Page 62 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

D amon

I wake at the click of the bedroom door. I'm used to it by now–Hunter taking Ares out for his morning ritual. Still, this morning it yanks me half out of a dead sleep, my head pounding, mouth dry as cotton. I’m not even sure how we got back to the house.

I shove my face into the pillow and groan. The sun is already too bright, too full, spilling through the parted drapes. It feels wrong to be awake in a world that still looks normal when everything under my skin feels shredded.

The hangover isn’t just from the booze, the pills, or the endless bottles of champagne, but from the whole event itself.

It was from rituals, the blood, the goddamn sight of her–broken open for us all to see.

I push myself up, scratching at my chest. Outside the window, I hear Hunter whistling, calling out in German.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, shove on a pair of jeans, and head down the hall to the door that leads outside, blinking into the light. The cold fall air hits my bare chest, waking me up like a splash of water.

“Hey, man,” I say, walking over to where he leans against his truck.

Ares sniffs around the treeline. Hunter’s hair is wild from sleep and he’s in a rumpled white T-shirt and jeans.

His tattoos creep above the collar, and cigarette smoke curls from between his fingertips.

He looks like he went through hell and back last night.

Maybe we did. I nod at the cigarette. “Thought those were only for the radio show.”

“Yeah.” He looks a little guilty. “I needed something to wake me up after last night.”

He offers me a hit. Pinching the cigarette between two fingers, I take a long, much-needed drag. The buzz is light, but hits the mark. I inhale a second time, deeper, before slowly blowing out.

Handing it back, I say, “I’ve gotta piss,” and walk around the other side of the garage. I’ve got my dick in my hand when I see it, the flash of slick black paint through the trees. The King's Jaguar, coming down the drive.

Hurrying, I shake off, zip up, and turn just as the car slows, finally stopping right at us.

The window whirs down. Cold air leaks out, carrying the sharp scent of leather and something darker underneath–copper.

Blood? One of the Shadows, a junior named Kendrick who seems to be made up entirely of muscles, sits at the wheel.

The King is in the back, one leg crossed over the other with today’s newspaper in his lap, his mask glinting in the morning sun, as if the night before never happened.

Hunter tosses the cigarette and straightens up.

“I’m heading into town,” the King says. His voice is sharp, brisk. Like we hadn’t just all experienced the ceremony together the night before. “Business.”

Hunter shoots me a look. I shrug.

“Honeymoon’s over already?” I ask, smirking.

The King’s gaze shifts to me, impassive behind the mask.

“Samhain is over," he says. "As are the festivities.”

There’s a beat of silence. He folds the paper in half before adding, “The Baroness is at the cabin. She’s yours now. All restrictions are lifted.”

Hunter blinks, like he’s trying to translate it. But I get it immediately. The words hit like a jolt of adrenaline straight to my gut. All restrictions.

Finally.

My cock twitches, thinking about how sweet it’s going to be to bury myself in that tight little cunt.

The King says nothing else, which is good because the blood is already thudding in my ears as it makes the swift retreat to my crotch.

The window hums back up, sealing him away, and Kendrick eases the car back into motion, dust curling in their wake.

I rub my hands together, grinning. It’s a shit-eating grin. I don’t even try to hide it.

Hunter raises a brow at me. “You look like you’re about to do something illegal.”

“Maybe in some states,” I say.

I’m half-hard already just thinking about it–thinking about her . The way she looked at the altar, the way she moved at the reception, all soft and shiny and perfect and broken in all the best ways.

Hunter is quiet, but those wheels are turning in that big, fat brain of his. He wants the Baroness as much as I do, just… differently. I get that about him, I sense it, which is why I ask, “You wanna watch?”

We head to the cabin, shoes crunching over the dead leaves. The scent of bonfire lingers in the air, slightly damp from the morning dew. The building is isolated, perfect for privacy, to get away from prying ears.

To get loud.

I’ve been waiting for this. Since the moment I took the oath. The restrictions were necessary, I get that. She had to remain a virgin for the arrangement to go through, but he’s done with her.

She’s ours.

“Jesus, DK, wait up,” Hunter mutters as he tries to catch up to me, but I barely hear him.

My heart’s pounding, and my dick’s hard against my thigh.

I run through the options as I climb the porch steps.

Missionary? Doggy? Cowgirl? Fuck, the thought of her riding me, those pretty little pierced nipples bouncing in my face–

“Where is she?” Hunter asks, stepping in the room first.

I snap out of my fantasy, taking in the room.

The bed is torn apart, sheets slung over the edge like a discarded skin.

The wedding gown is heaped on the floor like she crawled out of it, her lace bra and panties pushed under the bed.

The rod–the one her uncle gave the King–is lying just beside the rug.

The sight of it makes me uneasy. No one at that dinner table had been impressed by the Dean’s methods of control. It’d been creepy, territorial, and the Baroness looked like she’d seen a ghost the moment it appeared.

Hunter bends, picking it up, feeling the weight in his hand. He inspects the end. “There’s blood on here.”

Whatever happened here was thorough. Brutal. The King hadn’t just taken her virginity, he’d broken her down.

Jealousy pricks the back of my neck, but it’s tempered by the knowledge that I’ll be next.

“Hey,” Hunter says quietly, chin lifting toward the back of the room.

The bathroom door’s ajar, and a single line of golden morning light cuts across the wood floor.

I step forward, pushing the door open slowly, and see her.

She's bending over the sink. Naked except for the red leather collar buckled around her throat. Her lower back and ass are a mess of dark bruises and rising welts–some angry and still forming, others already purpled. One curves all the way across the swell of her hip. The faucet’s running, water spilling over her fingers like she doesn’t even feel it.

She stares at herself in the mirror. Wide, vacant, red eyes. Hair messy and hanging down her back, her lips are dry and cracked. She looks like something wild and hunted. Like something that’s already halfway gone.

Our eyes meet in the mirror.

Leaning around her, I turn off the tap. Her hands shake and I press mine over them. Cold. Damp. So small.

Hunter lingers behind me, silent. Watching.

“What happened?” I ask, brushing my fingers up her spine. Her back arches, jutting that pretty little ass out. I trace one of the welts, and she flinches. “He punished you?”

She nods, tiny and pathetic. Hunter grabs the wet washcloth in the sink and squeezes out the water. Carefully, he dabs the cloth over each welt, making her hiss with each press.

“What did you do?” I ask, trying to imagine what incited such rage. “Did you refuse him?”

This time it’s a shake of the head and she says softly, “Everything was good. Better than good. We had an amazing night. He made me feel so amazing, and I made him feel amazing, too. I know I did.”

“Then what?” Hunter asks, turning on the faucet again and rinsing off the cloth.

“Then came this morning,” her voice trembles. “He told me he didn’t want me. That he would never want me.”

“And that’s why he punished you?” I glance at Hunter’s creased forehead in the mirror.

“He punished me to control me, like every other man in my life.” She sways, just slightly, like the weight of everything is too much. “Even you.”

I catch her hips, pulling her back against me.

I press my palm to her belly, my other hand cupping her breast. Her skin is so warm.

I feel her breath catch. “Being controlled by a man in Forsyth is how you stay safe,” I tell her.

“And what did you think? That the King would suddenly decide he was in love with you? Just because he wet his dick?”

My hand slides up, fingers reaching for the silver bars. I give them a tug and watch the pain cross her face. She’s gorgeous like this, hurt and bruised. The shattered, fragile mess he left behind. My cock thickens behind my zipper, pressed hard against her ass.

She doesn’t move away. Doesn’t push me off.

Just keeps looking at herself in the mirror like she doesn’t know who that girl is anymore.

Fair. The girl we dragged out of those woods, who laid on the altar last night, is no longer the same.

Which is why I let her know, “He may not want you, but he gave you to us,” I say, breath hot against her neck.

“He’s not the only one that can make you feel good, doll baby. ”

I slide my hand lower, between her thighs.

She’s warm. Wet, even. Whether it’s for me or just leftovers from him doesn’t matter.

I can pretend. Her breath catches. She grabs the edge of the counter like she might collapse, but still–no protest. Her thighs clench, but not to close me out. She’s trembling, not resisting.

“I’ve been waiting for him to give the word,” I whisper. “For him to tell us that we can have you the way we want.” My fingers are already working between her folds, slow and rough.

She gasps. It’s soft.

Hunter doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word. He’s behind us, leaning against the frame, arms crossed. Watching. I know what she’s hoping. That he’ll say something. Step in. But he won’t. He’s here for the show.