Chapter 23
Damon
The drive home is quiet at first, just the low hum of the engine and the occasional thump of bass from a passing car as we exit East End and enter back into Baron’s territory.
My hand rests high on her thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles over the soft skin just under the hem of her skirt.
It was dark when we left the club but I can still see those pretty lips swollen from biting them while I teased her under the table.
I can feel the heat radiating off her, the way her legs part a fraction every time my fingers drift higher.
I’m already picturing getting her back to the house, kicking the door shut behind us, spreading her out on my bed face down so those fresh welts are on display.
I’ll take my time, licking over the marks, fingers dipping into her while she squirms, fingering the clit ring, then flipping her over so I can watch her face when I finally sink in deep.
Make her scream my name until her voice gives out.
No rush. No interruptions. Just her, me and every filthy thing I’ve been holding back since we left the club.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder. Hunter’s name lights up the screen.
“Hey man, what’s up?”
“They found a body.”
The words hit like ice water being dumped straight on my crotch.
My grip tightens on the wheel. The last thing I want right now is to deal with a body.
I know it’s our job, our duty, cleanup, intel, whatever the King needs, but right now my only priority is getting my dick inside the girl next to me and staying there until we both can’t move.
I glance at her. She’s watching me, curious, the faint line of her nipple piercings pressing hard against the thin cotton of her top. I think about swapping them out later—thicker rings, like the one in her clit. Something she’ll feel every time she moves. Something for me to hold onto.
“We’re out running errands,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Can you get backup from the guys?”
“DK,” Hunter says, serious now, no bullshit. “They found a body of a girl. One of the kidnapped.”
I slam the brakes so hard the tires screech. My arm shoots out instinctively, pressing across Arianette’s chest to hold her back, but the seat belt does the real work. She jolts forward, eyes wide and startled, staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“The FBI doesn’t know,” Hunter continues. “At least not yet. We got a tip-off to get down here and look at it first. See if there’s anything we can use.”
“Where are you?”
“On campus. Meet me by the fountain.”
The body was left on campus? What the hell?
“Let me take her home and—”
“No,” he cuts in. “Bring her with you. I think it’ll be good for her to see the crime scene. Maybe it’ll trigger a memory.”
I glance over. She’s listening hard, trying to piece it together from my side of the call. Her hand’s on my arm now, steady, but questioning.
“You sure?” I ask Hunter, because a triggered Arianette isn’t always a stable Arianette.
“Nope. But DK, it’s bad. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Fuck.
I jerk the car into reverse and spin the wheel hard, tires biting pavement as I peel out.
Arianette grips the seat, voice small but steady. “Where are we going?”
The words sit on my tongue, but nothing comes out. I don’t want to get into it until I know what we’re dealing with.
We cut to the sidewalk leading down toward the fountain; the campus paths are eerily quiet under the lamplights.
Every member of Beta Rho is here—Shadows lining the walkways, blocking side paths, arms crossed, eyes scanning.
No one speaks. No phones out. Just their silent presence.
The air feels thick, like the night itself is holding its breath.
Arianette’s hand is in mine, small and cold.
I haven’t told her why we’re here yet–only that something happened on campus, that we needed to come straight over.
Her fingers tighten around mine with every step, apprehension rolling off her in waves.
Her eyes flick to the brothers we pass, sensing the shift in the air even if she doesn’t know the shape of it yet.
Hunter meets us just out of sight from the fountain itself, around the curve of the old oak grove where the path dips behind a row of hedges. He’s standing alone, hands in his pockets, face hard in the half-light.
He nods once at me, then looks at her.
“It’s one of the missing girls,” he says, voice low, steady. “Kelsey Livingston.”
“Livingston?” I ask, thinking of the PNZ in the ring the other night. Rory Livingston. I remember her name being on the list, and Hunter talking about her on the radio show.
Hunter grimaces. “She’d been gone a few months.”
Arianette’s breath catches. Her grip on my hand goes vise-tight.
Hunter’s eyes stay on her. “It’s going to be hard to see,” he warns. “But we need you to look and let us know if you notice anything that tugs at your memory. We don’t have long before the feds show up.”
She nods, small and automatic, but I can feel the tremor running through her fingers. “I can do it.”
We step around the hedges.
The fountain comes into view. It’s an old stone basin with water still running in a steady stream despite the cold.
The lights around it are dimmed, either turned off or broken, leaving the scene in a pool of shadow broken only by the harsh white beams of a few flashlights held by the brothers standing guard.
The girl is there, her pale skin mottled purple with the chill of death.
She’s kneeling at the edge of the fountain, elbows resting on the stone like she just stopped to think. Like she might straighten up any second and brush off her knees. Her hands are turned upward, palms cupped together as if waiting for something to be placed there.
She’s dressed in a thin white gown, almost translucent, soaked through and clinging to her skin.
The fabric is old-fashioned, high-necked and long-sleeved, like something from a century ago, but torn at the hem and sleeves in ragged strips.
Around her neck is a thin black ribbon tied in a loose bow, ends trailing loose down her spine.
Her hair is soaked, dripping down her shoulders.
There are no other signs of ritualism, no candles or symbols carved in blood, but there’s a vibe.
Everything about the scene feels staged, from the way her body is positioned to the choice of the dress, the ribbon–it feels intentional.
Wrong. Like someone wanted it to look like art, or a message, or both.
She isn’t discarded. She’s posed.
Next to me, Arianette stops dead. Her hand jerks in mine, breath hitching so hard I feel it in my own chest. She’s remembering something. I can see it happening, even if she doesn’t say it.
Hunter steps closer, voice soft but firm. “Anything?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just stares.
“Who found her?” I ask.
It’s one of the guys that answers. “Some poor bastard crossing campus to go see his girlfriend. He freaked out and called the police. Luckily a friendly caught the call, the King’s contact, and he gave us a head start."
Arianette loosens her grip on me.
Not fully. Just enough to take one step forward.
My instincts scream immediately. Every alarm in my body lights up, red and furious. She moves like she’s underwater, eyes locked on the girl’s face as if the rest of the world has gone dim around her.
“Ari,” I murmur, low. Careful not to spook her.
She doesn’t respond.
She takes another step closer, crouching slightly to bring herself level with the girl’s bowed head, peering beneath the curtain of wet hair. Her expression tightens—not recognition exactly, but something adjacent. Something worse.
“Recognize her?” I ask.
She shakes her head once. Almost irritated. Like that wasn’t the right question.
Her hand lifts before I can stop her.
Not reaching—hovering.
“Arianette,” I warn, firmer now. “Doll Baby, don’t touch the body—”
Her fingers brush the girl’s chin.
Just barely.
Enough.
The girl’s jaw slackens with a soft, wet sound.
Then it opens.
And they spill out.
Dark shapes tumble from her mouth, hitting Arianette’s hands, the stone, the edge of the fountain. Beetles. Flies. Crawling, skittering, alive. They pour out in a writhing stream, wings buzzing, legs clicking, bodies glossy in the flashlight beams.
“Holy motherfucking hell!” someone swears. Behind me someone gags.
“Jesus Christ.” The night explodes into movement and noise, brothers stumbling back, flashlights jerking wildly as the insects scatter.
Arianette screams.
It tears out of her, raw and unbroken, ripping straight through me.
I’m on her instantly, arms wrapping around her as she stumbles back, shaking violently. She claws at my jacket, still screaming, body locked in pure panic. I pull her tight against my chest, turning her away from the fountain, from the girl, from the crawling mass on the stone.
“It’s okay,” I lie into her hair, holding her like I can anchor her to the ground. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay.”
Her screams crack into sobs, breath coming in jagged gasps as she buries her face against me, trembling so hard it feels like she might shatter.
I lift her slightly, putting my body fully between her and the scene, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. I look at Hunter. It’s written all over his face. We pushed too far.
And whoever staged that body?
They knew exactly what they were doing.
The drive back is a blur. She’s curled in the passenger seat, knees to her chest, still shaking like she’s freezing even though the heater is blasting. Every few minutes a fresh sob rips out of her, small and broken, and each one feels like a knife in my ribs.
Neither Hunter or I speak, but there’s no doubt we’re both thinking about the same thing. I can’t shake the image of that girl, once beautiful, skin mottled with death, those bugs spilling out of her mouth.
I shudder, thinking of all the little legs tickling her throat.
It’s the stuff of fucking nightmares.