Page 45

The students will be back on campus next week. Anyone who hasn’t heard the news about the fall of the Baron King–the revelation of his identity–will know soon enough. And while they start a fresh semester of classes, my focus will be here–on healing, on rebuilding strength, on reclaiming control over a life that slipped just enough out of my grasp to remind me how quickly weakness can be exploited.

Allowing myself to get that close to a female–bride or not–was a mistake.

Allowing that familiarity to extend to my Barons, to blur lines that were never meant to soften, was an even greater one.

Shared affection.

Shared access.

Shared anything.

It compromised the structure.

It allowed the darkness to enter my house, and I’ll pay for that–quietly, methodically–until my body is strong enough to support what my mind has already decided. When I rise from this, it won’t be halfway. When I come back, it will return to the way it’s always been.

My crown.

My Barons.

Their Baroness.

Every piece will be exactly where it belongs.

Exactly as I left it, or I’ll remake it until it is.

12

Damon

Two minutes.

That’s all I’m giving this professor before I walk out.

Two.

After that, he can kiss my ass.

It’s already been a long fucking day, and now I’m wondering, like everyone else on campus, why the hell am I sitting in an American Lit class when I’m the acting King of the Barons?

It feels ridiculous. I should be out there doing something useful–hunting down leads, securing the House of Night, or at the very least making another attempt to crack Arianette’s memory. Instead, I’m stuck in a stuffy lecture hall listening to some old guy drone on about dead authors while half the room sneaks glances at me.

Being back on campus feels surreal after everything that happened over winter break. Word spread like wildfire about BRN falling apart. Everyone knows Damon Kemp, pierced criminal from the wrong side of East End, is now wearing the Baron crown while Timothy–what the fuck–Maddox, recovers from an attempt on his life. Some people stare with open curiosity. Others look at me like I’m a walking scandal. Then, I catch a group of girls in the front row whispering behind their hands, shooting quick looks my way, probably trying to figure out how to get a taste of power. A couple of frat guys from another house glare like I personally pissed in their cereal. I know what they’re thinking… who am I to wear the crown? I have no legacy, no royal bloodline. I didn’t even earn the spot.

I spun a ring on the dashboard of a truck, although no one but Hunter knows that.

Whatever. Let them stare and gossip. I’ve got bigger problems, and it’s only confirmed when a stack of printed papers lands on my desk fifteen minutes into class by none other than my old cellmate, Pace Ashby.

“What’s this?” I whisper, eyebrow arching.

“Cell phone data from your traitors,” he says, sliding into the seat beside me. “Sy grabbed their phones in the tunnels that night before the cops could get to them. I’ve been going through them.”

I pick up the top page and skim it, but it’s just columns of numbers, dates, and coordinates. “I don’t speak code,” I mutter, tossing it back.

Pace smirks and grabs it. “Your boy Hunter probably does. These are call logs and dates. And these…” he points to another column, “... are the cell tower pings. I ran geo-fencing on them and narrowed it down further. Got you some actual physical addresses.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope.” He flashes me a quick grin. “They went off-grid a lot, but not enough. There are a few spots that keep popping up. Could be solid leads.”