Page 35 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

A rianette

The atmosphere outside the locker room is jarring, especially after the quiet moment Damon and I just shared.

I need air, even if it’s the sweaty scent of hundreds of people packed into the gym.

Being close to Damon like that was unnerving.

He’d defended me to Bronwyn, asked me to stay and assist him.

I felt useful for once, using my experience from dance to wrap his hands.

But the story he told me about how his throat was slashed–that had been unexpected.

Death reveals itself in mysterious ways.

Tucking my fingers into my pocket, I feel the hard metal of his jewelry, and search for the hoop from his nipple. The hard ball is larger than the others, still warm from being so close to his body.

“Everyone to your seats!” A voice announces over the loudspeaker.

Above the ring is a timer counting down to the final fight.

The energy flowing through the gym is unlike anything I’ve experienced.

My dance performances were always in front of crowds dressed in evening gowns and tuxedos.

Patrons of the arts, not beer-drinking frat boys and girls barely wearing any clothes.

The music is loud, and I use my hands to cover my ears. I fight the crowd that funnels like a river, everyone looking for seats. Everyone seeming to know where to go. Beer sloshes, splashing on my legs.

“Keep up,” Damon says, glancing back at me.

I push through, invisible to this crowd, maybe looking just like another Crypt Chaser. I’m forced to duck out of the way when a shirtless man, holding an ice pack under his bleeding eye, is ushered past me into a different locker room.

When I look up, Damon and the other guys are gone.

“You look lost.”

The voice is familiar, and although I know I’m not supposed to talk to anyone, I’m relieved to see the blue hair and moth tattoo belonging to Lavinia Lucia.

“I got separated from Damon.” I push up on my toes. I can’t see him, but Hunter’s fair hair is visible closer to the ring. “I think I’m supposed to be with them.”

“Fuck yeah you are,” Lavinia says. “You’re his Baroness. He needs you by his side during the fight.”

“To what?” I’d already done the one thing I could by wrapping his hands. “I don’t know anything about fighting.”

“I doubt that,” she says, hand moving to her hip. “In Forsyth, a Royal is only as strong as the woman by his side. Your job is to support him simply by being there.” Her eyes skim down my body. “Well, and maybe by showing a little skin and making everyone jealous as fuck you belong to him.”

“That’s what Bronwyn said when she tried to replace me.”

“Bronwyn?” she repeats, grabbing my wrist and heading through the crowd. “Bronwyn Lee?”

“I guess so. She said in any other year, she would have been the Baroness.”

Lavinia rolls her eyes. “Look, there’s always some girl who thinks she’s going to be the new House Girl.

In my year it was Verity Sinclaire.” She pushes a guy in a DKS shirt out of the way.

“She thought that she had the position locked-up, and she probably would have made a great Duchess if things were different, but you know who she is now?”

I shake my head.

“She’s the mother-fucking-Princess and rightful heir of West End. She’s got a baby and three men groveling at her feet.” She stops suddenly and spins. “Nothing in Forsyth is guaranteed, especially not with the Royals, so Bronwyn Lee can go fuck herself, got it?”

I nod. “Got it.”

She moves behind me and pushes me toward an area just behind the ring, where Damon, Hunter, and a few other brN guys are waiting.

“I don’t know if you like that guy or not,” she looks at Damon.

“He could be the biggest tool ever, but tonight you need to do whatever he needs to get through that fight, because the house odds are solidly on Porterfield and he’s going to need whatever extra boost you can give him. ”

She places her hands on my back and pushes me forward. I stumble toward the guys and when I look back, all I see is her blue hair disappearing into the crowd.

“Jesus, Arianette, where were you?” Hunter asks, more annoyed than worried. “You’re not supposed to wander off alone.”

“I didn’t,” I reply, irritated. “I got separated.”

“Do it again and I’ll get one of Ares’ collars and put you on a leash.”

The serious glint in his eye tells me he’s not joking, and I push past him toward Damon, who is fussing with the edge of a piece of tape.

I take his hand and re-secure it under the wrap just as the speakers crackle to life.

“Are you ready for the main event?!” A voice blasts from all four corners of the gym.

“Representing the Dukes, we have Sean Porterfield, undefeated in his last three fights.”

Music blares and I watch a big guy, thick with muscles, climb into the ring.

His hair is flaming red and freckles scatter across his nose.

He lifts his arms in the air and the crowd explodes into a cheer.

A girl waits for him in his corner, in tight cut-offs and a glittery bikini top.

When he gets to her she jumps into his arms, wraps her legs around his waist, and shoves her tongue down his throat.

The crowd in the stands right behind Porterfield gets even louder, cheering them on. The couple parts and Porterfield shouts into the crowd, “To the victor!”

“Go the spoils!” The crowd of DKS responds drunkenly.

Lavinia’s ideas make a little more sense now.

Moving to position myself behind Damon so he can take the spotlight, I’m startled when he grabs my hip with one of those big hands and pulls me close. “I keep telling you,” he says, mouth close to my ear, “stay close.”

His arm drapes over my shoulders, and I place my hand on his hard stomach. I have no idea if Damon is ready for this fight, but I’m not underestimating one of the men that hunted me down. He’s strong and fast, and that scar tells me one thing: he’s a survivor.

The speakers crackle again and the same booming voice announces, “Representing Beta Rho, and making his debut to the Fury is, Deeeeeeekaaaaayyyyyy Kemp.”

I feel Damon tense, his body stiffening against mine.

Music blasts, and he takes the first step forward, keeping me by his side.

At some point the crowd fades away, and it’s just me and Damon making the walk.

Carson rushes ahead, lifting the ropes for Damon to go through.

Once he’s up on the mat, the block of seating behind the ring erupts into cheers, while the other sides fall into a deep, jeering boo.

Strong hands cinch around my waist and I look back.

Hunter’s lifting me up to the mat, into Damon’s outstretched hands.

“Fuck that bastard up, brother.”

They bump fists, and I’m yanked into Damon’s hard body. The move, the mat, the blinding lights, all reminds me of being on stage, and I’m struck by the truth that this is nothing more than a dance between two partners–a performance .

That I understand. Curling my fingers into the waistband of his shorts, I tilt my head, feeling his hands, rough with tape, pressed against my lower back.

Hooking my leg around his thigh, I push up on the tips of my toes, arching my back as he holds me.

He looks surprised when I sweep into a dramatic arch, smiling at the Shadows behind us, who are drunk on beer and itching for the fight.

My crotch grinds into him, and he pushes back–a reminder of how good this man can make me feel, and how fast he likes to take it away.

Goosebumps skitter across my flesh when he presses a hot kiss on the healing cuts.

“There she is,” he says, lips quirked into a grin. “That’s the girl who knows how to use a knife.”

The statement is bold, but true. His lips meet mine, blisteringly hot, tongue controlling. It’s a kiss that I feel deep between my legs, and when I grind into him, it’s not just for show. I let him take possession of me, showing everyone in the gym exactly who I belong to.

“Good luck,” I tell him when our mouths part. I like the taste of him, the lingering tang of whiskey. Maybe it’s not so bad after all.

He grins and stretches out his hand, tweaking the bar running through my nipple. Pain shoots through me, and a scream climbs the back of my throat. It doesn’t matter if I let it loose, no one would hear it–not over the stomping of feet and cheers from the crowd.

A second later, he glances upward, toward the balcony. Lifting my hand to fight the glare I see that the Lords and Dukes are still in their seats. Lavinia is leaning toward Story Austin, hand covering her mouth. Movement from across the balcony catches my eye.

The Baron King. He’s here, his mask a dark ebony, the horns tipped in gold. A chill runs down my spine, knowing that we’re not just under the scrutiny of the other frats, but from the King as well. After the last week, the time in the cage, the upset I caused him, I need something to go right.

A short bell chimes and the referee moves to the middle of the mat.

Hunter grabs me, pulling me back on the other side of the mat.

We take an empty spot just behind the railing and to my surprise, he settles me onto his lap, keeping his strong arms caged around me, like he’s afraid I’ll wander off again.

My heart skips when the referee speaks to them, I assume going over the rules.

The crowd around us grows impatient. They’re not the only ones.

Damon's already bouncing on the balls of his feet, chin tucked, eyes locked in. His dark hair's a sweaty mess. He’s not the favorite. Not even close. He’s got that rough-edged kind of fight to him–no polish, no choreography.

Across from him, Porterfield looks like he was raised in the gym. Big, confident stance, pale skin dotted with freckles, and that red hair slicked back from where his cutslut ran her hands through it. He’s clean, but dangerous in the kind of way that’s practiced, perfected.