Page 37 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

H unter

The driver, one of the younger guys in brN, pulls the SUV onto a dirt road.

It’s pitch black outside, the only visibility coming from the car headlights.

The three of us sit in the backseat, Arianette squeezed in the middle.

As much as I’m not a fan of physical touch, I’m getting used to the Baroness by my side.

She’d spent half the match perched on my lap, and the rest up under me, like she was seeking protection.

“You feel good enough to go in there?” I’ve kept a close eye on DK since he got out of the ring. He took a few solid hits and a concussion isn’t out of the question. His eyes aren’t dilated, and he doesn’t seem sleepy. If anything, there’s a crackle of energy rolling off his body.

“I feel good.” His hand slides down Arianette’s thigh, toying with the little string that laces up the sides of those shorts. “Better than good.”

I’m not always good at identifying people’s emotions, which is why I definitely can’t tell what the Baroness is feeling right now.

She’d been into the fight, seeming to understand what DK was going through better than he did.

I heard her counting under her breath, then saying it was like a dance.

Maybe so. Martial arts tends to move at a choreographed pace.

It may have been the crowd following the match, or even the exchange between the Dukes and the Baron King.

Whatever it is, something has her tense and on edge, and DK touching her leg probably isn’t making it any better.

For her at least. I can’t take my eyes off of them.

The car rolls to a stop, gravel crunching underneath the tires.

Before we get out, DK turns on the overhead light, the glow catching the silver and black of his piercings, each one carefully back in place once the fight was over.

He opens the silver box the King gave him.

Nestled inside the black velvet are three red pills with a gold pentagram stamped on the side.

“What are those?” Arianette asks.

“Phantom Bliss,” I tell her. DK and I both experienced the drug during recruitment. It’s all natural, made from a compound created by the King himself.

“Something that is going to make the night really fun,” DK says, handing me one pill, and taking the other. “Give me your tongue, Baroness.” Her mouth opens, tongue unfurling and flattening to receive the pill. He drops it on and says, “Good girl.”

I swallow my own pill, remembering how the first time I tried it, I felt too out of my body.

I hated how I felt out of control, but I gave it another shot on the final night of recruitment, which was just a big, gluttonous, party.

For once in my life, I was able to embrace the way I felt in my skin.

Not awkward or strange, but warm and loose.

Our driver leads us to the ivy-covered door that groans at the hinges.

Straight ahead is the black opening of a stairwell curling down into the earth.

I feel the bass before I hear it–distant, pulsing, like the heartbeat of some slumbering god.

The air changes. Heavier. Wetter. Scented with something floral and decaying at the same time.

Perfume and rot. Ahead of me, Arianette is already descending, her fingers grazing the stone wall like she's tasting the place through her skin. Each step takes us deeper, passing the sconces flickering along the walls, flames catching in iron cages. The stone underfoot is worn smooth from years of footsteps wearing it down. I’m constantly surprised at the various entry and exit points of the Barons’ tunnels–seemingly spread underneath all of Forsyth–but the room the stairwell leads to is something entirely different.

The chamber is massive. Vaulted ceilings arch like the ribs of a giant beast. Everything is stone–walls, floors, even the bar in the far corner, carved right into the foundation like it grew there.

The light is low and golden, flickering from the sconces and the braziers scattered around like ceremonial offerings.

And everywhere is what we’ve been promised as part of the sacred society: decadence.

It’s different from Noir Sanctum, mostly in that these aren’t masked people I don’t know.

I know the bodies draped over cushions, sprawled in threes and fours, sipping from goblets or licking red dust from their fingertips.

Familiar with the group sitting on floor cushions, passing rolled-up cigarettes from mouth to mouth.

Across the room, a girl from my engineering class is feeding Mateo–half-naked and lounging on a sofa with three crypt chasers–like a pagan god.

A couple makes out in the corner, his head bent, sucking on her tit.

Laughter bubbles up from a corner, the too-loud, too-loose kind that only comes from being absolutely fucked up.

And at the far end–the thrones.

There are two, and I have to assume one has been removed–disappeared the same way Armand vanished from our lives. Iron, brutal and regal. Their spines curve like twisted vines, barbs at the tips. Red velvet cushions drip over the metal waiting for us to arrive.

My skin is starting to buzz, my brain getting that heady, happy feeling brought on by the adrenaline of the night and the dose of Phantom Bliss running through my bloodstream. My cock is hard, throbbing against my thigh.

“This is…” I say, but I don’t finish it.

There’s no word for it. Not really.

Arianette turns back to me, pupils wide, lips parted like she’s breathing the place in through her mouth.

“Magical,” she says, spinning around. “Can you feel it?”

I can, and just like that, I’m not on the edge anymore. I’m in it. Stepping into the pulse of the underworld, where gods are drunk and sinners reign. This is the place of shadows, where debauchery doesn’t have to hide.

This is the place I don’t have to hide and finally feel at home.

The room shifts when they see us.

Cheers ripple through the crypt, rising up like smoke. Hands reach out, clap DK’s shoulders, offer him drinks, pills, smokes wrapped in black paper and dusted in shimmer. Someone drapes a garland of thorns and dark red dahlias over his neck like he’s some kind of king. Maybe he is, tonight.

He’s still breathing like the fight’s in his blood.

His grin is crooked and wide, teeth glinting under firelight.

People chant his name, toast to him with mouths full of smoke and wine and praise.

Even with the Bliss, his shoulders tense, the experience is as unfamiliar to him as it is to me.

We’ve been outsiders but with this one single act, kicking Sean Porterfield’s ass, he brought us into the circle with every hit, every dodge, every drop of blood.

“There he is!” Mateo shouts, bringing himself to an upright position. He crosses the room, arms wide. “You not only saved my ass but the frat’s reputation, too.”

“I’m just glad I didn’t fuck it up.”

“Nah, man,” Rob approaches, and they slap hands, “you took down a major DKS contender. There’s no victor in the tower tonight!”

He turns to me and laughs– a real one, not the cocky bravado I’ve seen before. His eyes are wild. Not just from the high, but from winning. From surviving.

Arianette sticks close to his side. She’s smiling, but I can see it in the way her fingers twitch: nervous . Excited, too. Drawn in, like the rest of us.

She looks at DK like he’s the fire, and she’s the moth that hasn’t decided if it wants to burn or dance.

He catches her waist and leads her toward the thrones, and the crowd parts for him like the air does for thunder.

DK drops onto the iron throne like he was born there.

One leg slung wide and with the dahlias draped over his shoulders, he looks over the room like it’s his, like he fought for it and won.

He did.

Not just in the ring, but in the initiation, in the Hunt. Arianette hesitates at his side. She looks back at me, like she wants permission, or maybe just doesn’t want to fall into this alone.

I nod, slow, and say, “Celebrate him.”

She bites her lip, then crosses to the thrones and without pause, climbs onto his lap.

The room howls in approval.

“You know, there’s a seat for you, too,” Rob says, gesturing to the other throne.

“Let him have this one,” I say. “He earned it.”

It’s an excuse to continue to hang back, to observe.

In validation of the ease of the group, or possibly the power I hold, no one questions my decision.

Someone presses a cut glass filled with green liquid into my hand.

I take a sip–sweet, sharp, like licorice.

A warm fog starts to settle behind my eyes, softening the edges of everything.

I stay standing, leaning against one of the stone pillars as DK’s hands begin to wander over her body.

Caught in the shadows, the front of my pants tightens even more than before as I watch the two of them explore one another. The stone at my back is cool, grounding me while the rest of the crypt hums like a live wire. The music has dipped into something darker, the strings low and dragging.

I only see them.

My brother and sister.

They’re half-lit by the sconce behind the throne, gold firelight turning her bare arms a warm shade of bronze. She’s perched sideways on his lap, legs over one of the velvet arms, her back arched just enough that he can rest his hand on her thigh.

He hasn’t kissed her yet. Hasn’t rushed. Always pushing her to the edge. Her chest rises and falls a little too fast, the thrill of being the center of everything.

His fingers trace the ties at the side of her shorts–little leather laces, snug against her hip.

One by one, he pulls them loose. Slowly.

Leisurely. Like it’s not clothing, but ribbon on a gift.

She shivers when his raw, red, knuckles brush her brown skin.

And then, without a word, he reaches to his boot and slides something out.

A blade.