Page 53 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

D amon

What the fuck have I gotten into?

That’s all I can think as I take in the hundreds of candles burning from every crevice.

There are sconces and candelabras and tall stands flanking the altar.

Bowls of firelight flickering at the end of each pew.

Shadows dance across stone and gold, licking up toward the arched ceiling like something sentient.

It’s dark, on purpose. The kind of dark that swallows sound, expectation, and doubt.

I’ve never felt so out of place.

There’s no color here, not in the vases of flowers around the room.

The petals, like everything else in the room, are ash white, drained of color entirely, or dyed black.

Whoever put this together, and I assume it’s goblins that live underground, did their work quietly, turning a dusty old sanctuary into all this.

The chapel is ready, and I assume, somewhere nearby, so are the King and Baroness.

Hunter stands beside me, silent, his cloak pulled up around his neck, hands jammed into the deep folds of velvet.

He doesn’t look at me, but I can feel the energy coming off him in waves.

He’s tightly wound, and it coils in his shoulders, his jaw.

We’re both dressed like acolytes to something ancient and unspoken.

We’re not groomsmen. We are watchmen.

Witnesses , the King said.

We’re here to make sure the King gets what he wants.

“Is this normal?” Hunter asks me, eyes focused on the Shadows moving at the back of the chapel as they begin to usher in the guests. “I’ve never been to a wedding before.”

“Nothing in this godforsaken town is normal,” I mutter.

The Shadows play into all of it, emerging like wisps of smoke from the outer doors they move deliberately, their faces obscured, escorting the soft rustle of silk and wool down the main aisle. Black formalwear only–rules established by the King himself.

Forsyth’s upper echelon walks in–a blend of old money, young ambition, and quiet curiosity.

Many are alumni–identifiable by the rings on their fingers or pentagrams pinned to their lapels.

They look comfortably at home. The others?

Well, it’s obvious they’ve never been invited inside the stone walls of the House of Night.

They gape as they walk in, filling the creaky wooden pews, excluding the three that remain empty at the front, the ends draped with rope, reserved.

“Who are those for?” I ask.

“The Royals,” Hunter says, nodding at the back of the room. Sure enough, once the normies are seated, they start down the aisle.

Killian Payne is impossible to miss. He’s a wall of a man, all former football bulk dressed in custom wool.

He looks the most at ease, probably because he was the only one raised for his position.

His stepsister, Story, walks beside him–small, soft and graceful, the kind of woman who could slit your throat and smile doing it.

Together, they look a perfect match, a king and queen on the chessboard.

They nod once to me and Hunter as they turn into the pews.

Flanking them are Killian’s inner circle–Tristian Mercer, all blond hair and cocky smirk, a champagne-drunk gleam in his eyes.

He looks like he’s already bored and thinking of ways to get in the Lady’s skirt during the reception.

Next to him, Dimitri Rathbone, quieter, darker, and suspicious of everything.

As he should be.

“We had someone check for weapons at the door, right?” I ask Hunter quietly as they settle into the first row.

He nods. “Carson and Rob.”

“Good.”

Killian’s barely wedged his body in the narrow pew when movement near the narthex draws our attention. The Dukes come in next.

Sy enters like a bear in a china shop, like he’s stepping into the ring during the Fury.

His skin glows warm against the candlelight, his dark curls tucked back in a polished fade, and those eerie blue eyes scanning the room with measured calm.

Lavinia trails slightly behind. Her blue hair is three shades darker than it was at the Fury, and her dress is slinky, the black making her pale skin nearly translucent.

Her hand remains on her King’s arm, but it’s clear she doesn’t belong to just him.

Nick Bruin walks in next–wild-eyed and mercenary.

No one in the chapel is fooled by the suit.

The inked numbers under his eye are a signal declaring what lies underneath: Mayhem.

Halfway to his seat a middle-aged woman in the pews catches his eye.

A silent conversation flits between them, and his shoulders relax–slightly.

Interesting.

And then… Remy.

Christ. My old roommate strolls in less like a Duke and more like a God.

This is his house, his bloodline direct to the Barons’ legacy.

His coat is expensive, possibly custom design, his shirt strategically crumpled.

The knot on his tie is loose, matching the casual smirk tugging at his lips.

His white-blond hair is tousled in a way that lets you know he just fingerbanged his Duchess on the car ride over.

He saunters down the aisle like the son of the devil–which, arguably, he is–and then stops halfway to the pew.

“Can’t believe we’re all dressed up to watch a girl get sacrificed,” he mutters under his breath, loud enough for a few people nearby to hear.

Sy doesn’t turn, but Lavinia snaps her head in his direction. Remy just shrugs and slouches into his seat, throwing his long arm behind Sy’s shoulders to stroke the Duchess’ neck. The row tightens with tension, like a wire pulled taut.

I look through the crowd for his father, Timothy Maddox, to see his response to his son’s outward defiance, but he isn’t here. I met him once–the day we moved into the dorm. He was polished and intimidating, in a suit when everyone else was dressed to haul in suitcases and boxes.

I couldn’t judge. My parents didn’t bother to come.

I realize that no one else in the chapel is looking for him, because every other eye is on the back of the room.

“Is that the Princess?” I ask, seeing the redhead at the arched doorway.

Hunter, the search engine of Royals, nods. “Yep, according to Everly at the station, this is the first time she’s been seen in public since having Justice.”

With hair the color of fire, she walks down the aisle in a black velvet gown, tits about to spill out of the neckline. Her hips are rounded, and there’s a subtle curve to her belly. It strikes me hard and fast: motherhood is sexy.

Whitaker Kayes Ashby walks just behind her. Blonde, blue-eyed, more comfortable in his suit than I ever could be in jeans. His last name tells the story. Kayes is the name connected to Clive Kayes, the man everyone assumes is behind the Baron King’s mask. His grandfather.

Both Wicker and Remy have more of a right to be in this cloak than either Hunter or I do, yet both have abdicated their legacy. It’s confusing, but also further proof the bloodlines in Forysth twist and turn like a vine strangling its own roots.

To Verity’s right is Pace Ashby. Of everyone in the room I probably have more in common with him than anyone else.

We met in lockup and were released on the same day.

He looks intimidating, buff from hours of playing hockey, but nothing is as scary as his mind.

He’s the most alert person in the room–the most paranoid–scanning every corner like he expects an enemy to strike from the shadows.

Every few seconds, his hand brushes the Princess’ lower back, grounding her.

Our eyes meet as he eases into the pew, and he lifts his chin in recognition.

“You know him?” Hunter whispers.

“As much as you can know someone in a ten-by-ten cinderblock room.”

His eyebrow lifts, but the Princes’ procession wraps up with Lex Ashby taking his seat. The long hair gives him a sense of serenity that balances the others. He takes Verity’s hand and kisses her knuckles. Together, they are a wall. A unit. Protective to the edge of paranoia.

Hunter shifts beside me. I don’t look at him, but I know we’re both thinking the same thing: the ceremony has barely started and it’s already weird as hell.