Page 55 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

T imothy

I stand at the altar, shadowed beneath the flickering chandelier of candles, my cloak heavy across my shoulders, the mask pressed firmly to my face.

Every eye in the room, from the city's elite, to the snakes in elegant clothing, to the young Royals in the front rows–including my son–have their eyes on the bride as she walks toward me.

We aren’t the only ones in the room. There are ghosts dead and alive that seem to linger just beyond the candlelight, sitting in judgment, waiting for me to fail.

Again.

The chapel is cold stone and smoke, the scent of incense clinging to the air like blood to silk. My gloves are black leather. My vows memorized, twisted and old.

And then, she appears.

Arianette. Walking slowly, almost tentative, down the center aisle.

Black satin clings to the curves of her body, making her look both hard and soft. Her veil floats over her shoulders, grazing the swell of her breasts.

Then that bow. It’s bigger than the width of her head. Sexy, yet innocent.

Daughter of Darkness. The Barons’ Sinister Sister. Our Baroness.

My bride.

Despite everything I know–her fragility, her madness, the violence threaded through her blood–I’m struck by how she carries herself, those flaws and deviances tucked away.

The difference between a Black Wedding and my first, conventional one, is that this is a binding between two parties where something is gained and lost by both sides. It can be legal, financial, or proprietary: Land. Money. People.

Or in some cases, secrets.

This arrangement is a little of all three, and I feel a wicked heat lick my spine as I drag my eyes down Arianette’s body, stilling them over the gentle sway of her hips.

One thing that is always required: a virgin sacrifice.

A trembling creature made to be claimed, to be torn apart by a man with unlimited power.

By night’s end, she’ll hate me, and I’ll hate myself more.

Pulling my gaze from her, I look to the pews, where my eyes find Remington’s cool, bored glare. His bottom lip twitches and just next to his half-brother’s ear, I see his middle finger flip in the air.

Fuck you.

For all the regret I have over losing him to the Dukes, I see the sharp clarity in his eyes.

He’s healthy in a way I never could give him.

Stable, without losing his personality to a medicinal haze.

Remington loathes me. All the Royals do.

I represent everything they detest. I’m old and unfeeling, traditional.

I’m the enemy and none of them will rest until I’m deep in the ground like the kings they have already toppled.

I should be standing here with him, a proud father and best man. Instead, I’m waiting for the young woman–the innocent pawn–walking toward me.

The music slows as she reaches the altar and I snap back to the moment. I owe her that.

The veil trembles slightly over her lips. I wonder if it’s from nerves or fear–or both.

With gloved fingers, I reach forward and gather the delicate edge of her veil. The mesh is fine, soft as breath, and for a brief moment I hesitate, aware that this act, this unveiling, is more than ceremonial. It’s a claiming. A stripping away of what’s left of her girlhood.

The mesh lifts, I draw it back, and then I see her.

Excitement.

That is what the trembling is from. I see it now as she fights to still herself, head slightly bowed, but I feel the heat of her gaze before I meet it.

She is a vision, made for this altar. Skin rich and flawless, glowing against the black satin of her gown.

Her lips, painted plum-dark, quiver just enough to betray her nerves.

And those eyes, deep brown, wide and unblinking, search mine with something between fear and devotion, as if trying to read the shape of her fate in the man about to bind her.

She’s beautiful in a way that unnerves me. Too soft for this life. Too fragile for what’s ahead. And yet, strong enough to endure this madness.

My fingers twitch. I want to remove the gloves. I want to feel her skin, the curve of her cheekbone, the tremble in her jaw. I want to see if she flinches.

I don’t.

Instead, I let my eyes drop to the collar wrapped around her throat. Crimson leather. Ornamental to most, but not to me, or the witnesses surrounding the altar. We’re all aware that it’s less of a gift and more of a warning. A reminder of who she belongs to–first to her uncle, and now, to me.

It gleams beneath her veil like blood at the base of a blade, an opening to the swath of smooth skin that gleams in the hollow of her collarbone and her shoulder blades, a temptation that leads to the swell of her breasts, buoyed by youth, marked by temptation.

The top arch of the carving is present–her first mark by the House of Night.

A reminder that she’s worthy of standing next to me. Strong enough.

Graves stands before the altar, dressed in ceremonial black, the bronze medallion of the Barons glinting at his throat. He’s the officiant. The witness. The keeper of our old rites.

“Brothers and Sisters,” his voice carries through the chapel, smooth and commanding.

“We are gathered here, in this place of sanctuary, to bear witness to a union forged on the steps of Samhain, a holiest of days, when our world opens to the next. A wedding of souls spanning between life and death. Not of softness, but of strength.”

The crowd shifts, a hush broken by the rustle of breath and fabric. Some lean in, fascinated. Others look away. The discomfort is palpable. Good. It should be.

Graves’ voice cuts through it all. Measured. Unforgiving. “Arianette Hexley. You stand here in the presence of the King of Barons, having offered your body and your blood to bind yourself to this house. Do you give yourself to this union?”

She lifts her chin. There’s a tremble in her breath, but her voice is steady, like a girl who’s already seen hell and decided she’d rather walk straight into the fire than go back.

“I give myself to the King and promise to follow him down the path. A daughter of darkness. A wife of wickedness.”

My gaze never leaves her. Not her painted mouth, parted slightly.

Not the way her lashes lower as she avoids my eyes, like the sight of me might be too much–too real, too dangerous.

She’s trembling, but not with fear alone.

There’s something else beneath it. Anticipation.

Submission. Hunger she hasn’t even learned how to name.

Graves turns to me. “And you, the Keeper of Death, the King and ruler of this territory and the caverns and crypts beneath, do you accept this woman as your bride? To own and to protect. To command and to punish. To keep until death claims you both.”

I step closer.

The scent of her hits me–flowers and incense, something faintly medicinal from the bathhouse and beneath it all, the electric trace of her fear. Her desire. It clings to her skin like perfume.

That collar. Red leather at her throat, trembling as she breathes, waiting for my hand. She’s offering herself–body and blood. And I can see it in the way her hands twitch at her sides, how her pulse hammers just beneath the surface. She wants the fairytale–wants the very thing I can’t give her.

Still, I lean in, my voice pitched for her alone, though the whole chapel hears it.

“I do.”

Her breath hitches, just once, causing her breasts to rise and fall.

And with that, she is mine.

Not just in name. Not just by blood.

But in every broken, burning way that matters.

The guests remain seated, their breath caught in their throats, when Graves raises one hand. “The King and his Bride will now enter the Rite of Flesh and Flame.”

The Shadows move as one.

Hooded figures line the edge of the chapel, arms raised, forming a dark perimeter that ripples with quiet, pulsing magic.

A barrier of shadow rises–soft and undulating like smoke, but thick enough to obscure the altar from the prying eyes of the crowd.

Hunter and DK step forward, silent and solemn.

They lift Arianette in her black gown–one at her back, one beneath her knees–and place her upon the cold, candlelit altar in offering.

She watches me with wide, glassy eyes.

I step to the edge of the altar. Remove my gloves.

The oil waits in its dish, thick and fragrant with dahlia and myrrh.

I begin the rite by pushing the satin up her thighs.

Slow. Reverent. Then removing the lace between her legs.

I dip my fingers into the oil, gliding my fingers across her skin, leaving oil-slick markings in my wake, symbols only the oldest Barons would recognize.

Her body is a map. And I’m rewriting the borders.

She’s trembling, but she does not speak, not even when Graves appears beside me, bearing an ancient reliquary–dark wood and bone, carved with a pentagram. Within it, nestled on white satin, is a ceremonial piece: delicate, wicked, pointed at the end. It’s older than the crypts.

It’s meant for one purpose.

“Blood on the altar, ” Graves intones. “Blood to bind. Blood to break. Let the sanctity of innocence give way to submission.”

I kneel between her thighs, the world narrowing until it is only this, this soft, holy violence.

I part her gently, reverently, softer than I did last night when giving proof to her uncle.

Because of that I know how tight she is.

How punishing the walls of her pussy can be.

I move with swift assurance, pressing the tip of the object forward, breaking her seal.

She gasps and DK’s hand comes down over her mouth, snuffing out any sound. Her hips flinch, but she doesn’t close her legs. Not to me.

The barrier shivers with energy as the moment passes. A thin line of blood wells, red on white satin. A sacrifice given freely. I lower my mouth. Not lust. Not hunger.

A rite.

I press my tongue against her, tasting her–the salt and iron of new blood, sweetened by submission. I lap her once, then again, the heat of her soft lips sending a jolt through my body. She lets out a sound, breathy and broken, and her hand moves to touch my hair before she catches herself.

I catch myself.

This isn’t about pleasure.

This is about ownership.

About claiming something untouched, untainted, and stamping it with the seal of something dark and eternal.

“ It is done, ” I whisper against her skin.

I rise, nodding at Graves, then at DK and Hunter, suddenly aware of the loyalty they’ve shown to me over the past few weeks. The girl is a temptation, one that requires insurmountable strength.

I chose them well.

Arianette’s body stays sprawled upon the altar, her gown rucked up, the hoop on the collar gleaming, a single tear gliding down her cheek. But her eyes? Her eyes are locked on mine, wide and full of something too complicated to name.

Not love.

But something sacred, and for the briefest moment I see something else: a future.