Page 57 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

“May the old gods bless this night. May the dead take note of what was promised. And may we, ” he pauses for effect, voice low and reverent, “never forget who we are.”

The crowd remains still, as if waiting for the final note.

“Memento Mori,” he finishes, and drinks.

All around us, glasses lift. Some high in the air, others hesitant, wary of our ways. But no one can argue the truth.

Memento Mori.

Remember you must die.

I glance up at the King.

He takes a small sip, but his eyes are on our guests, his expression unreadable behind the mask. Then, slowly, he turns his head toward me. “The reception will be over soon.” He sets down his glass. “And I have something for you.”

From somewhere within his cloak, he draws something between his fingers–a small black tablet, no bigger than a button.

“Natural aphrodisiacs are part of the Barons’ custom.

We’re one with the elements. One with the earth and air.

Fire and water. Everything combined. It sharpens instinct.

Softens resistance. Makes the body remember what the mind tries to forget.

Tonight, you don’t need to overthink the past few days–only feel what’s to come. ”

He holds it out, and I react without direction, opening my mouth, letting him press it to my tongue. His gloved fingers graze my bottom lip.

“You’ll like this one,” he promises, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear it. “It’s clean and won’t mess with your head. Warm. Erotic. You’ll feel it start in your spine then melt between your thighs. Let go. Let the night have you. Let me have you.”

I swallow: the pill and the promise.

He leans back on his throne. “Once they leave the real Baron Samhain will begin.”

I sit beside my husband , the pill already melting down into my bloodstream. Below us, the other Royals start their retreat, the party is ending for them, and soon it will just be the Barons embracing who and what we are.

For once, I feel part of something–not on the outside looking in. Or worse, looking over my shoulder to see who is chasing me.

The party dissolves like a dying spell–embers and smoldering wood. The guests vanish, slipping into cars or disappearing through the estate gates, their duty done. The Shadows don’t follow them. They stay here.

With us.

The party shifts, like the path of the moon, stretching farther into the sky.

The energy changes. Cooler. Hungrier. Someone lights smaller bonfires.

Another uncorks a bottle and pours fizzy champagne into crystal glasses.

The Baron King’s throne has been moved beneath the arching limbs of the forest canopy, now surrounded by low couches and cushions, silk and velvet tossed like offerings across the earth.

How did we get here? I wonder, not remembering. My skin prickles. The Shadows close in. Not oppressive–but possessive. They want to watch.

The King, my husband , leads me there with a gloved hand resting on the small of my back, and I follow without question. The drug is a hum now, coursing warm and heady through my blood. Every sound tastes like sugar. Every movement flutters against my skin like a kiss.

He sits and watches me.

I remain standing, that innate anxiety tripping up my spine. I’m not good enough for him. I’m nothing but a pawn. I’m damaged.

I turn, trying to escape his gaze, coming face to face with Damon.

He’s shirtless now–lean muscle and tattoos in the firelight, that scar at his throat catching a glint of orange.

He’s lounging on the cushions with Hunter beside him, the two of them vibrating with the same lazy energy. But their eyes… they’re sharp. Hungry.

The drug the King gave me hums across my skin. He promised that I’d feel it, but I didn’t know it would pulse in every heartbeat, rise in every touch. The sensation between my legs is no longer an ache of pain, but a deep, throbbing want.

I glance over my shoulder and my eyes meet the King’s.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. But I feel his permission.

So I walk–barefoot across the soft, damp grass, my black dress trailing behind.

Damon catches my wrist and pulls me into his lap, his hands already pushing aside fabric.

“You did a good job up there,” he tells me, fingers stroking against my thigh.

“You were brave and strong, even when he pierced you.”

That’s what it was. A piercing. The sharpest pain I’d felt other than the needles Damon pushed though my nipples. I see a streak in his blue eyes, and ask, “Are you jealous it wasn’t you?”

“Doll baby,” he says, pushing my hair over my shoulder, “everyone at that wedding wishes they were the one that had you sprawled out on that altar and fucking tonight.”

My skin warms, hot from the idea. Of the rich entitled men and women jealous of me . The idea makes me laugh, a giggle bubbling up from the inside. I feel bold. Magical.

Like a queen.

I glance over my shoulder, back at the King, and meet his eyes. Nothing in them tells me to come back over. To stop what I’m doing.

Hunter murmurs from next to me, “Do you like knowing he’s watching?”

I do.

But…

The flicker of doubt must show on my face.

“He gave us rules, you know?” Hunter speaks into the shell of my ear, not quite touching me, low enough no one else can hear. “We were told to get you ready for tonight. He needed you to be pure, but prepared.”

“We could do whatever we wanted to you– except that.” His jaw tenses. “And fuck that pissed me off.”

I close my eyes thinking of all the ways they showed me how to be with a man.

The salty taste of their cum, the way it felt, slick and hot covering my pussy.

Their thickness in my hand, in my mouth.

The feel of the tip of an arrow, the threat of pain, bringing me to orgasm.

The mix of good and bad, and dirty and taboo all combined.

“Sometimes I think he doesn’t want me,” I admit. “That this is all for show.”

Hunter laughs and hooks his finger into the loop of my collar, tugging me close.

“Oh, he wants you.” Damon’s fingers trace down my collarbone and over the swell of my breast. They dip just below the boning in the corset, finding the hard metal bar in my nipple.

It’s less painful now, and more sensitive, pebbling into tight, desperate peaks.

“He may not have touched you since the party started, but that mask of his, it doesn’t hide the hunger.

It’s the way his jaw tenses. The way he grips the armrest like it’s your throat. ”

“How do you know?” I ask.

Damon bites my shoulder, just hard enough to make me twitch.

Hunter shifts next to me, fingers curled into the cushion. “It’s the look of a predator who is ready to pounce.”

“Are you ready for him?” Damon asks. “Because I think if I checked, your pussy would be sloppy wet.”

I shiver and nod.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “Then go to him.”

I rise, missing the heat of Damon’s touch and the reassuring words from Hunter’s mouth.

To my surprise, the King meets me halfway, the Shadows clearing as he gets closer.

He directs me deeper into the woods until we pass through an iron gate, into the darker edge of the forest and to a small clearing.

In the center of the space is a solitary fire pit resting on top of a patio made of smooth, stone pavers.

A single chair sits to the side. I look around and see that just a few feet away, tucked into the trees, is a small cabin.

I’m learning the House of Night, and the sprawling estate surrounding it, is endless and filled with many secret spots.

He stops beside the couch and turns to me. “Dance for me.”

Not a question. Not a request. A command from my husband.

I blink up at him. “Here?”

His mask tips downward, and the corner of his mouth moves, just enough to let me see the edge of a smirk. “You’re a dancer, aren’t you?”

I nod, but I haven’t danced for anyone since I left the Manor. Since they found me by the river and I came back from the dark place with bruises on my thighs and scars on my wrists.

Still, I step onto the stone.

The satin of the gown clings to my legs. I lift the damp hem, knotting it at my hip. He watches from the edge of the torchlight, silent, hooded, shadowed. I can feel his gaze like teeth on my skin.

I close my eyes and count.

One, two, three, four…

It starts slow. A lift of the arms, a turn of the head. I rise onto the balls of my feet, arching my spine. My hands paint lines in the air as I twist, a slow pas de chat that melts into a broken arabesque. My hair spills down my back as I pivot again, this time with more violence.

The steps get faster, sharper. Not ballet anymore–something rawer, more feral.

Like I’m becoming part of this night, twirling in the veil itself.

Neither here nor there for once in my life, but everywhere.

I want him to see this side of me, the one where I’m confident in my arms and legs. Where I’m stable .

Breathing quickly, I leap and land in a crouch, then look up at him through my lashes. Baring my teeth, I let out a final hiss. I understand innately that this is the moment. The place before and after, more than the wedding itself or all the rites and rituals that led up to it.

He’s still watching, his gloved fingers curled around the armrest of the couch.

He knows it too.

I stand slowly, one leg stretched behind me, arms open like an offering.

A long beat stretches between us. I could keep going, or…

“Is this what you wanted?” I whisper. The real question buried underneath: Am I?

His voice answers, low and hungry, a tone I haven’t heard from him before: “Almost.”