Page 41 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

I pause at Laura’s photo. She looks like any of the thousands of girls who’ve passed through Forsyth.

So painfully ordinary no one suspected foul play when she disappeared.

Even her friends thought maybe she’d just taken off in search of something better.

But why her? What made her stand out? What did they see in her? Why was she the first to die?

And is that even true? Was she the first… or just the first we’ve found?

Next to her is Stella–straight black hair, bright eyes. She’s smiling in every photo. I run my finger along the space between their pictures, stopping at the name that connects them: Eugene Warren. Ballsack.

I understand why the police are circling him. I don’t believe in coincidences either. But this? This feels too neat. Too obvious.

Like I told Sy earlier today: death is my business. And someone is out there meddling.

I don’t involve myself in the small-time greed of the gun trade, or the vulgarity of human trafficking.

Lionel Lucia’s obsession with drowning Forsyth in narcotics never interested me, until he created Scratch and started stacking our morgues with bodies.

That crossed a line, and thankfully his daughter had the guts to deal with him.

I believe in free will. At Noir Sanctum, there’s no price on desire. In the shadows, there’s no judgment on a deserved death. We tend to the dead. We shepherd their remains from one realm to the next.

But this? This isn’t justice. Whoever’s taking these girls– hurting them –has no reverence for death. And when they took Arianette Hexley, they made it my problem.

I don’t need a picture of Arianette to recall her features.

They’re etched into my mind. Her dark eyes, wide with fear up on the altar.

Hands bloodied from killing her Baron. But there’s more.

She’s soft in all the ways men like women soft.

In the mouth and hips. She’s pliable, eager to please, but there’s steel under it.

A defiance I suspect she has no idea how to control.

That’s why she ended up in the cage. A lesson in self-control.

I have no doubt that defiance is what carried her to the riverbank–what saved her life.

There are moments I wonder if it would’ve been better had she stayed dead on that sandy riverbank.

It would have spared her everything that’s coming.

Not just the Black Wedding. Not just becoming my bride.

But the invasion of her mind I’m going to have to carry out.

The ways I’ll have to dismantle her, piece by piece, to get to the truth.

She’s the best lead I’ve got. The only one.

Noise in the hallway alerts me to their arrival. I drag the curtain over the wall, keeping my activities under wraps.

Hunter arrives first, the faint scent of cigarette smoke trailing in after him. Damon follows, darker, quieter, eyes always scanning. He’s still carrying that low-level burn from the Fury. I can see it in the way he stands, coiled and ready.

“DK,” I say, stepping forward, “your win at the Fury was impressive.”

His jaw tics, but he nods.

“You two,” I glance between them, “seem to be working well together. That’s not nothing. It can be hard taking over leadership in a group without prior connections.”

Hunter nods. “It’s been a challenge getting our footing. The win and the party at the crypt seem to have helped.”

I’ve heard about the gluttony that took place in the crypt on Friday night, reported by my Shadows. They’d followed my rules, no fornication, while still enjoying the passion of the night. It’s important. Necessary.

“Connections can be our greatest weapon. Or the very thing that gets us all killed. I’m pleased you’ve been able to create a bond.” I move behind the desk, rest my palms on the wood. “I have two projects. Quiet, specific, and critical to the integrity of this House–and to the city itself.”

They both nod, posture shifting subtly. Men who’ve witnessed death–experienced it–and will again.

I look at DK first. “You’re taking her to the river.

” His brow lifts. “To the place she was found,” I clarify.

“The spot where Arianette crawled out of the water half-dead. I want you to walk her through it. Not as a protector, she has too many of those already, but as a student of the terrain. Maybe something jogs her memory. A sound, a scent, the way the wind hits the trees.”

“You want her to remember,” DK says.

“No,” I say, cold and even. “I want her to see . Remembering comes after.”

Hunter leans back, arms crossed. “And what about me?”

I tilt my chin toward him. “You’re already doing it. That late-night voice of yours–people listen. Not just the college kids, but the insomniacs, the drunks, the ones who know things and don’t realize it. I want you to start asking the right kinds of questions.”

He quirks a brow. “On air?”

“Veiled. Slanted. A riddle, a metaphor, a game.” I wave my hand, not interested in the specifics. “I don’t care how you spin it, but spin it. Find the thread. Pull it until something snaps.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Hunter asks.

“It will.”

The fire crackles across the room. I step back, letting the weight of the room press down around us.

“People think women vanish because they’re weak,” I say finally, voice low.

“Because they’re careless. Sluts and whores.

Expendables. That’s a lie. The girls in Forsyth vanish because someone out there is trying to tear down what we have by taking the people that belong to us. I want to know who that someone is.”

DK’s nod is barely perceptible. Hunter seems to already be deep in thought.

“If that’s settled, I want to remind you the Black Wedding is in five days. Per tradition, you’ll be at my side, witness to the ceremony. Graves will prepare you.”

Having no interest in explaining further, that’s the last thing I say before turning my back to them. They’ll take the hint. The meeting is over.

Behind me, the leather of the chairs groans as they stand.

Damon’s boots are always heavier than Hunter’s, he drags a little more weight, carries a little more anger.

I don’t turn around. I listen instead, to the way the old hinges sigh as the library doors close behind them.

That pause. The one where they hesitate, like they want to ask more questions–get more clarity on my commands.

Unfortunately, I don’t have the answers.

In five days, I marry a woman barely of age. I’ll make her mine, give her a title, fulfill my duty, and reap my reward.

I walk to the fire and lean one hand against the mantle, the heat crawling up my wrist like a warning.

The men are loyal. The House is quiet. The dead are buried.

For now.

But I can feel something moving beneath it all.

And it may destroy us all when I drag it into the light.