Page 44 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

A rianette

The forest is behind us, but I can still feel it.

Still taste the moss on my tongue, still smell the river, the air.

In the backseat, sitting next to the compound bow, are our shoes, dirty and covered with mud.

Much like my dress that Damon picked up off the ground and lowered over my head.

While he disappeared behind a tree, I tried to brush off the green streak of moss on my dress, and the little pieces of dried leaves.

It wasn’t until I heard a heavy grunt and saw him zipping up his pants that I realized what he was doing.

“I could have done that,” I told him, feeling guilty.

“It’s getting dark,” he said, then flashed me a smile. “When your mouth is on me, sister, I don’t want to rush.”

The walk back to the car seemed shorter than the way up, and now that we’re in the car I’m too tired to think straight.

Orgasm-sore. Mind-wrecked. That trembling kind of raw where my body doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore.

Except it does, because he reminded me. Claimed me again in the trees. I ache in the best, weirdest, way.

By the time Damon gets behind the wheel of the car and cranks the engine, I’m shivering, the cool night air settling in my bones.

“Here,” he says, shrugging out of his jacket, and then hoodie.

The sweatshirt is warm, and when I pull it over my dirty dress I press the sleeve to my nose, inhaling his scent.

Pulling off the side of the road, he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other messing with the GPS.

We don’t talk and the silence stretches into something uncomfortable.

That’s the hardest part of all of this: being thrust into the role of Baroness, being owned by men I don’t know.

The silence. I was raised to know how to make small talk, but with a man like Damon…

I don’t think he’d want to talk about the weather or gardening tips.

Thankfully, he flicks the radio on just as we hit the main road. Static fuzz, then Hunter, smooth, slow, serpent-soft.

" …and if you’re out there, listening, and you’ve seen anything–anything at all–you call me. You don’t wait for the cops. You don’t wait for your conscience to kick in. Forsyth doesn't have time for silence ."

My chest tightens.

Damon takes a left at a four-way stop, in the direction of a town called Northridge. We’re still miles away from Forsyth. He drives cautiously, keeping an eye out for deer, their glassy eyes reflecting in the headlights, a reminder that we’re never alone.

The sound of deep inhalation persists through the speakers. I sniff, like I can smell the lingering smoke on Hunter’s clothes. I’ve never seen him smoke before, but I’ve smelled it.

“And now we’re taking callers. You’ve got something to say? Speak up, Forsyth. We’re listening.”

There’s a click of a line connecting, then a woman’s voice crackling in.

“I… I don’t know if it’s anything, but a girl used to live next door to me. College-age. Real quiet. I thought she moved out, but… I still see her car parked sometimes. Same place, same angle, like it hasn’t moved in weeks. Something’s not right.”

Hunter hums . “Did you report it?”

“ No,” she admits, voice cracking . “Didn’t seem like my business.”

Damon exhales through his nose. Disgusted. I don’t blame him.

Hunter must be too, because he puts on a song, moody music that seems to fit all of our moods.

Up ahead are lights focused on a large brick sign angled toward the highway.

Gold letters shine back, “Preston Preparatory School,” I read aloud, wondering what kind of students go there.

I crane my neck as we zip by, and I think I catch the pointed peak of a bell tower.

“Those guys are the worst,” Damon says, as if I asked the question out loud.

“I came to a few parties up here during high school. They were fun, I guess, but I learned pretty fast that each and every one of them is a fuckboy suckling at the rich teat of generational wealth. At least in Forsyth the guys get their hands dirty.” He shoots me a look and a wink. “Well, maybe not the Princes.”

There are so many places I haven’t been–haven’t seen. Missed out on parties, traditions, rites of passage. I have questions, more than I know how to even articulate. Too many years holed up in the Manor. Watching, but not living.

The SUV slows as we enter a small town, and without a word he pulls into the drive-thru of some place glowing with neon pink and blue. I blink at both the sudden color and the fact that the parking lot is surprisingly full of both cars and teenagers.

“Sugar,” he says, without preamble. “You need something sweet. Ice cream?”

I nod, because I do. I need something soft. Safe. Warm. Something that’s not the dark behind my eyes when I close them.

“What flavor?” he asks, once it’s our turn at the window.

“Chocolate.”

He gets me a single, pressing the cone in my hands. He gets two scoops, a mix of chocolate and vanilla. I hold the cone with both hands, licking slowly. Creamy and cold, trying to shock the ache away with a new sensation.

Hunter’s voice floats through the speakers again, talking about the girl found down by the river. About how the town needs to wake the fuck up.

I press the cone into the napkin and let it melt.

My mouth is cold. I want heat again, any way that I can get it.

Shifting, I reach for him, like I’ve done this a hundred times before. Maybe I have in my head. Damon doesn't flinch. Just spreads his legs a little wider.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

I nod, but it's a lie.

I unzip his pants slowly, reverently, and his hips rise, allowing me to take him out.

He’s already hard, warm and heavy in my hand.

I don’t say anything as I bend forward, my head between his abdomen and the steering wheel.

I lower my mouth onto him–not to suck or excite, just to hold . To keep. To soothe.

He hisses between his teeth but lets me take him. One hand tangled in my hair, the other on the steering wheel, already directing us back on our path.

“This what you need, sister?” he murmurs. “Just to hold me like this?”

I can’t speak. My mouth is too full, which may be the entire point. If I can’t talk, I can keep the pain and secrets buried inside, where it’s safe.

With the soft vibration of the car around us, Hunter’s voice threads through my ribs like a lullaby instead of a horror story.

Resting my cheek against Damon’s thigh, his thumb runs along my neck, slow and steady, occasionally trailing down to my lip.

I keep my mouth around him, not moving, just wrapped around him.

Warmth radiates up through my belly, grounding me in ways nothing else can.

On the radio, Hunter’s voice reaches us.

“And now we’re taking another call. You’ve got something to say? Speak up, Forsyth. We’re listening.”

“Love your show, ” the guy says. “I listen right when I get home from work. I make a cup of ramen, pack a bowl, and settle in.”

“I appreciate that,” Hunter says, tone slightly impatient. “Do you have anything relevant to add?”

“Yeah, right. F–(beep).” The word is censored out. “There’s this stretch of woods behind the freeway–near where that girl was found. Cops searched once, but not deep enough. I hunt out there. There’s shit in the trees. Scorch marks. Bone piles. Someone’s doing something out there.”

I jolt, drawing up and down. Damon tugs at my hair, hard.

“Don’t tease if you’re not gonna finish,” he warns.

I swallow and still, listening for Hunter’s voice again–quieter this time.

“ If you’re out there… if you’ve seen something… if you know something… don’t let silence be your sin.”

By the time we pull into the parking lot behind the station, I feel… emptier. Not in a bad way. Like something tight inside me finally uncoiled and slithered off into the night.

I wipe my mouth with the sleeve of Damon’s hoodie and unlatch from him, slow, quiet.

My jaw aches, but it’s better than what I felt before.

I spoke too much, allowing the secrets to spill from my tongue.

Thankfully, now, we don’t say anything. Not about what I did to make myself feel better.

Not about how he let me. Not about how he went along with it, like he knew it wasn’t about him at all.

It’s a relief, honestly. I don’t think I could take being looked at too closely right now. I’m barely stitched together.

Hunter’s voice hums through the air like a phantom as we walk in.

I follow Damon down a narrow hallway. The walls are covered in posters, imagery of old bands, protest flyers, schedules written in Sharpie and held up with peeling tape.

We’re in a room outside the studio, a glass window and door separating us.

Hunter’s leaned back in his chair, the fingers of one hand stroking Ares’ ears, a slim cigarette in the other.

Damon knocks, and Hunter looks up. Large headphones cover his ears, and his eyes dart between us.

I pull the zipper up higher, as if the hoodie can hide the grime and truth of the forest. He rolls his chair over, opening the door with his finger pressed over his lips.

We step inside. I take it all in. It’s warm. Smoky. Cluttered. Lived-in.

Ares pads up to me with his ears perked and his head low.

He sniffs at my legs, then higher. I freeze, heart stammering, wondering if he can smell the secrets I can’t remember.

But he just licks ice cream off my fingers and moves from me to Damon, where he takes a long, satisfied sniff of his crotch.

Oh God. He knows. He can smell what we did in the woods.

“Nose down, big guy,” Damon whispers, pushing him away. The dog obeys, pulling back.

“I’m fine,” I murmur to no one. Maybe myself. Either way it’s a lie.

The station feels like a church in a junkyard. Books and knobs and glowing equipment everywhere. There's a red light blinking above the door.

It’s funny to hear Hunter’s radio voice in person, without the distance through a speaker. “We’re not asking you to name names. Just tell the truth. You’ve seen something, haven’t you? Say it out loud. Even if your voice shakes.”

Someone breathes into the phone. Then, “I heard screaming. A house out by the east orchard. Thought it was nothing. Just college kids screwing around. But it didn’t sound… right .”

My stomach knots. The orchard’s not far from the dance studio. Too close.

“Another night comes to a close for me at WXFU. A special thanks for everyone who had the courage to call, for the DM’s in my box, and whispered secrets around Forsyth tonight.

We may just be one step closer to finding the person who did this, and even better, the missing.

Remember, you’re not forgotten.” The strains of a new song build under his voice and he pauses to take a long, final drag of the cigarette.

“As always and forever, wake up, Forsyth. Wake up, and smell that sweet decay…”

Once the song is playing, Hunter takes off the headphones and gestures for us to follow him to the outer room. Another DJ has just shown up, a female.

She coughs and waves her hand around. “I see you’re still smoking.”

“I see you’re still a ray of sunshine,” Hunter says, then makes quick introductions. “Everly, this is DK and Arianette.”

She takes Damon in first, soaking in the dirty boots and wet jacket. The drop of ice cream on his jacket. “The other Baron and,” her eyes flick to mine, “the Baroness.”

“We got ice cream,” I blurt, immediately feeling dumb.

She’s poised and polished, the kind of girl any guy would want to be with.

The kind without piles of trauma, and a mouth that speaks too much, and a husband-to-be that hates her.

She looks smart too, and not like she just spent the day crawling around the mud chasing ghosts.

I’m not sure she notices because she’s already turned back to Hunter. “That show was different from your usual moody introspectives.”

He shrugs. “Just using my platform to spread awareness and offer discourse on an important subject.”

Her eyebrow arches. “By encouraging people not to go to the police.”

“Fuck the police,” Damon mutters, face twisting up. “They’ve had time and have done jack shit with it.”

I have a feeling she would love to argue a little bit more, but the song is winding down and her shift is starting. She steps inside without another word and shuts the door behind her, sealing us out.

“Any leads worth following?” Damon asks as he sinks into a chair, legs sprawled like he owns the place.

I perch on the arm next to him, still trying to ground myself.

“There was that one call about bones in the woods. That felt,” he searches for the word, “real.”

Damon leans back, rubbing a hand over his face. “We’ll check it. First thing tomorrow.”

“It’s already tomorrow,” Hunter grins, “you know that, right?”

Ares curls at his feet like a guardian. I stay still. Quiet. My skin still tingles from the woods, from the ice cream, from the warmth of Damon’s body in the car. I feel haunted. Hungry.

Hunter loops his bag over his shoulder, nodding toward us. “What about you two? Make any progress out at the river?” His eyes roam up and down my body, at Damon’s hoodie, at what I’m sure is disheveled, messy hair. “Other than falling in?”

I go still. Waiting. Bracing. Ready for Damon to tell him everything–how I cried in the woods, how I begged him without words and he made me forget everything with the tip of an arrow. Why my lips still ache. I know what I must look like.

Damon’s eyes flick to mine, unreadable. He shrugs. “Nothing we didn’t already know.”

That’s all.

Just that.

And somehow, that answer makes my chest hurt more than the truth ever could.