Page 23 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

A rianette

If I thought the scrutiny on me as I walked across campus this morning was intense, it only gets three times worse when I arrive at the performing arts building with a six-foot-three Baron hovering nearby.

I want to feel safe at the university; whoever kidnapped me is still out there, but they’re not foolish enough to come after me again with my Barons next to me and the Shadows hovering nearby, are they?

Turns out that wasn’t the problem anyway. The media, rushing at us the minute we got out of the truck, their loud voices and cameras flashing. And then the Duke.

Nick Bruin.

I’ve never seen a man that scary in my life, and the one walking next to me right now used a knife to carve into my chest.

I barely heard a word he said, more aware of the hard press of Damon’s body against mine, and the Duchess’ cool gaze.

Cloaked in Shadows, we went to the coffee cart and she’d spoken to me.

I think. I was distracted by the prickle across my skin, the sharp zing in my nipples, the lingering feel of a hard cock against my ass.

I couldn’t stop staring at the tattoo on her chest, the dark but delicate lines of the wings.

“It’s a death’s head moth,” she said. I was staring.

“Bears have teeth,” I said, snapping my jaw.

“Well, this Duchess has wings.”

I look up at the Maddox Performing Arts building, and breathe slowly, remembering the first time I walked into the building.

I’d just turned eighteen and it was my first class outside of Strong Manor.

Before college, my uncle brought the dance instructors in-house, just like all the other teachers, but a stipulation for the arrangement between him and the Baron King was that I must be enrolled in Forsyth University.

Most classes I was able to take online, but dance? Those are required to be in person.

Those two things: the Baron King and the university requiring my attendance… those are the things that finally got me out of the Manor–even if it was just for a little while.

“I’ve never been in here,” Hunter says, following through the front doors.

The building itself is gorgeous with big glass windows exposing the first two floors.

The downstairs consists of a large lobby filled with student artwork, and an entrance to the theater.

A curved staircase cuts through the mezzanine, leading visitors to the upper floor as well as private classrooms, dance studios, music rooms and galleries.

“The dressing room is down this hall,” I explain to Hunter. DK left for his calculus class after the presentation was over. I still feel his presence though, the sticky fluid he left on my behind has started to dry into a hard paste. “Do you want to wait for me out here?”

He hesitates. “I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.”

“It’s a women’s dressing room.” Proving my point, two females with dance bags slung over their shoulders skirt past us and enter the swinging door. “It’s for women only.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” he says decisively, jerking his head for me to follow as he walks away.

“Are we leaving?” I ask, panicking. “Please don’t make me miss the class–”

He stops as quickly as he’d started, jerking open the nearest door. The room is empty, dark until Hunter flips on the lights, illuminating the smooth hardwood floors. A barre stretches across the wall. A dance practice room.

“This’ll work.” He drags the one chair in the corner of the room away from the wall. Sitting, he focuses on his phone, only looking up when he notices I haven’t moved. “Go ahead,” he says, “change.”

I’ve never had a huge sense of autonomy–that hasn’t been a privilege in my life.

I shared a room with the children my uncle took in, making privacy impossible.

I’d changed among the other performers, I’d been tested, touched, and tracked.

I’d been taken. And all of this was before I came to the House of Night.

But what I’ve experienced over the last few days has made it perfectly clear: my body isn’t my own.

Dropping my bag, I pull out the leotard and tights given to me by Graves this morning.

I already know that any exercise will be torture.

My nipples ache and the carving feels dry and itchy.

I also know that no one cares. Slowly, I unbutton my cardigan and hang it over the barre, then lower the side zipper on my skirt and let it fall to the floor.

Hunter doesn’t look up as I undress, as I peel the crusty panties off my body. I’m more humiliated by the white stain in the crotch, the one I know was left there by the build up of my own desire.

“Did he make you come?” The question comes as I’m tugging the footless tights up and over my hips.

Our eyes meet in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

“What do you mean?”

“During my presentation,” he rests his book on his lap, “he was touching you, wasn’t he?”

“He–” I swallow, “he didn’t enter me.”

He nods, those pale eyes sweeping over my body before going back to the phone.

“What are you looking at?” I ask, wondering what makes a man stare at a phone rather than at a naked woman.

“My dog.”

“A video?” I grab the black leotard and step into the leg holes.

“No, he’s got a tracker that tells me how much activity he gets a day. One of the brothers was assigned to walk him today. I just want to make sure they actually did it.”

Instinctively, when he says the word ‘tracker’ I touch the scar tissue behind my ear. It had been there so long I forgot about it and was removed by my kidnapper. The King hadn’t placed another one in me. Why? Does he not care if I’m snatched away again?

No. The Barons are watching me, keeping me safe.

“I’ve never really been around dogs. My uncle only kept the guard kind. Big. Mean. Trained to hate everything.”

He looks up at me then, his gaze softening, the usual wariness slipping from his shoulders. “Ares isn’t like that. He’s nervous, sure–but not mean.”

I catch his eyes in the mirror. “Why’s he nervous?”

Hunter pockets his phone, then crosses his arms. “I found him last winter after a shift at the radio station. Looked like he hadn’t eaten in days.

And his eyes…” He trails off, shaking his head.

“They had that thousand-yard stare. Like he wasn’t really in his body anymore.

Like someone had wrung the soul out of him. ”

My chest tightens. “Was he… abused?”

Hunter nods once. “I think so. You can tell in the way he reacts to things. Don’t ever pick up a stick or broom or anything around him.”

I blink. “Will he attack you if you do?”

“No.” His mouth twists. “He’ll just get scared. Might knock something over, or hide under the bed for hours. It’s not anger he remembers. It’s fear. It didn’t take much for him to trust me: regular food, a calm steady voice, and now he’s completely loyal.”

“Maybe he’ll like me,” I say, more to myself than Hunter. Wiggling into the leotard, I get above my waist and then suck in a breath before pulling the compressed fabric over my breasts. “I hate these things,” I suck back a sob.

“The outfit?”

“The piercings.”

His eyes flick back to my tits. “They hurt?”

“What do you think?” I snap, tugging at the top, and face him. “Tell me the truth, can you see them?”

Sliding his phone into his shirt pocket, Hunter stands and walks over. His eyes are zeroed in on my chest and he says, “Definitely.”

“Ugh. My teacher isn’t going to like that. She wants clean lines and we’re supposed to look professional, not like dancers down at the Gentlemen’s Chamber.”

His eyebrow lifts. “You know about the Gentlemen’s Chamber?”

“Of course.” I pull at the fabric near my tits, trying to make some room, but the spandex snaps back and I yelp. Wincing, I add, “My uncle has meetings there. I’ve heard him talk about it.”

Hunter stares at my chest, forehead creased in concentration.

Again, he reacts without speaking, going back to the chair–no, the bag by the chair.

He opens the primary zipper and digs around, finally locating something.

He palms it, and crosses back over to me, tossing it once in the air before catching it.

“What’s that?”

“Tape.”

“Tape?” I stare at the round object in his fingers.

“Yep.” He lifts his chin. “Pull down your top.”

It’s not a request. I tug down the cap sleeves and push the scoop neck down, revealing both the bandaged cut and the silver piercings. He spreads his fingers, using them to measure the bars, then tears off a strip of tape.

“Getting that off is going to be a problem, right?” I ask, eyeing it warily.

“We’ll deal with that later.”

Later? “But–”

He slaps the stark white tape over my nipple, covering the bar and everything else.

“There,” he says, covering the other nipple. “That should work.”

Unsure, I ease the top back up and turn to face the mirror. Sure enough, my tits are almost smooth. Certainly better than before.

“Thank you,” I say, still worried about the removal process, “I guess.”

“If there’s a problem, I just want to find a solution.” He strides over to drop the tape back in the bag. “You ready?”

It’s not the way I envisioned my first day back to class, not with tape over my nipples and crusty cum glued to my ass, but it’s better than dancing in a dark crypt by myself.

“Yeah,” I say, grabbing the bag holding my pointe shoes, “I’m ready.”