Page 52 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

They draw me toward a sunken marble tub steaming with milky water. Rose petals float at the surface. I step in carefully, and the heat burns at my skin.

They pile my hair into a bonnet, my braids still neat from the day before.

The stylist had taken hours, but I’d asked for them, wanting the same, sleek look Regina had when she stood by the king.

With them safely out of the way, the women bathe me, scrubbing away the old Arianette and transforming her into something new.

Dried off and smelling of flowers, they stretch me on a table, and wax me top to bottom, murmuring small apologies when I wince. I stare at the ceiling beams and try not to cry.

Good girls don’t cry.

It isn’t pain that gets to me, anyway. It’s the fact that I feel removed from everything, like I’ve already left my body and someone else is preparing this one in my place.

For once in my life, I don’t want to lose myself. I want to remember this.

“I know it’s painful, but it’s important that you be ready for him,” one of the women says, assessing her work. “Even under the circumstances, the King deserves a proper bride.”

Another pipes up, “Not just proper. Obedient.”

“Soft.”

“Good,” I say before I can stop myself. I’ve never been any of those things with the King. I killed his Baron. I stole from his room. I fought against his punishment. I’m not good and he knows it.

“You’re the Baroness, so I’m sure you know your way around a man’s body,” my cheeks heat at her knowing look, “but a man like the King will be different. You’re there to meet his needs, however wicked they may seem.”

Wicked.

The word rolls about my brain. That sounds much more like me than ‘good.’ I’m still tasting the word on my tongue, their firm fingertips slathering me with lotion, when Regina returns. Her eyes rest on my nipples, at the healing silver bars that have started to feel better instead of worse.

“Those are new.”

“Damon gave them to me,” I explain, happily accepting a clean robe.

“As part of his Claiming?”

“Later,” I say, sitting in a chair that swivels, “after the ceremony.”

If she has any opinion, she keeps it to herself, coming up behind me with a silver tin. She removes the bonnet, letting my hair fall, and begins working jojoba oil into my scalp. She’s careful, methodical, part caretaker and part priestess.

At my feet, a woman crouches, painting my toes with a glossy black polish.

“You're going to be sore after,” she says, handing me a tiny glass vial of white crystals. Salt. “Bathe in this if you bleed too much. It helps.”

One of the women who gave me my bath leans in, more daring, and adds, “If he lets you ride him, rock forward on your knees. Don’t just lie there like a corpse.”

My mouth goes dry. “What…what if I don’t know how?”

They all pause.

“You’ll figure it out fast,” the woman at my feet says. “Or he’ll teach you.”

“Or punish you,” Regina mutters from behind me. She runs a brush through the ponytail, making the hair shiny and curl at the end, then sprays a light oil over the top.

“He already has,” I admit, catching her dark eyes with mine. “He put me in the cage.”

She pauses. “The one under the bed?”

“Yes.” My heart hammers, not out of fear, but possible camaraderie. “Did he lock you in there too?”

“Not the King. It was one of my Barons,” she says. “He got jealous once that I was flirting with someone else. Thought it would teach me a lesson.”

“Did it?”

“Yes and no. I was committed to my Barons so that was pointless, but I realized that he was projecting his betrayal and disloyalty on me. He was the one cheating–”

“With another woman?” I blurt.

“God, no. With another king . He was working for Ashby behind the Baron King’s back.

Caused a lot of trouble and ultimately cost him his life.

” She shakes her head. “I saw the signs, I just couldn’t place them.

He was paranoid, accusatory. He’d flip everything back on me or the other Barons, act like we were the ones at fault. ”

“I killed Armand,” I admit. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. “He caught me in the Hunt and despite the King’s strict directions he tried to rape me.”

Her lips twist, impressed. “Seems like you have better instincts than I do.”

I shrug. “Maybe. He wasn’t trying to hide it…”

‘You never should have run and once you did, you never should have stopped.’

His words slam back into me, the threats he made right before I slit his throat. It was like he knew me. Or knew of me.

“The King rewards loyalty,” Regina says, drawing me out of that dark place. “You did him a favor.”

She lifts up a piece of black netting–a veil, held together with a shiny black bow.

“Isn’t that a little childish?” I ask, thinking of how offended the Barons were at my schoolgirl outfit.

“He’ll like it,” she assures me, pinning the oversized black satin into place at the back of my head. It’s huge, sticking out from both sides of my head. “It makes you look young.”

“I am young,” I note.

She meets my eyes in the mirror. “Exactly.”

Daddy , she had called him the night of the Hunt. She’s his true Daughter of Darkness. I’m his burden.

I want to ask her how to make him like me, to accept me, but I remember the advice given to me in the glass jar and decide not to. I already know. Regardless, she’s already moved on, and I’m directed into another room where I see it: the dress.

It’s spread across the table like a shroud. Black satin, boned corset, lace sleeves so tight they feel like a second skin. Carefully, I touch the soft satin, fingering the tag sewn into the back.

Jaded Society

“Did Adeline pick this out?” I’d half expected the dress to be a glaring white, maybe with tiny roses around the edge.

“Actually,” Regina says, reaching into a nearby box, “there’s a card I’m supposed to give you.” The envelope is black and one of the women hands me a nail file to loosen the wax seal. Inside is a small card, I flip it open and read the smooth penmanship.

Arianette–

You’ll walk into the chapel a girl.

You’ll walk out a queen.

Do not disappoint me.

–Your King

A chill runs down my spine, and I hold the letter close to my chest, not letting the others see. “The King gave this to me.”

Regina lifts the dress and holds it out. “It looks exactly like what I’d expect him to pick.”

I quell my shaking as she and the others help lace me into it, pulling the strings until my ribs feel like they might crack. I gasp and lean forward, trying to suck in enough air to stay conscious.

“Don’t faint,” the woman that painted my toes says, patting my cheek. “At least not until after the vows.”

When the dress is fully on, I hardly recognize myself. The bodice is sculpted to my body, the corset pressing my breasts high and full–seductive. The skirt sweeps back into a long train trimmed in velvet and subtle embroidery. My arms are bare from the elbows down, pale and trembling.

This is the woman he expects to see walking down the aisle, apart from one thing.

The collar.

Our eyes meet as she carries it to me, like she’s well aware of what this is–what it means .

Slim red leather, buttery soft, with an interior that looks worn.

I think of how he said my grandmother wore it.

My mother too? I never knew her, but I suppose she did, maybe until she died, pushing me into the world.

It fastens at the back of my neck with a delicate silver clasp, but the ring at the front is what catches my eye.

Ornamental, yes–but also practical. Like something could be hooked into it.

I remember the box my uncle brought it in. Lined in black velvet. I remember how his hands looked holding it, offering it as a reminder that as long as I wear it around my neck, I still belong to him.

Regina buckles it around my throat. Her fingers linger a moment too long.

I swallow. It tightens.

They stand back and admire their work. I look like a little ghost bride, trussed and ribboned, the scent of roses and sugar clinging to my skin. My reflection blinks at me like she’s about to cry. Or scream.

Regina steps beside me and pulls the veil down over my face. “You’re ready.”

Ready.

For the ceremony.

For the King.

For the final claiming.

After tonight, I won’t belong to my uncle anymore, or the secrets in the Manor. I won’t belong to anyone but him.