Page 51 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

A rianette

The door shuts and I wait a moment, listening as Damon walks down the hall toward the room he shares with Hunter. He didn’t ask, or demand, to come in, which surprised me a little. I want to learn to trust him, especially after how he was tonight.

I know it’s not really a sacrifice to have my mouth on him like that.

But the act goes beyond the sexual. It’s calming in a way I don’t fully understand.

The first time had been purely on impulse, but tonight…

that had been intentional and it shifts things into new territory.

I’m not sure why, but I understand that it does.

I shiver, noticing that the bedroom is cold, like someone opened a window and forgot to close it. But there’s no breeze. Just still air and the light scent of flowers curling in through the curtains.

Ready for the night to be over, I strip off the wrinkled dress, the hem damp and dirty from walking near the boat ramp.

It’d been interesting seeing that side of Forsyth–that side of Damon.

No less crass and rough than the other parts of the city, or of the man, but less polished.

We were on the quiet outskirts, where it felt a little more real. More authentic.

I’m too tired to shower, only taking the time to wash my hands and face.

I avoid my reflection, turning to slip a cotton nightgown over my head, not wanting to look at the girl who is about to become a woman.

A wife . I’m ready to put the past behind me, both the memories and the scars.

I pull the silk bonnet over my head and flip off the bathroom light.

I’m halfway to the bed when I see it: a glass jar nestled against my pillowcase.

I pause, breath caught in my chest, and look around the room.

It’s quiet and still. Nothing else out of place.

Stepping closer, I see that there’s a ribbon the color of burnt orange wrapped around the lip, with a small rectangular tag attached.

It’s squat and sealed, like a canning jar used for jam.

But inside, I see slips of paper. Folded carefully, each one identical, packed into the small space.

I don’t move for a moment. My spine itches.

I think of the gifts my uncle gave the King for our wedding, the rod and collar.

Is this just another one of his humiliations, another attempt to pour salt in my wounds, to remind me of who I belong to?

Did he sneak in here after Ares chased him to his car and leave me one last piece of him?

No. That doesn’t feel right. Owen Hexley likes to see the discomfort on the face of his victims. He likes an audience, and this is too private, too intimate. There's no malice in the air.

I sit. The mattress gives under me and the jar rolls toward me. I pick it up and lift the tag. Scrawled in script it says: The Chrysalis Notes.

The words mean nothing to me, and I unscrew the lid. The scent hits me first, parchment and ink. I sniff the contents and catch the slightest hint of rose.

I take the first slip out and before I unfold it, look around again, making sure I’m truly alone.

The King protects what’s his. So mark him. Claw his back. Leave lipstick on his cock. Let the others see you own him, too.

I blink. My lips part, surprised, but no sound comes out. It’s written in cursive–swooping, fast, confident. A woman’s hand. I read it again. It doesn’t change.

I reach for another.

Don’t be fooled by the silence afterward. That’s not shame, it’s worship. He’s just realizing you unmade him and he liked it.

The words are uncomfortably intimate, like I’m reading someone’s journal. That doesn’t stop me from unfolding the next and devouring the words.

After a bad day, feed him something salty, sit on his face while he recovers, then stroke him until he feels whole again.

My cheeks heat at the overt boldness. The sexiness. Addicted now, I dip my fingers in and reach for another slip of paper, this one folded twice, bigger than the others.

He’s going to be angry. Desperate. Challenged by forces outside of his control.

It’ll make him hard. Maybe even cruel. He’ll take it out on you because you’re the only one close enough he can fully trust. Let him.

Show him you can take it. Take him. That you’re the one thing in his life strong enough to break and still come back wanting more. That’s how you win a king.

I read it again, absorbing the words, mind racing trying to figure out who left this. Adeline? Regina? My mind shifts to the woman in the photo on the King’s dresser. His former wife?

I pull another note.

They need softness like they need air. Just don’t let them know you know.

That one hits hard. Different, and I let the short passage roll around in my head for a moment, inhaling the words of advice and support.

There will be a night when he breaks. Don’t panic. Stroke his hair. Swallow his tears. Ride him anyway.

Then: If he collapses after, don’t panic. That’s normal. You’ve just emptied a man who spends all day being God.

A few are sharp, dagger-pointed, and some oddly kind.

You are not a girl anymore. You are the thing he kneels for in private.

And then the ones I feel in my bones.

It’s frightening, isn’t it? To be the thing a powerful man loves most. Because love like his doesn’t end.

It devours. He’ll carve your name into his future, and there will be no exit after that.

But if you can stand it, if you don’t run, you’ll never be unprotected again.

Or untouched. Or unloved. Not even in death.

I pause on that one. My fingers shake. For a second I think I might cry, but then the feeling skips sideways, and I just breathe through it.

I get to the last one.

He needs them as much as he needs you. Your job is to tie them together: body, mind, and soul.

Use your mouth, your words, and yeah, your pussy, to make them stronger.

Let them watch. Let them play. Let them fill you with all the anger, rage, love, and devotion they have.

It’s the only way any of you can survive and ultimately, thrive.

Finished, I lay them out across the bed like little bones, pale and precise, reading them over and over again.

It’s then that I notice some of the handwriting is different.

One flows like poetry. Another is full of capital letters, rushed and chaotic.

One is printed in blocky lowercase, no flourishes at all.

I have no idea who wrote them, but it feels like they know me and what I’m about to go through.

I lay back on the bed, the notes spread beside me, jar clutched to my chest.

Tomorrow I will be the King’s bride.

Tonight, I am something else entirely.

A girl spoken to by women who understand. Or the ones who lived to tell the tale.

Whoever they are, I’m taking their words to heart.

It’s early in the morning when Regina shows up at my room. It feels like I’ve barely slept, Damon and I sneaking in a few hours before dawn. I’m stunned to see her, elegant and regal, standing in the middle of my room.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, rubbing my eyes.

“I came to help you prepare for the ceremony.” A thin eyebrow raises as her gaze sweeps past the gown tossed over the chair by the fireplace, the hem torn and dirty. She steps into the bathroom and comes back out with a robe in her hands. “Put this on.”

A few minutes later we’re exiting the back door and heading down a stone path that leads away from the house toward a cottage nestled at the edge of the forest.

“What is that?” I ask, trying to keep up. Everything in the past few days seems to be moving fast.

“A bathhouse,” she replies. “Used by the monks before the Barons took over. Historically, it’s common for women to have a place of their own, particularly when surrounded by so many men. The King made this for the Baronesses as a way to have rest and rejuvenation.”

The air is cold enough to sting my ankles as we walk, dew gathering on my skin. The robe brushes my thighs, and I clutch it tighter around me, trying not to shiver. Regina doesn’t look back once. She walks with her shoulders back, her heels sharp on the stone and her presence even sharper.

No wonder the King admires her. I bet he never had to lock her in the cage.

Inside the cottage, the heat hits me–humid, floral.

I don’t recognize any of the faces in the room.

The women are of varying ages, too old to be crypt chasers, but still aging gracefully.

There’s a maturity I can’t comprehend, not after growing up in a house full of children.

There’s a sureness and they seem to understand their roles more than I understand mine.

They’re quiet as they whisper to one another and arrange small bowls and silver trays across a long wooden table. A woman smiles when she sees me and beckons me toward a bench near the center of the room. Her critical eye skims down to my dirty feet.

“Sit, honey. We’ve got a lot to do.”

Regina nods at them once and then disappears through a door at the back, leaving me alone.

I lower myself onto the bench as two of the girls begin loosening the robe from my shoulders.

The room spins in rose-petal steam and perfume.

I feel like I’ve been dropped into a different world–one without feral cats, locked cages, and dark secrets.

Like the Gilded Rose, this is a hush-hush place just for women.

“Arms up,” one of the women says softly.

They strip me slowly and even though I try not to flinch, I do.

It’s not that I’m shy–it’s that I still feel sore.

Inside and out. Last night is a raw edge in my brain, the sound of my uncle’s voice, the King’s hands, the soft tremble of my thighs as they were forced apart.

I remind myself that this isn’t a violation.

It’s a celebration, and because of that I don’t resist. I let them undress me. This is part of it.