Page 70 of Barons of Decay (Royals of Forsyth University #10)

T imothy

I find them outside, behind the former rectory. Ares’ nose is to the ground, tracking something as he heads to the trees–tail high, eyes alert. The dog came home from the vet yesterday, and I don’t think Hunter’s let him out of his sight since.

“Dog’s looking good,” I say as I approach. “What’s the prognosis?”

“The vet said to have him take it easy for a while. No long runs.” Hunter doesn’t look convinced. His arms are crossed, his jaw tight. DK looks up first, still pale, still moving slower than a man should at his age. But he’s alive and he’ll heal.

“How’re you holding up?” I ask him directly. “Dr. Stallworth is convinced you’ll have a full recovery.”

DK shrugs, then winces like the motion pulled at something deep inside. “I’m alright. Lungs are still pissed at me for going head first into that fire. But I’m okay.”

In another situation they’d be replaced. Three new Barons selected for the rest of the year, but the events of the past few days will make them stronger and even more loyal. I chose them for a reason, and now I know my instincts were right.

“Take a walk with me.”

They follow without question. We walk past the dormitory, where lights glow in the windows, a sign the Shadows are at home, safe and secure.

My family is all back in one place.

“Did I ever tell you why I chose you two to wear the mask?” I ask, my hands folded behind my back, eyes fixed on the path ahead.

Neither answers. They’re quiet. Listening.

“I picked you,” I say slowly, “because you’ve both been touched by death. Real death. Not the loss of someone close, or a distant relative, but the kind where you’re grazed by its fingertips and left scorched. The kind that leaves something inside you blackened.”

I turn slightly. DK meets my gaze, uncertain.

“You,” I nod toward him, eyes on that wicked, beautiful scar. “You held death’s eyes while that other boy sliced you in two. You know what it’s like to come back different.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes cast to the ground, “I do.”

Hunter’s eyes flick to me, quick and sharp. I ask, “Death doesn’t always leave scars, does it?”

He shakes his head. “No, sir.”

A crease appears on DK’s forehead, a tell that he’s unaware of Hunter’s history. It’s too precious. Too raw. Humiliating. It’s his story to tell. Not mine.

“When death comes for you and lets you escape, there’s a reason.

You’ve been given a third,” my eyes flick to Hunter, “if not fourth , chance.” They don’t speak, but something shifts in the air between us.

“People think that we’re obsessed with death, but that is only part of the story.

The Barons are obsessed with life . We understand the fragility–the gift of having a heartbeat, a pulse throbbing through our veins. You two more than anyone else.”

We stop at a statue in the garden. A shrouded king cast in bronze. A crown sits on his head, a skull cradled in his hands. A pentagram hangs around his neck and at the bottom are the words Memento Mori.

“I want to thank you for the efforts you made to save the Baroness,” I tell them both. “No matter her flaws, she is precious to this house, not only because she is my wife, but because she too, has been blessed by death, and we must respect that.”

Tension shifts between the men. Ares looks between them anxiously.

They don’t have to speak to let me know how angry they are with her.

That anger will fuel them to become better, stronger men, and it’ll be their choice on how they’ll process her betrayal and dole out the consequences for her actions.

I take a deep breath, prepared to take the next step.

“You’ve shown nothing but loyalty and respect to the brN, the House of Night, and to me, and in response, I want to show you the same consideration.”

I reach behind my head and loosen the ties that hold up my mask. Hunter and DK glance at one another, aware of the magnitude of the situation. “You risked your lives for me and my kingdom. At the very least I can show you the man behind the mask.”

Slowly, I remove the mask, giving them a moment to process what–no, who–is in front of them. Silence crashes down until DK, staring with his eyes wide, says, “You’re–”

“Not Clive Kayes,” Hunter finishes quietly.

I shake my head. “No. Clive is dead. He’s been dead for over two decades,” I add. “Let the dark cradle his secrets.”

DK’s voice cracks on the truth as he tries again. “You’re… Timothy Maddox.”

The name hangs there, shuddering through the dark like a curse.

And it feels like peeling off more than a mask. Like laying myself bare. Like every secret I’ve buried just clawed its way to the surface. These men proved I can trust them and I want to give the same back to them.

“Yes. I’m Timothy Maddox.”

Rich. Powerful. Feared. Hated.

“King of the Barons.”

“How much longer?”

“Five seconds.” Graves checks the stopwatch and waits for a moment. The seconds pass by painfully, each one stabbing like pinpricks. “Time.”

Exhaling, I rise out of the frigid water, the brisk morning air slapping against my wet skin. It’s cold as fuck, but I feel invigorated. Alive.

I step out of the tub, taking the towel Graves has extended toward me, and I quickly dry off.

After days out of my routine, now that the wedding is over and everyone is back home, it’s time to get back into the steady rhythm of life.

“Would you like your breakfast up here or elsewhere?” he asks, standing in the doorway that leads from the porch back to my room. “The men have already had their meal in the dining room.”

“Very well,” I say, glad to know they’re also moving forward. “Here is fine.”

I slip into my clothes, slow and methodical.

Starched white shirt, black slacks. The cufflinks with the Greek insignia for brN in gold.

Graves hands me my mask, black, functional for the day, and the smoothie–greens, protein, raw egg.

My supplements wait on the tray: zinc, magnesium, and activated charcoal.

Discipline in all things. Routine is a comfort.

As he pours tea, I move to the small dining table by the window. The light is dull and gray through the frost-glass, just the way I like it. I sit and notice the report on the edge of the table.

“This just arrive?”

“Dr. Shepard had it sent over right away.”

Curious, I pick it up and skim the details of the coroner's report. Male, age fifty. Theres’s documentation of a laceration on the palm of his hand, and bruising on his back, most likely from a beam falling on him, trapping him under the weight. Cause of death: asphyxiation.

Attached to the report is a second one from the fire chief.

“Anything interesting?” Graves asks, opening the door to the armoire. His business does nothing to hide the edge of concern in his voice.

A quick look at the typed, official, sheet takes a way that worry and I read aloud. “There was no evidence of tampering or accelerant in the home. But there was some kind of fraying in the wiring.”

“Old houses tend to have that problem.”

“They do,” I agree. “So from this report, it seems like a malfunction in the electrical system.” I take a sip of tea, allowing the warmth to spread through my chest. “Remind me to send the Chief a complimentary stay at the hotel–all-inclusive.”

Graves nods. “I’ll add it to your planner.”

Setting the report aside, I place the cloth napkin in my lap and focus on the meal Graves has placed in front of me.

Scrambled egg whites, chicken sausage, avocado.

Lifting my fork, I announce: “Today is Day One. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not ask questions. You will be bathed, fed, and trained. But privileges must be earned.”

A soft clink.

“In the past, I would have sent you away,” I say calmly, “made you someone else's problem. But I’ve learned the hard way that method isn’t effective, at least not in the long run.

I can’t rely on others to take care of what’s important to me, and I accept that I’ll need to take a more direct involvement in your welfare and training. ”

Only then do I glance across the room. The cage is tucked inside the massive wardrobe, metal bars custom-forged in the shape of thorns.

She stands with her hands clenched around the bars, a thin cotton dress covering her curves.

The new collar–black leather, gold pentagram gleaming at her throat like a brand. My brand.

Her eyes are wide. No tears. Not now. Just that trembling, suspended edge of fear and fury. Something darker she’s still too proud to name.

I fold my napkin and place it neatly on the table.

“Your disobedience was a kind of madness, and madness is something I can not, and will not, abide. Not in this house. Not by my wife.” I rise and continue. “But I will fix you, wicked one. We start with silence. Then stillness. Then surrender.”

I walk over slowly, crouching before the cage.

“You were given to me, Arianette. I made an oath.” I smile, warm, practiced, patient.

All the things I wasn’t with my first wife and my son.

I lost them both and I will not fail again.

“‘ To own and to protect. To command and to punish. To keep until death claims you both. ’ That was my oath, Arianette, and I want you to understand,” I slide my hand through the grate and hook my finger through the loop in the collar. “I never go back on my word.”