Page 66 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

“You weren’t good enough for him, were you?” He lifts the glass to his lips and shakes his head. “I knew you’d fall apart the second a man got a real look at you. You couldn’t even hold onto him for a full day.”

I don’t answer. I stare at the fire. The flames crackle loudly between us. In the corner, the grandfather clock ticks. I hate this room. I hate him.

He sets the glass down. “Well?” he asks, voice cold. “Why are you here?”

I step closer. My skin tightens with heat, too much after the cold forest air. My hands twitch at my sides. The lace on the hem of the dress tears further, unraveling like I am. I lick my lips. They taste of salt and copper.

“Where are the children?”

A pause, then he sighs. “Please don’t do this.”

“Where are they?” I need to know. “Are they in their rooms? Or did you send them somewhere? Where are they?”

His answer is swift. Concise. “There are no other children, Arianette, you know that.”

The lie slips off his tongue as easily as rainwater down the drain. That same tense panic crawls up my spine. “Don’t lie to me. I know they’re here. Downstairs? In the attic?”

“Girl, I’ve told you time and time again, there are no children.” His expression softens, as if he’s as tired as I feel. “You are the only child, you were always the only child. The others were a figment of your creative, but fragile mind.”

I sway on my feet, breath catching. Mind spinning. “That’s not true,” I blink fast, “we shared a room. Classes from Mrs. Whipple. I heard them crying. I comforted them.”

My throat tightens as those memories shift and fade. Each child, each interaction, their smiles, their tears, their laughter… they vanish into smoke. I fold to my knees in front of the fire. The heat scalds my face. I don’t care. I’ve never felt so cold, inside and out.

He finally turns his head and there’s no mistaking his disgust. “You’re not worth anything to me like this,” he says, his tone flat. “The only quality you had was your pristine cunt, and now that’s wasted.”

I flinch, but I don’t cry. I deserve it. I let Hunter carve my flesh. Damon pierce my skin. The King steal the one thing of value. I let them ruin me.

“I can still be useful,” I whisper. “I’ll listen. I won’t run again. I’ll make it right.”

His jaw works. Then a sneer. “None of this would’ve happened if Armand had done his job.”

“Armand…” I lift my head, dizzy with dread. “What did you say?”

“You never should’ve made it out of those woods.” The fire crackles. “Not alive at least.”

“You wanted me dead?” I stare at him, confused but not. “But what about the arrangement? The wedding?”

He exhales like I’m stupid, taking up his precious time.

“I thought maybe over the years you’d snap out of your delusions.

That you’d mature and let your mind grow along with your body.

But you’ve always been weak. Prone to fantasies and make-believe.

” He rises slowly from the chair, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.

Calm. Bored. “I had no choice but to fulfill the obligation with the Barons. A deal’s a deal, and in this town my reputation is all that I had–at least until I had you married off to a king.

I figured that I would hand you over as planned and then tragedy would strike in the name of Armand Stein.

It would be quiet. Convenient . And that idiot would be blamed and I’d be released from the deal. ”

My mind staggers. “You wanted me dead…”

“Don’t take it personally.” He lifts his brows. “You’ve always been expendable. Just like your mother. Just like these stupid girls everyone is searching for.”

Something inside me rips. Slowly. Softly. Like silk splitting down the center.

“You never should have run, Arianette. And once you did, you never should have stopped.” Armand’s voice comes whispering back. “It’s simple really. You know too much.”

He turns his back to me and stares at the fire. It’s a dismissal but it feels more like a slap in the face.

That’s when I know. I understand it with a clarity that cuts through my muddled, exhausted mind. I’m going to burn everything. The Manor. Him. Myself.

The whole bloodstained history.

I rise quietly. First grabbing the small knife next to the bowl of lemons, I pick up the bottle of whiskey by the bar, still uncapped. My fingers are steady now. I’m beyond fear. Beyond hope. That left me hours ago, somewhere back in the forest, maybe on the side of the road.

The thick scent of alcohol hits me hard and I grab another bottle. Then another. I trail through the parlor, sloshing liquor over the Persian rugs, the silk-upholstered chairs, the base of the velvet drapes.

When I look back he’s still facing his books, studying the spines.

He doesn’t look at me. Not once. Why should he?

I’m trash. Used up garbage of no value to him or any other person in this godforsaken town.

I light one of the long matches from the fireplace and hold it up.

Watch it burn to the tip. Let it kiss the hem of the drapes.

It takes instantly.

There’s a sound– whoompf –as the fire surges up the fabric, catches the rod, leaps to the alcohol-soaked rug like it’s alive. He turns, his expression finally something other than disdain. Fear. Panic. Terror.

Good. Feel what we’ve all felt under this roof.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

My lips crack open in a smile. My last one and fuck, it feels glorious.

“I’m fixing it.”