Page 24 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

H unter

I shouldn't be here.

Well, not here -here. We’d been told specifically by the King to keep an eye on her and not to let her out of sight, so I’d been with the Baroness since my presentation was over, sticking by her side while she changed for class, then escorting her to the auditorium.

What I mean is, I shouldn’t be here . Like this –up above the auditorium in a place no one's supposed to go, crouched on the catwalk like some creeping shadow.

But that’s what I am lately. A shadow more comfortable lurking around the edges than anywhere else.

When I’d dropped Arianette off with the other dancers in the class, they were already up on stage, stretching their limbs and practicing their moves.

I’d offered to hold her bag, then eased to the back, watching her carry her shoes in her fingertips.

When she got to the stage, she looked awkward, both in and out of place at the same time.

It made sense, knowing this is her first day back to class.

I also felt awkward, but for different reasons.

I felt too exposed watching her out in the open, so I faded back until I found something familiar, the access point backstage.

I’d been here once before with my father while he fixed an electrical problem.

The lure of a dark, quiet place to hide and the master key in my pocket made it easy to take the metal stairs up to the rafters.

From here, with her bag at my feet, I can see everything without being seen.

It’s not just the view that’s different from this position.

The air is thick with the scent of rosin and sweat, while the muffled music chords echo across the wide, dark auditorium.

Peering down, I notice how her shiny, brown satin pointe shoes almost shimmer against the stage floor.

I shift my weight, careful not to creak the metal beneath me. Earlier, I watched her change. She thought I wasn’t looking, that I was focused on my phone, but I’m good at that, watching quietly–discreetly.

She peeled off that stupidly sexy schoolgirl sweater and skirt, pretending like DK’s cum wasn’t still wet between her legs.

I’d wanted to ask for her to show it to me, tell me what it felt like to have him take her like that in the back of the classroom.

If it made her horny to know that anyone could discover them, or what it was like to know I was watching.

I wanted to kill him for putting me in that position.

I had to focus on my presentation, pretending like I didn’t know what was going on at the back of the room.

The hormone-fueled urge to watch them was only slightly overruled by the logical part of my brain and the awareness of where I was and what I was doing.

Still, I was thankful for the podium being in place to block the outrageous boner painfully throbbing against the front of my pants.

I was still hard when she slipped off her panties, which were still damp with DK’s cum.

She’d wiggled into the leotard and tights–clothing that, for once, wasn’t a costume or armor made for the men around her.

The spandex fit her like a second skin, hugging her curves.

She looked hotter like this, comfortable.

Carefully, quietly, I unzip her bag and feel around, stopping when I feel the silky, lace fabric. It’s too hard to see up here in the dark, but I know they’re white and stained.

Now, down on the stage, she’s at the front of the group, facing the rows of open seats in the empty auditorium.

She stretches first, long limbs folding into themselves and then extending like they’ve done this a thousand times.

There’s none of the usual tension in her body, none of the brittleness she carries everywhere else.

Her spine curves like a bowstring, arms lifting in a smooth arc overhead before she drops into a deep bend, palms grazing the floor.

She rises with an easy, almost arrogant grace, her head high, hair pulled tight, legs long and sure.

It’s strange. No, unsettling , how different she looks here.

On stage, she isn’t the fragile, erratic girl we met in the forest. She’s sharp, yes–but different. Purposeful. Every inch of her is dialed in, fluid, and composed.

When the instructor steps forward and sets up the count, she doesn’t even wait.

Arianette is already moving, predicting the sequence before it’s given, responding before the cue.

Her body knows it. Even after all the trauma and scars the muscle memory remains, snapping back to the shape of the music before it starts.

The other dancers move with her, echoing her pace.

Maybe I’m imagining it, but it’s like they’re all just orbiting around her.

Her timing is intuitive–freakish, even. She doesn’t seem to think about anything; she just is .

No second-guessing. No fear. She transforms out there.

Like the stage eats all the noise inside her head and spits her out pure.

I can't look away.

There’s a moment when she spins and lands with a perfect pointed foot, and her eyes flick toward the shadows. Not up at me. Not quite. But enough that I wonder if she knows I’m here watching. She finishes the turn, spinning smoothly. Keeps dancing. Keeps owning the space.

And all I can think is: this girl is dangerous. Not just because of what she’s done. Not even because of what she might do. But because when she moves like that, it makes me forget about everything else.

Even the way she held onto that knife in the woods, a dying man at her feet.

Even the way she took my mark at Claiming.

Even with who she really is, the King's future wife.

The instructor claps her hands, the music starts again, and I lean over just a little more to watch, enthralled.

She’s so different when she moves like this.

All that feral energy she carries like a second skin–it’s still there, but it's reshaped.

Channeled. Like she's not running from the dark anymore, but dragging it with her, weaving it into every arch and kick and spin.

There’s power in it.

A spirit unleashed.

Wild and in control at the same time.

The music hums in my ears, thumping with the steady count of the teacher’s beat: One, two, three, four … my throat tightens along with the front of my pants.

She dips low into a plié, the edge of her leotard revealing the smooth curve of her ass, the muscle in her thigh flexing just enough to make me glance down at the panties in my hand.

Lace and cotton, thin and girlish, but stained with DK’s cum.

I know she was aroused when he was fucking with her in the back of the class.

I could see it on her face. I press my nose to the crotch of the panties and inhale.

Salty, with the hint of flowers along with something else.

Something I shouldn’t crave as much as I do.

She twirls again, arching into a backbend, chest heaving, neck bared, sweat catching in the light. Her lips part around a breath I can’t hear but feel–deep in my spine, in the ache that crawls down into my cock.

I shift my weight on the catwalk, careful not to creak, and lean against one of the supports, then unzip.

The metal teeth part just enough for me to reach in and wrap my hand around the aching heat of my cock.

I’m already leaking, just from watching her move, and it makes the slide slick, easy.

I wrap the panties around the shaft and stroke.

Fuck.

My head tips back, eyes rolling for a second.

I’d been fucking desperate for her all day.

From the moment she walked out in that little skirt, then when DK unbuttoned her sweater to show off the new hardware, to the strip down when she changed.

It’s been a long day of constant teasing and now that I’m alone, I want–no need –release.

I force my eyes open again. I don’t want to miss a second.

She lifts her arms, sways her hips, then spins.

Like a prayer in motion, a curse made flesh.

My grip tightens, the lace dragging just right, soft and damp and smelling like her, them, the two people I’m bound to by oath.

I pump slower, drawing it out, matching the tempo of her movements.

My hips twitch against the air, with every flick of her wrist, the rise and fall of her tits, and the delicate point of her toes.

I imagine that it’s all for me. Even if she doesn’t look up, even if she never sees me, I pretend she knows.

And that these dirty little panties? She fucking left them for me.

I bite down on my lip to keep from groaning.

The pressure builds fast, first in my balls, then climbing my spine.

My hand moves faster, rougher, the lace twisting as I fuck into it like I’d fuck into her–desperate and possessive.

My cock swells, throbs, pulses between fingers slick with her scent and my own need.

Gripping the railing with my free hand, knuckles white, I come hard into the cotton, body jolting with the force of it. The orgasm tears through me like a live wire, white-hot and explosive, shuddering down every nerve ending until I’m panting, spent, trembling up in the rafters.

Below me, she doesn’t stop dancing. Not when I wipe my cock with her panties, or when I stuff them back in her backpack. She may not have known what I was doing up here, but she will.

Arianette will understand that I’m always watching, whether she’s aware of it or not.

By the time I make it back down, the music has cut out and the instructor is dismissing them with a round of tired applause. Dancers stretch, laugh, peel sweat-soaked shirts from their bodies. I lean against the doorframe of the corridor and watch her before she notices me.

She’s radiant, flushed with exertion, tiny wisps of curls clinging damply to her face.

I stick to the side, watching her chest rise and fall as she chats with two girls and one guy.

The guy’s too close. Tall, good posture, those long dancer’s limbs that say he knows what he’s doing with a partner.

He says something and she laughs. Actually laughs.

The sound bubbles out of her like something girlish and untouched, and for a split second I want to erase him.

Just a flick of a wrist. Just one whisper in the right ear.

But I don’t move. I watch.

The jealousy is there–sharp and sudden–but it’s not rage. Not yet. It’s instinct, possessive and primal. That little flare in my chest reminding me: she’s mine. Even if she’s his. Even if she belongs to all of us.

When she finally notices me, her whole face softens. Her lips part, her eyes dart past her friends, and she crosses the studio with that dreamy sway she has, like her body hasn’t caught up to her mind. I like seeing her like this–loose, warm, unguarded.

“Hey,” she says, “Where’d you go?”

Huh . She noticed I wasn’t in the auditorium.

“Around,” I say, letting my voice drop just enough that only she can hear. “I’ll always be watching out for you.”

A little crease forms between her brows, like she’s trying to decipher if there’s a double meaning to my words. I hand her her bag and she slings it over one shoulder. I wonder if she’ll smell it when she opens it later–feel it in her bones, realize she was part of something without even knowing.

“DK’s class should be over soon,” I say. “We can meet him at the truck.”

She nods and follows me out of the auditorium.

I feel calmer now, lighter in my chest, like something toxic finally worked its way loose.

I know it’s only temporary, because deep down I don’t want to live in the shadows.

I want her to see me while I touch myself, when I unravel.

I want her to know what my cum feels like, tastes like.

I want to see that moment in her eyes–when she realizes I’ve been starving for her this whole time.

But I’m not ready.

Not yet.

Not for the look she’ll give me when she really understands what I am. What I want to do to her. What I’ve already done when she wasn’t looking.

Because the truth is, I don’t trust myself. Not to be face to face with her, with all the heat and need I’ve been burying under skin and bone. Not to let her see me fully unmasked, without the shadow to protect us both.

If I’m that close–if she lets me in like that–I might not stop. I might let the thing clawing behind my ribs, the one that doesn’t give a fuck about rules, loose.

So I keep my eyes forward. I walk a step behind as I walk out the Fine Arts building door. I’ll keep her safe. I’ll smile when she smiles, and I’ll act like I didn’t just come in her panties while watching her move like something out of a goddamn fantasy.