Page 65 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

A rianette

The forest swallows sound.

It’s just me and dead leaves underfoot, the slap of my bare soles against dirt and moss.

The wedding dress drags behind me, heavy with dew, mud, and blood.

Underneath, the welts sting, burning with every step.

I should take it off. Burn it. Bury it. But I can’t.

It’s mine. It’s proof something happened.

Proof I mattered–even if just for one night.

The bonfire smoke is long gone now, replaced with the sting of pine and rot and sweat.

My knees keep buckling. My thighs are slick.

I can still feel all of them. The King taking my body: the hard swell of his cock, the warm feel of his semen.

I hear Damon’s voice as he stood behind me, hands angry and rough, whispering all those teases and taunts.

I feel Hunter’s eyes. Taste his silence.

The bite of the counter under my ribs. The bruise of the rod before that.

“You were made for this.”

I laugh. It comes out like a hiccup, sharp and cracked.

It sounds like someone else. Not the girl that married a king.

I sound like her. The girl from before all of this.

The girl that survived and escaped and ran.

The Barons think I belong to them now. That because he handed me over like a discarded toy I’m theirs to break.

They don’t know what they’ve done. They don’t understand what I am.

I was supposed to be safe.

The hem of the dress catches again, snagging on a root, and I stumble forward, catching myself on my hands.

I stay there for a second, letting my breath even out, but I can feel it building–rising inside me.

I rewrap the bandage on my arm, covering the fresh wound, then scrawl something in the dirt with a stick.

A spell. Something to ward myself in the dark forest. A protection for the crying girls still behind the walls.

The cabin is far behind me now, too far to go back. Damon and Hunter probably think I’ll just lie there in the bed like a good little Baroness, waiting for them to come use me again.

I thought about ending it all there, in that little cabin where I lived those perfect moments.

Where I felt the snapping teeth of hell.

I didn’t need to look in the mirror, I’d done that while Damon forced himself in me.

I knew what I’d become. I found a piece of china, sharp and pointed, and sliced it down my arm.

Blood spilled, hot and slippery. I walked to the fields.

Periwinkle.

I knew then I had to go home.

Pushing back to my feet, I continue, ignoring how my legs ache and my back burns.

The welts criss-crossing my skin throb with every movement.

I keep walking, through the branches that claw at my arms and chest. The collar at my throat pulls tighter with every step.

I want to rip it off, but I don’t. It’s a reminder of who I am, for now and forever.

Rotting from the inside out.

I laugh again, just a puff of air, but it gets caught in my throat and turns into a sob. I clamp my hand over my mouth and fall against a tree, breathing hard. My skin is slick with sweat. I’m dizzy. Hungry. My body is begging me to stop.

But I can’t stop. Not now. Not until I fix it.

I don’t know where the thought comes from, but once it’s there, it anchors me.

Fix it.

Go back. Start again. Be better.

Tears stream down my cheeks, mixing with the dirt and blood. I wipe my face with the back of my hand and smear it worse. I don’t even look human anymore. A flash of movement draws my eye–between the trees. I freeze.

There.

A shadow. Huge. Masked. Watching.

My breath stutters.

No. No, that’s not real. That’s not him. That’s the forest playing tricks on me.

I bolt. Dress ripping, feet pounding the earth.

I don’t care where I’m going, I just need to move.

I fall once, scrape my palms. Keep going.

I find a ridge and slide down the embankment on my hip, nearly tumbling into the creek at the bottom.

My ankle twists hard, but I crawl to the other side and claw my way up the slope like an animal.

Fix it. Fix it. Fix it.

It comes like a mantra. A light burning bright.

If I get back to the Manor... if I get to my uncle, to the place where I started ... to where I began , maybe I can undo it. Undo the threads that keep the cycle going, that fuel the beasts snatching girls off the streets. Undo the pain and chaos and madness and decay.

And when it’s all undone, when there’s nothing left?

I’ll be free.

It takes hours before I hit the road, the black asphalt stretching toward town.

It’s then that I almost stop. Give up and wait for them to find me.

What was I thinking? The House of Night is too remote, too far outside Forsyth.

It’s almost like it’s planned. Another way to keep me isolated, keep me in their cage.

I’m walking the shoulder of the main road when headlights slice through the dark. I don’t even flinch when the sedan slows. It purrs to a stop beside me, hazard lights blinking orange in the trees.

The passenger window hums down.

It’s a woman. Late thirties maybe. Blonde, tired, kind-looking in a hard sort of way. The kind of face that’s seen shit and doesn’t bother pretending otherwise.

She leans over the seat and squints. “Sweetheart… do you need help?”

The dome light makes her eyes look soft, that’s why I don’t run back into the forest. This is not the Beast. Not the King or a Baron or my uncle.

I nod.

“I’m trying to get home.”

She unlocks the door. I slide into the seat, trembling, trying not to wince when the soft upholstery touches my legs.

I’m filthy, inside and out, and now I’m getting that filth on this woman’s seat.

She glances at me again. Closer now. Really sees me.

The bruises. The dirt. The roll of tissue wrapped around my forearm.

The blood dried under my fingernails. I wait for her to ask what happened. She doesn’t.

“You sure you’re okay?” she says instead, gently.

I nod again. “Just… just take me to the Hexley estate. Just off Forsyth campus.”

That gets a flicker from her. A glance. Not shocked. Not confused. Just something wary and knowing in the corners of her mouth. She pulls back onto the road.

The car smells like vanilla and the radio plays something soft and instrumental–a song that sounds familiar, like I’ve heard it before. The heater hums. I wrap my arms around myself and close my eyes for a second, letting the warmth bake into my aching skin.

“Are you a student at the college?” she asks.

“Yes.” I watch the trees become thinner the closer we get to town.

I look down at the water bottle in the holder between the seats. “Take it,” she says, “you must be thirsty.”

I grab the bottle and unscrew the cap, gulping down the water. I remember the last time I had something to drink was when the King forced me to take the pill.

“I went to Forsyth once,” she says. “A long time ago. Left after my junior year.” Her fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “Things were dangerous when I was there. A killer was on the loose. They called him the Forsyth Carver. One of the girls in my dorm was a victim.”

I watch her profile, take in the curve of her cheekbones.

“They caught the guy. But not until he killed his wife and himself, right in front of their little boy. Everyone thought things would be different. Safer, but it never felt that way, not really.” She adds, “The worst kind of people hide in plain sight and they’re the type that see a pretty girl walking barefoot after dark, and think she’s an invitation. ”

I swallow, then whisper. “I’m not.”

“No,” she says quietly. “You’re not.”

Neither of us speak after that.

She turns onto the driveway. I wonder if she’s dropped someone off here before. Or if she just knows the way. The Manor looms ahead, cold and gray. Imposing. No lights but one, burning in the library.

The car stops, but she doesn’t kill the engine.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?”

I reach for the door. Nod again. “Thank you. For the ride.”

But before I can slip out, she puts a hand gently on my wrist. Her fingers are cool. Dry. She doesn’t squeeze, just holds me there a second longer than necessary.

“You don’t owe anyone anything,” she says. “Especially not the men in this town.”

Then she lets me go. I shut the door behind me. The car idles for a moment longer, then backs down the drive and vanishes into the dark, leaving me staring at tail lights so long that I’m not sure the car ride even happened. If that woman even existed.

The house in front of me is real, I know that, and I enter through the back door. The one the housekeeper never locks, going in and out for smoke breaks.

She’s not in the kitchen, and the house is quiet, but he’s exactly where I expect him to be. Seated in his favorite chair, legs crossed at the ankle, firelight flickering across his gold signet ring. Not a king’s ring. He wishes, but one he had made on his own, an H stamped into the metal.

He looks as if he hasn’t moved since the wedding. Still dressed in his suit, although it’s rumpled now. Like the last twenty-four hours didn’t happen. His glass of whiskey is half-full. I wonder how many came before that and glance over at the bar where the bottle sits on top.

His eyes drag over me in the doorway, slow and incredulous. “Christ, girl.”

I can’t imagine what I look like. Maybe like a corpse that’s dug her way out of a grave.

I feel like that, like I’ve already started rotting, like the decay eating away at my flesh has set in my bones.

I’m streaked in dirt and dried blood. He takes in the bruises blooming along my collarbone, the blistered welts across my thighs, the bare feet.

He doesn’t ask if I’m hurt. He just says, “I told him you weren’t ready. He must’ve figured it out himself.”

I blink, trying to process his words.