Page 56 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

A rianette

“I do.”

The words echo in my chest as I stand at the edge of the reception.

It’s held in the garden behind the House of Night.

Strings of amber lights flicker along the cobbled paths, creating something magical.

Samhain night settles heavy over Forsyth and there’s only a few hours left before the veil slips away for another year.

There’s fire in the air–actual bonfires, crackling at the far corners of the lawn–casting a glow of yellow light over the tables of food and drink.

It’s a feast I hadn’t even realized was being prepared: roasted meat, figs stuffed with blue cheese, candied apples, all topped off with spiced red wine that stains the lips of the wealthy like communion.

The flowers out here burst with color. Reds, yellows, and orange, nestled in vases that look like skulls. It’s the opposite of inside the chapel. Out here under the stars and moonlight is a celebration, a party. I’m just too nervous to enjoy it.

I’d gotten separated from the King when I went to the bathroom to clean up, and now I’m stuck wandering alone, barefoot, my shoes kicked off the instant I stepped into the grass.

People gather in little clutches, coats draped over black-tie finery, drinks in hand.

The guests are still buzzing about the ceremony.

“That was wild ,” a girl in a sequined shawl gushes to a date in a velvet tux. “I mean–did you see the altar? What do you think happened back there?”

Her date sips from a blood-red glass. “It was a lot. I was here for a wedding three years ago for one of the brothers, but it was much more tame.”

“The King’s always been a bit dramatic,” someone else chimes in. “It wouldn’t be a Baron wedding without a little blood.”

I drift through the garden, the hem of my satin gown brushing fallen leaves, trying to ignore the ache between my legs. Last night the sensation of the King’s fingers had been a painful intrusion, but what happened on that altar was much more. An invasion between my hips.

Now I walk as though nothing happened. Like I can’t feel the blood soaked into my panties, or remember what the object he’d inserted in me looked like after the King showed it to my uncle. He’d grinned down at the white satin, now stained red, and shook the King’s hand.

The deal, whatever it had been for, was secured.

Most people at the party seem oblivious, but a few have a knowing look in their eyes. The Lords’ King and Lady–Killian and Story–offer a small smile and raised glasses. Tristian walks up with a plate piled high with fruit and other delectables from the buffet table.

“Eat,” he offers the plate to Story. “I know you’re starving.”

“I’m saving room for cake,” she tells him, nodding over to the dessert table. “There are two, and I want a piece of each.”

“Sweetheart, I know you’ve got a sugar addiction, but it’s not like you’re Verity and eating for two.”

“She’s not eating for two, dipshit,” the dark-haired Lord–Dimitri Rathbone–says, fingers wrapped loosely around a bottle of beer. “She’s already had the baby.”

Tristian rolls his eyes. “She’s nursing the baby. How do you think she gets the extra calories to feed him too?”

“Are you saying that if I get pregnant I can have extra cake?” Story asks, tapping her chin thoughtfully.

“Jesus,” Killian mutters. “Tris, stop monitoring Story’s food. We’re at a party for God’s sake. Rath, seriously, don’t be a dipshit, and Story…” His hand flattens on her belly, “as much as I want to see your belly filled up with our baby–”

“And some super big tits. Have you seen Verity’s tits?” Tristian whistles. “No wonder they left the party early.”

Story pinches him in the side. “Gross. They left early so she could get home to her son .”

Killian sighs. “Like I said, as much as I want to see your belly filled up with our baby, we are in no way prepared to handle that right now, even though there may be perks for all of us.”

I slink away, feeling like I just heard way too much about the Lords, Verity’s tits, and their conception plans.

I move quickly and stumble straight into Remy Maddox and Lavinia, who are speaking with a couple of older guests, cloaked in black and silver.

Remy’s hand grips Lavinia’s hip, his thumb making tiny circles. Their voices hush when I approach.

“Arianette,” a woman says, stepping out from the little group. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m Sarah, and these are my husbands, Manny and Davis.” She gestures to the two handsome men with her. “We wish you all the best.”

They offer their congratulations, and I can’t help but note that her tone is soft, genuine , like she means it, unlike many of the other people here.

But I also see the small crease at the corner of her eye.

Worry? It makes me uncomfortable, and I shift my gaze to Lavinia. She gives me a small smile.

“Your dress is gorgeous,” she says. “Looks like one of Jade’s, don’t you think, Rem?”

Those startling green eyes skim down my body and then he shrugs. “Could be.”

“It is,” I grin, “Jaded Society? Do you know her?”

“We’re friends,” he allows, eyes listing to the side. I notice his thumb is still on her hip, but no longer moving. “Your choice?”

I shake my head. “No, the King gave it to me as a gift.”

“Black,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “As if.”

There’s an awkward moment, mostly because I’m trying to decipher his words, but Sarah breaks it saying, “It’s nice to know the King is supporting small creatives in Forsyth.”

“Rem,” the husband with the darker complexion says, “let’s go get some food.”

“Grab me something too,” Lav calls after the men as they walk off.

I exhale, and look around. “I should probably find…” I feel my eyes widen, “my husband. How weird is that to say?”

“Super weird,” Lavinia says. Sarah shoots her a stern look. “You know, just because it’s new and stuff.”

I nod and step back, meeting something hard. Hands steady my hips, just for a moment. “Careful, Baroness.”

I don’t have to look to know it’s Hunter, but I turn, grateful for a reason to escape.

“Have you seen the King?” I ask, searching through the sea of black suits and gowns.

“He sent me to find you. Said you shouldn’t be wandering around on your own.” His chin lifts, and I follow the direction he indicates to see The King near a dais. It’s the first time I’ve noticed it.

As we cross the yard, we pass a table of women near one of the bonfires.

They’re young. Pretty in the polished, practiced way of royalty. They’re not crypt chasers, at least not current ones. It’s not their looks that get my attention, but their conversation.

“I couldn’t sleep with a man I’ve never seen,” the one in a faux-fur stole says, taking a bite of a honey-drenched tart. “I don’t care how rich he is.”

“Do you think he takes the mask off during sex?” Her friend giggles. “Or does he make her close her eyes?”

A third girl, blonde and bored-looking, pops a pomegranate seed between her teeth. “He’s old. No one even knows how old. I bet he can’t even get it up.”

“Oh my god,” the girl in fur says, laughing. “His sperms are probably like the dinosaurs. Dusty and extinct.”

The group dissolves into sharp little giggles, their laughter shattering the air like glass.

I freeze, the taste of wine thick on my tongue. My skin prickles.

“Ignore them,” Hunter says, continuing to walk. He touches me more often now, but it’s still rare, brief gestures as he’s herding me in one direction or the other. “They have no fucking idea what you’ve been through.”

He’s right. They didn’t feel the altar’s cold stone against their back. They didn’t see the look in his eyes behind the mask when he took what I offered–not just my body, but my blood, my breath, my fear.

They didn’t hear me cry when the object pushed inside, breaking me, or when Damon stifled the sound with the palm of his hand.

They didn’t feel the way the King’s mouth–hot, intimate and reverent– sealed me to him.

The girls keep laughing, oblivious. I take a step back, breath catching in my throat.

“They can talk all they want,” he continues, his hand tensing at my elbow, adding, “but you’re the one he claimed.”

He delivers me to the base of the dais where the Baron King waits.

His black mask shimmers in the bonfire, sleek and gleaming, the surface broken only by the curling gold tips of the horns rising from his crown.

My fingers itch to pull it off–to see the face of the man I just married–not just the tease that is only enough to imagine more.

The line of his jaw is unmistakable. Sharp, rugged.

Masculine in a way that confirms he has long been a man, and the thought makes something flutter low in my belly.

He watches me approach with a calm I realize he projects in public, not the deep intensity he showed me when he ordered me into the cage. When I reach the steps, he rises. Doesn’t offer a hand. Just turns and ascends, expecting me to follow.

I do.

The throne is different from the others, because there are two seats on the red tufted cushion. Next to that are two smaller thrones, one for each Baron.

Just in case anyone forgets, I’m still the Baroness for the House of Night. Damon and Hunter claim their seats and the music dims as cloaked servers approach the dais, offering me a silver chalice embedded with jewels. The King takes another, its bronze finish matching his ring.

Once everyone has their own drink, Graves steps forward, his cloak rustling behind him like wings.

“On this sacred night of Samhain,” he begins, his voice rich with gravitas, “when the veil thins and the dead draw near, we bear witness to a union that will mark this house for decades to come.”

He raises the glass higher.

“To the Baron King and his Bride. Let this binding stand against the rot of the modern world. Let it remind us that power is not taken, but offered , and blood is never given freely, but with sacrifice.”

I feel the King shift beside me, pleased.