Page 43 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

She looks over her shoulder, like we’re in the middle of the student center and not deep in the forest. “It’s not a who.

It’s a them. A beast. Maybe more than one.

” She presses a hand to her chest. “When they took me I thought it was to finish what they started. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t them . It was worse.”

“Why was it worse?”

“Because the beast doesn’t care about altars and blood. It only cares about locking the past in a teeny-tiny box.” Her hands clamp together, snapping shut. “Forever.”

Silence stretches between us, thick and sour, despite the wind and rushing water. Arianette may be confused, and hell, more than a little crazy, but there’s truth here, something that was freed in this damp forest.

Something, I have a feeling, that is worth killing over.

The sun dips behind the treetops, cutting the light into golden slashes across our skin. Arianette is quiet now, but it’s not the shut-down kind of quiet. It’s the quiet that comes after a release. A terrible truth settling over us like dust.

I stand, brushing the dirt from my palms, and grab my bow from where I’d leaned it against the tree. She watches me, eyes still glassy but clearer now, the way she looked after she came on my fingertips at the party.

“You always bring weapons when you're alone with a girl?” she asks, voice light, teasing.

“I bring weapons when I go into the woods with someone who survived death and still hears ghosts in the trees,” I answer.

“Damon,” she says, my name soft on her lips. No one really calls me Damon, other than judges and probation officers. I don’t hate the sound of it from her.

“Yeah?”

“Teach me,” she says suddenly. “To hunt.”

I raise an eyebrow and ask, “To kill?”

Not sure the King would approve. Plus, we already know she’s capable.

“To know,” she replies, stepping close, her voice a breath now. “What it feels like. To be the hunter instead of the prey.”

“I think you have some idea,” I tell her, noting the hunger in her eyes.

I saw it the night of the Hunt when Armand was dying at her feet.

But I get it. I brought her out here and picked at her wounds, dragging her through the muck and mud, to hear her story.

She feels vulnerable and wants a little of that power back.

Slowly, I hand her the bow. She stumbles a little, laughing, “It’s heavy,” but steadies herself fast. She’s small, but all tension and wire underneath. Wound tight, like one of those little ballerinas in a jewelry box.

“Let me show you,” I say, stepping behind her.

My hand wraps around her wrist, guiding her fingers over the grip, the curve of the string.

The first time I picked up the bow, it felt as familiar as my own cock.

I just understood how it worked. “You keep your body square, like this. Elbows high. Shoulders relaxed.”

She shifts, and her back presses flush against my chest. I don’t step back. I could. But I don’t.

Her breath comes shallow. I feel it where my hand still rests on her ribcage, just beneath the swell of her tit. Her skin is warm. Damp with sweat after the hike. She doesn’t pull away.

“Now,” I murmur, voice in her ear, “focus. See everything and nothing. Don’t just look–feel it.”

Her exhale shivers across my skin. Moving her arms slowly, I pull the string back with her, guiding her through the motion. Her body arches slightly, and I catch her hips against mine to keep her steady.

“You feel that?” I whisper, lips brushing the curve of her neck. I’m hard, strung as tight as the bow. In a blink I could drop it, shove up that skirt, and have my cock slick between her thighs.

“Yes.”

“Good. Let the tension build. Don’t rush it. That’s how you miss.”

She adjusts her stance, and the movement grinds her against me. Not accidental. I’m desperate, and she feels it. For the first time since I met the Baroness I feel the push-pull of flirtation, the tease of something more. For once, we’re not in a fight, we’re in this moment together.

My fingers trail down the side of her tit, running over the hard metal bars. She keeps her grip firm. “Now.”

She releases the string, and it sings as it cuts through the air. The arrow thunks into a nearby tree with a satisfying, violent thud.

Her breath catches in her throat. That sound–she liked it.

“Good girl.”

“Did I hit something?” she asks, twisting to look up at me.

“Not the target,” I murmur. “But definitely something.”

We’re nose to nose now. I should pull away. Tell her this is over. That she’s spoken for, and every time we’re together it’s one step closer to me breaking the King’s trust. I won’t be the one to break the rules, even if way out here in the woods, no one would know.

He’d know, I remind myself. And he’d have me fucking castrated.

But she leans in first. Her lips hover at my jawline, not quite touching, her breath fanning across the heat of my skin.

“Teach me more,” she whispers.

I don’t answer right away. Just watch her lips part as the words slip out, sticky-sweet and soft, and I feel her pulse flutter under my hand.

She’s still holding the bow, but it’s slack in her grip now.

My other hand slides down the curve of her thigh, slowly.

Testing. Asking without asking. She doesn’t stop me.

"Say it again," I murmur, my lips brushing her temple.

“Teach me,” she breathes, voice trembling now. “Please.”

That is within the rules. Firmly inside the boundaries the King gave us. The word lights something primal in my chest. I grip her hips and turn her, backing her against a moss-slick tree. Her mouth falls open as I slide a thigh between hers and press. Her skirt hikes up.

Fuck.

“Show me your tits,” I say, and she obeys like a child, pulling her dress up and over her head. Her bra and panties are black lace, a tiny bow at the front of each. That depraved combination, silly little schoolgirl wrapped in lace. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but…

Fuck. Jesus Christ, my cock approves.

Too impatient to take off the bra, I yank down the cups, exposing those pretty brown tits that I think about every time I touch myself, getting my eyes on the piercings.

The bars gleam in the low autumn light, short and snug, little metal knobs catching on the curve of her healing nipples. There’s a faint bruise around one, and the skin is still a little tender. My mark. My doing.

I trace the underside of one breast with my knuckle, then tap the bar lightly. She flinches, just a bit, but doesn’t pull away.

My cock twitches beneath my jeans.

“They’re healing perfectly,” I murmur. “Tight. Clean. Pretty.”

She swallows hard, watching me with wide, wet eyes.

“Hurt?”

She nods and admits, “Hunter gave me some salve to help.”

My tongue darts out, running over the hoop in my lip, thinking about Hunter checking on her. How I feel about it. “Good,” I decide for the both of us, but still ask, “did he touch them?”

She shakes her head, and yeah, that’s even better. I want to be the first to play with them once they’re healed, when I can wrap my teeth around them and pull. I’m going to dress them up in different charms, link them together with chains. Most of all, I want to hear her scream.

But for now, I just press a gentle kiss against each one and listen to her soft gasp as I slide my hand between her legs, over her underwear–the black lace already soaked through.

I press my thumb there, hard, watching her writhe against the bark.

Her nose wrinkles in pain, like it hurts to be touched but hurts more not to be.

“Please,” she moans, twisting, trying to grind against my hand, but I pin her thigh with my knee.

“No, sister,” I growl. “You don’t get to take. You earn .”

I want so badly to slip my fingers past the lace, to touch hot slickness. I hold back, circle her clit once over the fabric, twice, then pull away. She nearly cries out.

“Damon–”

“You want it?” I ask. “Say it.”

“I want it,” she gasps. “Please, please–”

“Want what , sister?” My voice is a snarl now. I tease her entrance, the restraint it takes not to plunge in driving me insane. She clamps her thighs together, breath caught in her throat.

“This,” she whispers, dazed. “You. Anything.”

Any sense of control and restraint shatters and I warn, “Remember you said that.”

I reach for my quiver and slide out an arrow, the black shaft catching the faint light of the fading sun. She watches with wide, dazed eyes, lips parted, panting. I crouch low, the predator in me prowling now–careful, patient, hungry.

“Stay still,” I murmur, voice thick with gravel.

I trace the feathered fletching along the inside of her thigh, slow and deliberate. She trembles like a leaf in a storm. The feathers whisper against her skin, teasing up, closer, until they drag over the lace clinging to her soaked center.

She whimpers, knees buckling, breath catching.

I brush the fletching over her clit through the lace, again and again, light as smoke. She shudders, trying not to grind down on it. Trying to obey. Trying to please.

“You’re so good when you want to be,” I murmur, leaning in to bite her shoulder. “So desperate to prove you’re still that good little girl.”

She gasps, hips jerking. “I have to…”

“Not yet.”

I flip the arrow in my hand. The sharpened tip slides down the crotch of her panties. I pierce the lace and jerk down, shredding it into pieces.

“You really should just stop wearing these when I’m around.”

I drop the ruined lace on the forest floor. Pussy bared before me, I hover the sharp tip just above her slit. Not touching. Just threatening.

Her pupils blow wide.

I press it gently, just the edge of the tip, against her clit. Not enough to break skin, although, God, I want to. No, it’s just enough to feel dangerous. Electric. Her back arches like she’s been shocked. She lets out a strangled moan.

“Damon–”

“Shhh.” I tap it, stroke it. Just barely. Her belly trembles. “You’re so close. And I haven’t even touched you.”

She’s panting, shaking now, every nerve lit and burning. Her hands grip the bark behind her, trying not to fall apart, trying not to come before I say she can.

But I want it. I need it.

I press the arrow down, feathering her clit in slow, deadly circles with the metal tip, until she’s writhing, every muscle coiled.

“I’m going to let you come this time,” I growl, needing this to be over before I do something stupid. Something so fucking stupid. “But do it now, before I change my mind.”

Mercifully, she does–with a cry that’s part sob, part scream, part prayer. Her body seizes and melts all at once, legs giving out. I catch her before she collapses.

The arrow drops to the ground.

“One day,” I tell her quietly, “I’m going to have you the way I want to, and you’re not going to be able to escape the sharp tip of my blade, but first the King gets your purity.

” I breathe into her skin. “But the rest of you? This ?” My palm presses between her legs, feeling the aftershocks of her orgasm, sticky and warm. “This is mine .”

“Thank you,” she says and I have no doubt she means it. I hold her against my chest, breathing hard, heart still pounding from the feel of her breaking open under me like that. Marked without a mark. Claimed without a claim.

For now.