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“His marriage to Arianette isn’t legally binding, you know that, right?” Hunter says. “It’s more of a spiritual rite. Baron tradition.”
“Business transaction is more like it,” Remy mutters. “Don’t pretend like he didn’t walk away from that deal with the upper hand. I don’t really give a fucking shit what he calls it, it’s still shady. Christ.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Can we leave now?”
“We’re not leaving,” Lavinia says firmly, which at least makes him shut his mouth. “We’re staying and keeping an eye on Arianette until they get back.” She lowers her voice as she looks between us. “Wouldn’t you want someone trustworthy to look after me if something like this happened?”
His green eyes flick between all of us, calculating and restless. “And what if they don’t come back? Payne may just decide to kill them.”
She sighs, like she’s already exhausted by all of this. “That’s their problem to figure out, and even more reason for us to be here.”
I pull at the ring in my lip with my teeth, staring at the two of them. I know she’s right. There’s no escaping this tribunal, and sending Hunter in there alone is a bitch move. As much as I don’t trust Remy, there’s some truth to what Lavinia is saying. She’s family, and Arianette still holds clues to where Stella and the Guardian are.
“If anything happens to her or the King while we’re gone,” I say, looking between Lavinia and Remy, “I’m holding you both responsible.”
“Understood,” Lavinia agrees. “No one will come in and out of here, will they, Rem?”
He slides his arm around his girl’s hip, his fingers settling just beneath the waistband of her jeans. Our eyes lock.
“Yeah,” he says. “We’re good.”
I stare at him for another beat before finally looking away, realizing what Hunter probably figured out hours ago. We’re out of options. If what Billy, Liam, and Mateo have already taken from us wasn’t enough, they did this to us, too. They’ve backed us into a corner where the choices are no longer good and bad, or right and wrong.
Now it’s the devil we know versus the monsters we don’t.
And it really pisses me the fuck off.
4
Hunter
The truck’s engine rumbles low as I pull into the cracked asphalt lot behind the old courthouse. DK sits shotgun, one boot propped on the dash, fingers toying with the piercing in his eyebrow. The radio’s been off for the last ten minutes; the silence feels heavier than the gun currently digging into my ribs.
This place has been on the historical register since before any of us were born—built back in the early 1900s when Forsyth still pretended to be civilized. From the outside, it looks almost forgotten: brick facade weathered gray, windows tall and narrow, the kind that let in more dust than light.
I kill the engine. The sudden quiet presses in.
“Are you sure about this?” DK asks, voice low. “You’re okay with this decision?”
“I’m…” I try to answer honestly. “I don’t have a fucking clue, man.”
“Me either.”
Once I got DK out of the hospital and into the car he managed to get himself focused on what’s coming. We’ve been round and round about it on the drive over. Me or DK. He’s not sure he can handle the responsibility. I’m not sure I have the temperament to step up. We both agree on one thing: we’re not the right ones, but we’re the only ones.
It fucking sucks.
We climb out, and we’re met by the frigid breeze coming off the nearby river. We head toward the side entrance reserved for tribunal business. Every step feels weighted. This isn’t just another meeting. The King is still in surgery, fighting for his life, and someone has to walk out of here today as the temporary leader of BRN. Neither of us ever thought we’d be standing here under these circumstances. Not like this. Not while everything we know is cracking apart from the inside.
The heavy wooden door groans when I pull it open. Inside, the squat hallway stretches ahead, walls lined with faded wallpaper that’s started to curl at the edges. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, mixing with the distant, rhythmic chug of the ancient boiler somewhere deep in the building’s guts. It sounds like a heartbeat that’s been running too long—tired, stubborn, unwilling to quit.
A pair of neutral security—hired muscle who answer to no single house—wait at the checkpoint just past the entrance. They’re stone-faced, hands clasped in front of them, eyes scanning us without emotion.
“Court rules,” the taller one says, stepping forward. “No weapons past this point. Not even the Kings.”
I already knew the rule, but hearing it out loud still grates. Neutral territory means exactly that: no one gets an edge. Not the Lords, not the Dukes, not the Princes, or the Counts, if any of them could get off the Scratch long enough to show up. It’s sure as hell not us Barons. I reach under my jacket first, unholstering the pistol and handing it over grip-first. The metal feels cold leaving my palm. DK follows, pulling his own piece and a knife from his boot, laying them on the tray without comment. They pat us down efficiently—then nod us through.
The weight of the gun’s absence sits wrong on my hip. Everything about this feels wrong. We’re walking in under pressure, the whole system teetering, traitors still breathing somewhere in the shadows, and a girl we both swore to protect sitting back at the hospital under the watchful eye of an enemy.
I knew DK would have a problem with me calling Sy and asking for someone reliable to watch over Hex during the meeting. I don’t blame him, but our backs are against a knife point. Sy’s proven he’s invested in keeping the Baroness safe. It was his idea to send Remy. I hope it’s not a mistake.
