Chapter 10 #2
The mayor’s study smells of cigar smoke, old leather, and the faint copper tang of ambition. A crystal tumbler of club soda sweats in my hand; the lime wedge bobs like a tiny green corpse.
The mayor, red-faced, half-drunk on the bourbon he raved about for twenty minutes, gestures with his glass toward the north windows, as though the Lucia ruins are visible through brick and night.
“That whole goddamn block is a scar,” he says. “Charred timbers, broken glass, and a crater where the ballroom used to be. The Lucia mansion sits in a trust for ‘Counts’ leadership.’” He snorts. “The only members of KNT that remain are being scraped off neighboring properties.”
The deputy mayor grimaces at the description, but it’s just a facade. Carolyn Reicht is as ruthless as any man in this town.
“What about his daughter?” someone asks. “Lavinia?”
“She says she stopped being a Lucia the day her father sold her to Daniel Payne.” He says this without irony, like he doesn’t wear an LDZ ring on his finger, like he didn’t have a stake in Payne’s grand schemes.
“Another member of his bloodline will have to step forward to claim it, and we all know the other sister is dead.” He nods at me. “Isn’t that right, King?”
“That’s correct.”
I don’t blame him for confirming. Sometimes the dead don’t stay that way in our city.
Reicht cuts in, “We’re pushing eminent domain. The city needs that land. Condos, a park, something that doesn’t look like the devil himself took a flaming shit on North Side.”
A few others in the circle murmur agreement.
I say nothing. I’m the only Royal in the room.
The younger Kings think these gatherings are for fossils.
They’re busy running their frats, their rackets, their pretty little wars.
Nights are meant for fights and fucking.
They’ll learn soon enough that real power is decided in mahogany rooms like this one, not in the ring.
The mayor’s gaze swings to the police chief. “Chief, any update on the missing women?”
Beside me, Arianette stiffens while Chief Harlan sinks deeper into the oxblood wingback, belly straining against his dress blues. “No new kidnappings. No fresh bodies. I think we’ve got the right man locked up.”
Eugene Warren.
My son and Simon Perilini swear the Duke’s fraternity president is innocent. Even with our strained relationship, I believe them. Something about Warren seems too easy, and nothing about this situation is easy.
“Has Warren told you where the remaining girls are?” President Stillwell asks, voice flat. “Dead or alive?”
The chief’s jaw works around a mouthful of cashews. “He won’t speak. Claims it’s a setup.”
“Maybe it is,” I say, loud enough for the room to still. “I’m not seeing a lot of evidence to support that he’s the killer.”
Warren was in an intimate relationship with two of the girls prior to them being snatched off the street. But fucking a cutslut or a Princess's handmaiden doesn’t mean murder when every frat on Greek Row runs the same parties.
The chief’s eyes slide past me, settling on Arianette. She stands at my elbow like a dark, silent bird, hand resting lightly on the back of my chair. The room has been watching her all night, trying to get a read on my new bride.
She’d performed well, smiling and shaking hands when required. As she said, Hexley trained her for this type of event. But I kept her close enough that even the most foolish wouldn’t pry too deeply. Well, until now.
“What about you, Baroness?” the chief asks, syrupy with false courtesy. “You’re the only living witness we have. Was Warren the man who kidnapped you and left you for dead?”
The air shifts, and every head turns.
Arianette’s fingers tighten almost imperceptibly against the leather. I feel the tremor travel through her arm into mine. I move before I think, my hand dropping to cover hers, thumb brushing the frantic pulse at her wrist. She curls her fingers around two of mine, anchoring.
“I don’t know who did it,” she says, voice soft but clear, steady. Simple. Good.
“We’ve been through this–” I start, but my bride continues. Christ.
“I only know that it was a demon,” she announces, “with horns and hooves. It lives underground, seeped in rot.”
Silence stretches, thick as the cigar haze. I squeeze her hand once, hard.
The mayor clears his throat, suddenly fascinated by his bourbon. The chief’s smile thins. “Sounds like your kind of depravity, King.”
Nervous laughter bounces between the group, and I cut him a hard look, saying, “Which is exactly why you know it’s not.”
“True,” the mayor says, aware that we’re in dangerous territory. “Discretion has always been a defining part of Beta Rho.”
Our eyes meet, and that little part of me that expects to be exposed tickles at the back of my spine.
Do they know who the man is behind the mask?
What I’ve done to earn it? I hold his gaze through one blink, then two, and the conversation fractures toward safer topics: weather, the upcoming holidays.
But I feel the weight of new eyes on us, measuring, calculating.
Arianette stays close, the heat of her arm brushing mine every time she breathes.
They want to know what clues she holds in her pretty little head, but not as much as I do.
I set the club soda on a passing tray, the crystal ringing like a bell no one else hears.
“Excuse us,” I say to the room at large, voice smooth and final. No one argues with a Royal when he decides the conversation is over.
My hand finds the dip of her waist again, steering her through the French doors and onto the stone patio. The doors click shut behind us. Music and voices dull to a murmur.
Arianette’s shoulders curl inward the instant we’re alone. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “They surprised me.”
“Of course they did.” I keep my voice low, but the edge is there. “That was the entire point: catch the new bride off guard, see if she flinches, see if she bleeds secrets. You held. Barely.” I drag a hand over my jaw. “Though the demon stuff… for fuck’s sake, Arianette.”
Her arms fold tight across her stomach, fingers digging into her ribs. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she repeats, smaller this time.
I step closer, the horns of my mask throwing long shadows across her face. “Are you ill?”
She shakes her head too quickly. “Just a little ache. It’s nothing.”
I study her a moment longer, unsure if this is just a reaction to the questions. Either way, any excuse is a good excuse.
“Come,” I say, offering my arm this time instead of taking. “Let’s get out of here.”
She slips her hand through the crook of my elbow without hesitation, fingers curling tight like she’s afraid I’ll vanish. I lead her down the side steps to where my driver waits.
The drive home is silent except for the low hum of tires on wet pavement and the occasional catch of her breath. Streetlights strobe across her face in fleeting gold, then darkness, gold, then darkness. She keeps one arm banded across her middle the entire way.
The car hasn’t even reached the gates when I break the silence.
“Is the piercing hurting you?”
She turns her head, surprise on her face that I know. “No,” she whispers. “Not… not really.”
I don’t believe her. “Spread your legs.”
A beat of hesitation. Then the soft rustle of tulle as her thighs part on the leather seat.
I gather the netting in one fist and drag it up to her hips. Cool air kisses her skin; she shivers. The silver ring gleams between her folds, angry and perfect, but it’s not inflamed. I lean closer, the scent of her flooding me: warm skin, faint copper, that maddening floral sweetness.
My fingers brush the soft hood of her clit, testing. She hisses, hips jerking.
“Easy,” I murmur.
I brush against her again and my fingers come away slick with something darker than arousal. I lift them into the passing light. Crimson. Thick. A single drop breaks free and slides down the inside of her thigh like a red silk ribbon.
She’s bleeding, my little Daughter of Darkness, for me.
The sight detonates inside my chest. My cock is iron behind my zipper, throbbing with a hunger so vicious it feels like violence.
“Fuck,” I breathe, bringing the blood to my tongue just to taste her.
The Shadow behind the partition, the world outside the car. None of it exists.
I yank my belt open, the clatter loud in the hush.
My cock springs free, flushed and brutal.
I don’t give her time to think. I spin her, shove her forward until her hands slap the opposite seat and her knees sink into the leather.
Tulle bunches high on her back like dark wings.
I nudge her thighs wider, watching fresh blood streak the lace tops of her stockings.
I’m not foolish enough to ruin her cunt by tearing the piercing from her.
The Barons own her as much as I do; her body is theirs to mark, but I don’t want to see his hold on her.
This is about me. Us. My bride. What I’ve wanted to do again since our wedding night.
I notch myself at her entrance and drive up to the root.
She screams into the seat, the sound muffled and raw.
Her cunt is molten, slick with blood and need, clenching around me like a fist. Every thrust paints me redder.
I fist the corset laces at her spine and haul her back onto me, forcing her to take it harder, deeper, until the car rocks on its springs and the windows fog opaque.
I lean over her, mouth at her ear, voice ragged. “He put his silver in you,” I snarl, slamming in so hard her whole body jolts. “Let him see how well it looks when you’re dripping with me instead.”
Another thrust. Another wet slap of flesh. Blood slicks us both, eases the drag, makes every stroke obscene and perfect. I reach beneath her just once and flick the little hoop with my thumb. She jolts like I’ve struck her, a broken cry tearing free.
Good. Let it hurt. Let it remind her of who she belongs to.
I lose myself in the rhythm, every thrust brutal and punishing.
The scent of her blood fills the car, thick and intoxicating.
When I come, it’s with a guttural sound I don’t recognize, spilling deep, flooding her until I feel it seep out around my cock, mixing with her blood, marking the leather beneath us.
I stay buried inside her, chest heaving against her back, one hand splayed possessively over the corset, the other tangled in her hair.
Then the haze cracks.
The car is no longer moving. Engine off. We’re parked in the shadowed curve of the driveway, the House of Night looming black against the moon. The silence is sudden and absolute, broken only by her ragged breathing and the wet sound of our bodies still joined.
What the fuck have I done?
I just rutted her like an animal in the back of a car, like a godforsaken teenager. I’m covered in her blood, while she’s barely healed from everything else that’s been done to her. I told myself it was possession. Claiming. But the truth is uglier: I lost control. I saw red, and I drowned in it.
Shame hits harder than lust ever could.
I pull out abruptly. The slick drag makes her flinch, a small, wounded sound escaping her throat. Blood and semen smears across her thighs and drips onto the leather. I can’t look at her.
I tuck myself away with shaking hands, zip up, buckle my belt like armor. The scent of copper and sex clings to me, thick and damning. I shove the door open and step out into the cold night air, gravel biting through my soles.
I don’t help her out. I don’t speak. I just walk, ten strides, then twenty, until the chill burns my lungs and the distance feels like penance.
Behind me, the car door hangs open. She’s still inside, folded forward on the seat, tulle rucked high, thighs trembling, blood cooling on her skin. Raw. Used. Left.
I stop beneath the portico, palms flat on cold stone, staring at the dark windows of the house that swallowed both our names the day the contracts were signed. This was never meant to be anything more than an arrangement.
A signature. A ceremony. One clinical night to seal the alliance. Duty discharged.
I was supposed to take her once, high on tradition and ritual, then retreat to separate wings and separate lives.
She’d belong to the Barons. I’d continue my work.
No jealousy. No hunger. No dragging her into the back of a car and fucking because the sight of blood and another man’s mark on her made me lose my mind.
That’s not the bargain.
I gave her my vows for power, for leverage, not for this. Not for the way my pulse still hammers with the taste of her blood on my tongue, not for the way my cock wants to be back inside her even now, hard again at the thought of how perfectly she broke for me.
I slam my fist against the balustrade once, hard enough that stone bites skin.
Want, possession, beyond the legal line has no place here.
I am the Baron King: controlled, strategist, keeper of death. I do not rut in the backseat of the car like some sex-starved college boy. I do not mark what is already mine on paper with teeth and cum and blood.
I draw the night air deep into my lungs until it burns, until the scent of her is replaced by pine and frost.
Tomorrow, the walls go back up.
Tomorrow, I remember what this marriage actually is.
Tonight I forgot, and that is the only thing I will allow myself to regret.