Page 46 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

T imothy

The House of Night feels colder than usual, though the heat roars and the candles have all been lit.

Every shadow stretches long and dramatic, flickering over the hand-painted mural on the wall, bringing it to life.

We sit around the long, ebony dining table–five bodies that seem to be sitting vigil, rather than celebrating impending nuptials.

This dinner is a traditional meal between families to celebrate tomorrow’s ceremony. If I could have come up with a viable excuse, I would have. Graves shot that down immediately.

Arianette is seated to my right. She hasn’t spoken since she took her seat, not even to greet her uncle.

Graves informed me she’d spent the afternoon holed up in her room, with a team of stylists preparing for tonight– for tomorrow– and the results are stunning.

It’s not a girl sitting next to me, but a woman.

Her eyes are painted with a smoky shadow, gold glitter shimmers with every flutter of her eyelashes.

Her hair is pulled back in tight braids, the rows precise as they gather into a cluster at the back of her head, before cascading in a soft ponytail.

Her dress is exquisite, the bodice a deep, rich purple satin. It’s structured like a corset, with satin buttons running down the front. The top edge is trimmed with delicate ruffles, adding a touch of femininity to the otherwise severe design.

The skirt is a voluminous cascade of l ayered black tulle.

It’s full and dramatic, evoking a sense of dark elegance.

A gothic ballerina. The candlelight bounces off the warm mahogany sheen of her exposed shoulders, and any sense of rebellion that I’ve seen in her has vanished.

In place is a delicate yet deliberate posture.

The change is dramatic. Curious. Who is she dressed for? Behaving for?

Even with our unsettling interactions, I suspect it’s not me.

Hunter sits across from her, trying not to stare. DK beside him, tight-jawed, arms crossed, his fork untouched. Dean Hexley holds court at the head of the table like a man who’s just signed a million-dollar deal.

A plate of venison is set before me, garnished with blood orange reduction and some pretentious sprig. I chew methodically, aware of how quiet the room has gone. Only the scrape of silverware, the crackle of fire, the dull drip of wine from Hunter’s glass.

“So,” the Dean says at last, dabbing his mouth with a cloth napkin, “tomorrow is a momentous day.”

No one replies.

He continues, “When the Hexleys and the Barons finally merge into one.”

Arianette keeps her gaze down. DK watches her, not me.

I nod once. “A necessary alliance.”

The Dean chuckles, low and wolfish. “Don’t sound so thrilled.”

“I’m overjoyed,” I lie. “I’ve waited a long time for this to happen.”

Hunter coughs into his wine. For all his social awkwardness, the young man seems very aware of the mood and tone in this room. The Dean ignores him, as he seems to do with anything that doesn’t suit him.

“Arianette’s entire childhood and adolescence have been in anticipation of this moment.” The Dean smiles wider, but continues, like he’s auctioning a lamb at the market. “Raised in seclusion. Prepared for society. Taught discipline. The Baroness title won’t be wasted on her.”

“You know she’s in the room,” DK smirks. “She can hear you.”

The Dean says, raising a brow, “Her silence is a virtue. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

Arianette nods slowly. Her hands are folded in her lap like she’s praying. There’s only one god in this room, and unfortunately, I’m not here to save her.

Hexley gestures to Graves, who has been standing attentively in the corner.

I’m annoyed at the command, Graves isn’t a fucking lackey.

I open my mouth, but Graves clears his throat as he steps forward, presenting a long velvet box and a smaller one, both placed delicately on the table in front of me.

“A wedding gift,” the Dean says, eyes brightening.

“You shouldn’t have,” I say, prepared for a cheap bauble or a tacky commemoration of the impending nuptials. The moment I lift the lid, I realize I’ve misjudged him.

I open the smaller box first. Inside, a collar. It’s made of a blood-red leather with brushed brass details, worn but well-kept. An old inscription in Latin is carved into the buckle: Obedientia ante omnia. Obedience before all.

“It belonged to her grandmother,” Dean says softly. “Wore it every day of her marriage. The Hexley women wear it until they earn the privilege not to.”

Hunter and DK share an unreadable look.

Arianette, to her credit, doesn’t move.

I shut the box slowly. “And the other?”

He gestures for me to open it.

Inside the longer velvet case lies something strange, beautiful and awful.

A ceremonial rod–black polished wood, thin and light, with carved designs spiraling down to a velvet-wrapped handle.

At first, I think it’s ornamental, but one glance at Arianette and the tension in her jaw tells me otherwise.

“The Switch of Silence,” the Dean says reverently. “Passed down through the Hexley women for generations for use at the Manor. Not a tool of cruelty, but of correction.” He leans forward slightly. “She knows what it means.”

DK fidgets with the piercing in his eyebrow, a tell for his growing impatience. He doesn’t like another man speaking so intimately about the Baroness. Good. He’s learning.

“You’ll find you won’t have to raise your voice, or your hand,” he continues. “Just hang it where she can see it.”

That patience snaps, and DK jumps to his feet.

I hold up my hand. “Sit down.”

His jaw clenches, but he obeys.

Hunter, on the other hand, doesn’t take his eyes off the rod until I replace the lid.

The Dean smiles again, wider now. “She’s still a Hexley. No matter whose house she sleeps in, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Arianette finally speaks. Two words, soft as dust. “Yes, Uncle.”

I meet her eyes. They’re wide, brown, and brimming with something I can’t place. Pushing the boxes aside, I say, “A thoughtful gift in honor of the union.”

The Dean lifts his wine. “To Forsyth.”

“Memento Mori,” I reply, only meeting his eyes.

The glasses clink, and the room is thick with wax, secrets, and the weight of what it takes to protect my people.

The last of the plates have been cleared and the decanter of wine is empty. Arianette is silent beside me, her hands folded tightly in her lap, knuckles pale against the swell of her dark skirts. She’s desperate to leave the table, we all are, but the night isn’t over.

Across from me, Dean Hexley lifts his napkin, dabs at the corner of his mouth, and folds it back onto the table with all the slow precision of a guillotine blade being readied.

His eyes shift to me. Cold. Businesslike. "When I agreed to let Arianette move in before the wedding and fulfill the role of Baroness," he says, "I was told her virtue would remain intact."

Hunter and DK have spent most of the meal quiet, only speaking when forced into the conversation. They’re both uncomfortable with this formality, but they have the smarts to just keep their mouths busy eating, and their thoughts to themselves.

The mark of a good Shadow.

But I don’t miss the way DK’s chair creaks as he shifts. Guilt? A little, but I don’t believe he’s crossed my established boundaries. I asked them to break her in. To prepare her for what’s to come. I need her compliant–at the very least aware of what’s coming.

“We adhered to the traditions,” I assure him.

Hexley leans forward slightly. "I require proof, as you know, that your men have kept their word."

"I can assure you that she’s pristine," I say, already regretting this entire performance. But this isn't a negotiation. It’s theater. Ritual. Something archaic and vile.

Hexley doesn’t blink. "I'd still like proof."

Arianette turns to me, brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

She hasn’t been told. Of course she hasn’t. There’s no good way to prepare a girl for this part.

"Hunter. Damon," I say quietly. "You’re dismissed."

DK looks like he’s about to lunge over the table. "You’re not seriously–"

"Out."

Hunter touches his sleeve, grounding him. DK glares, then shoves back from the table.

His chair screeches against the stone, but thankfully, they leave without another word.

Arianette watches them go, confusion bleeding into unease. She knows something’s wrong. That instinct she has, sharp, animalistic, raw–it’s starting to stir.

I rise from my seat. Graves is already there, silent and waiting by the arched doorway to the adjacent den. Hexley stands, motions to her. "Come now, girl."

She hesitates, looking to me again.

"It’s alright," I lie. "Just follow us."

The den is dim, old, lined with wood panels and shelves of untouched books. A faint fire burns in the grate. There's a chaise lounge in the center, dark leather and velvet, like something stolen from a Victorian parlor.

"Remove your bottoms," Hexley instructs. "Then lay down."

Arianette stiffens. "What?"

"Don’t make this harder than it has to be," he sighs. "It’s not a request."

She looks at me, panicking now. My jaw is clenched so tight I feel the bones creak. I don’t appreciate another man–a non-Baron and even worse, non-Royal, acting as if he’s the one with power.

Graves turns his back out of some misguided sense of decency. Hexley doesn’t.

Her hands shake as she reaches behind her to unclasp the skirt. Layers of tulle and silk whisper down her legs. Her corset stays on, tight and unforgiving, but now the lower half of her is covered in silk panties. She's trembling.

“Those too,” he says gruffly, gesturing to the panties. Slowly, she pushes them down, bending forward as she does. Her breasts spill from her top, both tantalizing and obscene. Once she’s bare, he points to the chaise. “Arrange yourself.”

She lies back slowly, covering herself with one hand until Hexley barks, "Move it."

I step forward, placing a hand on his meaty forearm.