Page 5 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

When the King stands before me, it’s like everything else vanishes. The Shadows in my peripheral. The torchlight dims. Armand and Hunter no longer exist. It’s me, the King, and this blade.

“Repeat the Oath.”

“I, Damon Anthony Kemp, give my fealty and oath to you, the Baron King, to my brothers, the Shadows, and to the souls of Forsyth.” My blood hums as I reach for the bone handle, surprised and impressed by the weight.

The handle is smooth, like a hundred hands have worn it down over time.

I feel the surge pulsing through me. The compulsion and want.

I don’t want to rush. I like to savor it. Make it my own.

Parting my lips, I press the tip of the blade just under the base of my index finger, applying the right amount of pressure. A bead of blood surfaces and I drag down, from one end to the other, peeling away the skin. It stings. Sharp, like a bite.

“From blood to blood, a Baron is born. Tonight, I am born anew, at your service, loyal to your command.” I make a fist, feel the warm slick blood coat my palm, and watch my blood drip into the cup, mixing with the others.

I notice that the inside is stained from other years, other oaths.

I lift my chin and look the King in his dark green eyes.

It’s the only part of his body that is visible.

When our gazes meet I feel a connection in the moment.

“If my oath is broken, my loyalty compromised, I will suffer the consequences.”

The Baron King takes the knife from me and stands before us.

“From blood to blood,” he repeats, lifting the chalice into the air.

He steps toward Armand and dips his fingers into the cup, pulling them out coated in blood.

He touches Armand’s forehead, wiping a bloody mark on his flesh.

The pentagram. He does the same to Hunter, and then to me.

The blood is warm. The scent nauseating.

I feel as if the blood has been burned into my skin.

“Rise! With this mark, my blood becomes yours, making you worthy of participating in this hunt, the final task to claim the title.” He waves forward three men. “Prepare your leaders for the hunt.”

I sense someone behind me, moments before he wraps the cloth over my nose and mouth. Glancing sideways, I see Armand and Hunter, their faces covered the same way. There’s a design over the mouth, the imprint of teeth and bone. I assume mine is the same.

“Every hunter must be stealthy, but also armed,” the King announces. “You will each take one weapon with you.”

He steps before Armand and hands him the bone-handled knife.

“I’ll use it well,” Armand says, running his fingers down the carving.

The King shifts his focus to me, and jerks his chin at one of the Shadows. He walks out with my bow. It’s black. Sleek and deadly.

“You aren’t being sent to kill, but I assure you this will be a fight.”

I wrap my hand around the grip, feeling the comforting weight in my hand. A tickle of excitement flutters in my gut. As I adjust the strings, the King steps toward Hunter.

“You already have your weapon,” he says. “One sharper than any blade. One quieter than any arrow.”

He taps his temple. Once. Twice. Then points at Hunter. “You listen. You wait. You watch.”

A silence drops across the room. Heavy. Intentional. I glance over at Hunter, and yeah–his breath’s caught. I don’t miss it. He tries to keep his expression flat, but I see the flicker. Whatever this is, it’s hitting him somewhere deep.

The King steps in closer, into Hunter’s space.

“You’ll see the cracks where no one’s looking,” he says. His voice is lower now, but I hear it all. Every word. “You’ll find what they bury. You’ll witness what they want to hide. And I have no doubt, you’ll find the girl.”

There’s something about the way Hunter nods–slow, measured, almost reverent. Like he’s finally being seen for what he is. Not a kid. Not just a voice behind a mic or a freak with a dog. Something colder. Smarter. Meaner.

And maybe I get it.

He’s not like the others, puffed up and swinging weapons around. Armand’s over there practically jerking off to the knife in his hand. The others are tense, waiting for orders. But Hunter? He’s already writing his own script.

The King steps back, satisfied, and Hunter just stands there. I’ve seen killers. I’ve seen manipulators. Whatever he is, he’s the kind that waits ‘til the lights are out and the locks are off.

And I get it, now more than ever–why he’s dangerous.

Why the King chose him.

The moment passes and the King looks over our heads and announces, “Bring in the girl.”

My shoulders tense in anticipation. ‘The Girl’ is the biggest perk of being a Royal in a Forsyth frat.

The Lords have their Lady, the Dukes their Duchess, and of course the Princes’ and their Princess, who has just given birth to the newest heir.

The Baroness belongs to us, and I’m itching to get my hands on her.

The hard click of heels echoes off the stone path, and I turn my head in that direction.

I blink in confusion when I see the woman walking into the ring.

She’s gorgeous. Sexy as hell, in a black dress and five-inch heels.

She’s bold and strong, and I realize immediately that although she's a Baroness, she’s not our Baroness.

“Regina, my Sinister Sister,” the King says, gesturing for the woman to approach. “Lovely as always. Have you prepared your sister for the ceremony?”

“Yes,” she says, climbing the steps to the throne. She bends and presses a kiss against his neck. “She’s all ready for you, Daddy.”

On the other side of Hunter, I don’t miss how Armand’s eyebrow arches at the endearment.

He’s the only one of us who has seen the new Baroness, apparently sent to pick her up from the hospital.

It’s known that this girl, Arianette Hexley, was snatched off the streets and held captive for three weeks.

Hunter reported on the situation on his show and it’s been all over the news.

Images of her were locked down, apparently for her safety, or maybe at the King’s command.

Armand didn’t say much about her, just that she was unhinged, and should be ‘fun.’

Movement from the path draws my attention and like a shift of fog, she emerges.

I soak her in, this girl that will belong to us.

She’s nothing like the woman that walked in before her with confidence and grace.

She’s smaller, a little younger, and her eyes catch me off guard, big and brown, uneasy .

Her straight hair frames her neck–brown skin smooth, soft-looking. Skin I’m itching to touch.

I worry the ring in my lip, checking out her tits.

They’re full, nipples peaked at the cool night air, and I can already imagine them threaded with my needle, the heavy weight of a piercing at the tips.

Her waist tapers before flaring out into curvy hips and my fingers curl, thinking about what she’ll feel like.

She steps into the torchlight, and it’s impossible not to notice the circles under her cautious eyes or the timidness in her walk.

“Arianette,” the King greets her, “welcome.”

I watch how he looks at her, trying to see if there’s a hint of something there, an attraction or affection.

It’s known that they are arranged to have a Black Wedding, which makes no sense in the scheme of things.

No one has told us how this will work. Isn’t he married already?

Although I’ve never seen this wife. How will we share the girl who is married to our King?

All I see is formality. A contract among the elders in the community.

Forsyth is weird as fuck, and here I am with a bloody pentagram painted on my forehead, about to dive in head first.

Arianette passes in front of us, her long, thin limbs moving gracefully. She’s not shy, her gaze skimming over the three of us. It’s hard to tell in the torchlight, but I think she bares her teeth.

I try to get a read on her, but it’s hard.

On the outside, she may look easy to break, malnourished, and weak, but prison taught me not to underestimate anyone. This girl was chosen for a reason.

“Come close,” the King tells her, and she moves to the bottom step, the hem of her dress swishing against her calves.

Regina sits on the arm of his chair, his hand trailing over her thigh as he stands.

“These are your Barons, sworn to the brotherhood by blood and oath.” His hand lifts, a finger pointing at each of us. “Armand, Hunter, and Damon.”

Her gaze flicks down the line, and I feel the oddest sensation build in my chest. Something dark and powerful that doesn’t dissipate, even after she’s returned her focus to the King.

“And you,” he continues, “shall become Baroness, ascending to the place of royalty if you survive the night, replacing the current Daughter of Darkness.” The two women, who couldn’t be more opposite in demeanor, share a glance.

Regina, all precision and poise in her smooth braids and straight spine, a woman who carved her place into the Barons and at the side of the King.

Her ebony skin shimmers beneath the firelight, drinking in its warmth like a shield.

Arianette, wide-eyed and fidgeting, skin catching the warm glow along her high cheekbones with a soft, untested sheen–less a royal and more a girl playing with the idea of being one.

“At the strike of midnight, the hunt will begin. Only the marked can participate, but my Shadows will be there to keep the game in motion. They know not to touch, not to interfere, but they are loyal to their leaders and will assist them.”

He bends, lifting Arianette’s chin with his gloved fingertips. “Do you understand, my Daughter of Night?”

She looks up at him, those dark eyes wide, and I wish I knew what was going on in her crazy little head.

When she speaks her voice is low–reverent. “I understand.”

“You may start at the first toll.” I look around, wondering what clock he’s referring to. “A head start, as your Barons will come at the final toll. You start the night an innocent, but you’ll end it as part of the fold, one of us. Claimed by darkness.”

I hear it, the deep chime echoing across the night. The clock tower. Did that crazy fucker actually get the Dukes to wind it up?

He drops his hand and raises both arms into the air. “Let the hunt begin!”

Arianette seems frozen, her feet glued to the ground, her eyes darting to Regina who hisses, “Run!”

That seems to snap her out of it, and she zig-zags past. Before I can even process it, she’s gone, vanished into the dark.

“Whoever captures her first will give her the mark,” the King reminds us as the clock counts to twelve. “And the sooner you catch her, the longer you will have to claim the Baroness. There are no limits, except the one.”

Each and every one of us has already sworn to this one rule, when we accepted the pledge to brN.

The Baroness is to survive the night a virgin.