory I can’t access. “I didn’t realize we were so far from town. My uncle’s house is basically on campus. I’ve just never been out here.”

Hunter drives over a pothole and the car dips, heaving us up and down. My tits bounce and I whine, clasping my hands over them to keep them steady. “God, that hurts.”

Damon’s hand lands just below my skirt but above the socks. His fingers run along the skin and he says, “Remember what I told you the other night, sometimes the best way to handle pain is with a little bit of pleasure.”

“Is that what that was?” I ask, thinking about how he drew me in, getting my body to respond to him, and then yanked it away. “Don’t pretend you want to make me feel good.”

Thankfully, Hunter seems determined to get to school as fast as possible, foot pressed down on the gas.

I brace myself against the quick turns, thighs clamped tight, fighting Damon’s wandering hands.

It’s a relief when we arrive on campus, and I gawk at the big brick buildings.

I’ve seen them before, obviously, but now it’s real. I’m a student at Forsyth U.

That same excited energy rushes back through me as we enter the parking lot, the truck towering over most of the other vehicles. It’s crowded but Hunter drives up to a bank of empty spots near the sidewalk. Right before he turns in, I see a design painted on the pavement: the Baron’s pentagram.

“You get your own parking spot?” I ask, looking out the window. There are groups of people walking up and down the path that leads toward the biggest of the buildings. Everyone looks so mature and confident. The opposite of how I feel.

“Apparently it’s one of the perks.” Hunter kills the engine, then mutters, “Or at least one not taken from us.”

Damon snaps off his seatbelt and shifts, facing us; the movement draws his coat back and I see the butt of a gun tucked into his jeans.

“A few ground rules before we get out of the car.” The teasing tone from earlier is gone, replaced by a sternness I can see on his face.

“No talking to anyone other than me and Hunter. Ever.”

“Not even the other members of brN?” I ask.

“Not until you’ve proven yourself,” Hunter says, not bothering to follow up on what that entails.

“No wandering off. You stick close at all times,” Damon lists off. “Graves gave us a copy of your schedule, which mostly aligns with ours.”

“What about my dance class?”

“You’ll still go, but one of us will be with you.”

The truth is that I’m okay with this arrangement. Whoever kidnapped me is still out there. I don’t know if they’re watching and waiting for a second chance.

It becomes obvious the moment we step out of the truck that my kidnapper is the least of my problems.

I don’t know where they come from, dozens of people swarm like they’ve been hiding behind cars and bushes, holding cameras and microphones, lights flashing in my eyes.

“Arianette, how did you escape your kidnappers?”

“Do you know who killed Laura Walker?”

“Were you there when Laura Walker was killed?”

“Is it true that your attacker wore a mask?”

“Is the Baron King behind this? Did you see his face?”

“Is there a sex ring in Forsyth?”

The questions come at me like gunfire, rattling off one after the other. The lights hurt my eyes and I hold up a hand, blocking out the blinding light.

“Arianette, do you know anything about the other missing girls?”

I don’t know who asks the question, but the voice triggers a wail. Not one from me but one in my head.

“Is there anyone out there?” The voice echoes off stone. “Please, if there’s anyone else here, answer me.”

The voice ricochets between my ears, leaving me disoriented. I wobble and a strong hand grabs me by the side, jerking me into hard warmth.

Damon.

“Everyone back the fuck off.” Hunter steps in front of us, blocking me from the reporters, but it’s too much. The panic I’ve been fighting off for days– weeks –surges through me. The pain and the overwhelm.

“Will Miss Hexley comment on her kidnapping?” A brave reporter steps forward, holding a recorder out.

“Fuck no.” The voice comes from the side of the crowd.

From a massive man, with tattoos covering his hands and arms, all the way to his face.

He’s handsome, his stride lazy but powerful.

He doesn’t even pretend to hide his weapon under a coat, the silver-handled pistol tucked visibly in the back of his pants.

He’s terrifying, and from the expression on every reporter's face, they seem to know it too. “You really think you can come up in here and make demands on Royal leadership like this?” he asks, eyeing the crowd. “Maybe I’ll call my brother and see what he thinks. Little Bird,” he calls out, “you want to do that?”

“I guess.” She flips her pale blue hair over her shoulder before pulling her phone out of her top. “But you know how pissed he gets when his workout is interrupted.”

“Don’t,” the reporter that asked the last question says quickly, taking a step back. “We’ll go.” There’s a soft murmur among the crowd as they scatter, slithering back to whatever cesspool they came from.

Damon doesn’t release me from his grip when the man turns, squaring his broad shoulders to the three of us.

“Nick Bruin.” His piercing blue eyes pin on me. He crosses his arms over his chest and says, “We need to talk.”