“Well, what does your book say?” Hunter nods to the binder, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is.
I flip it open to the tab marked Dining Hall–Setup. There’s a diagram on a piece of yellowing paper. The tables have been rearranged into one long continuous line, with no head or foot. Simple iron candlesticks down the center. Plain white linens. Platters spaced exactly so. Place settings minimal, pewter cups, wooden plates, no utensils except knives. Everything grounded, intentional. Sacred, almost.
I look up from the page at the actual room, at the built-up damage that comes from not taking care of things. I have to wonder why it was allowed to get this far? Who let it happen?
“I don’t think we can do it.” My stomach sinks. “It’s too much.”
“Fuck that,” DK says, pushing off the wall where he’s been leaning,arms crossed. He strides back toward the party room, filling the doorway with his frame. “Hey! Get your asses in here.Now.”
The demand is followed by groans and complaints that ripple through the common room, but bodies start moving. Guys shuffle in, some dragging half-dressed crypt chasers by the hand, others still holding cups or joints. They crowd the entrance, annoyed, music still thumping faintly behind them.
“Party’s over,” Damon declares, voice flat and final.
Someone boos, and a kid in the back argues, “Come on, man, it’s the first night off break. We deserve it.”
“Are you talking back, Kimball?” Damon asks, and the kid’s mouth instantly shuts. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“Everyone needs to quiet down,” Hunter cuts in, calm but edged, “and listen to the Baroness.”
The room quiets fast. Every eye swings to me.
I feel my heart slam against my ribs. All of these eyes have been on me before. When I was splayed out on the altar or tied to the cross in the woods. They all watched me at the wedding and supported Damon at the Fury. None of them has ever looked at me as a person with an ounce of authority, but that ends now. Today. I lift my chin and remember the years at Strong Manor watching the staff orchestrate dinners for hundreds—silent, efficient, unflinching–I can do this.
I step forward, binder open in one hand.
“Tables need to be pushed together into one long line down the center, no gaps and no head or foot.” I look up, searching the faces until I land on two I’m familiar with. “Jace and Slade, can you handle that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” they say at once.
“I need a group of you to gather the chairs and arrange them along the table. All trash, cups, bottles and everything off the floor and out of the room. Windows need to be opened because holy cow, it smells awful in here.”
“It does?” someone asks.
My nose wrinkles. “Can you not smell it?”
Carson shakes his head. “Not really.”
“Well, it’s awful. Smells like a mixture of feet, bong water, and I think something died in here.”
A couple of guys laugh, and my shoulders ease.
“Mateo,” I look at him directly, “grab a crew and find rags and hot water. The tables should be scrubbed top and underside. The chandeliers need to be dusted, so if someone knows where a stepladder is, that would be helpful. Once all of that is complete, we can sweep and mop the floors.” I pause, scanning faces, landing on a few of the girls. “We have linens in the storage room off the kitchen. They’ll need to be pressed. Iron candlesticks go down the middle, exactly twelve inches apart. Platters and chalices come out last, after the room doesn’t smell like a dive bar anymore.”
There’s a beat of silence, then to my absolute shock, a flurry of movement. Grumbling, but movement. Slade and Jace start shoving tables around the room, muscles flexing as they line them up end-to-end. Girls, some rolling their eyes, others jumping in, head to the kitchen for supplies. The windows are opened and a cool, fresh fall breeze wafts into the room, cutting through the haze of stale beer and weed. Ares pads around supervising, tail wagging like this is the best game ever.
Over the hustle I hear a high-pitched voice complain, “Does she really think she can tell us what to do?”
I turn. It’s Bronwyn, arms crossed, hip cocked, lips pursed in that little pout she’s perfected.
The room stills for a second, eyes flicking between us.
I feel the heat rise in my cheeks, but I don’t look away. Damon catches my eye across the room, his pierced eyebrow lifting in challenge. He’s not going to step in. He’s not going to defend me. I wanted this. I have to own it.
I step forward, voice steady even though my heart is hammering.
“Bronwyn,” I say, loud enough for everyone to hear, “you can stay and help clean, set up, and make this room worthy of tomorrow’s rite… or you can leave. For good. If you’re only here to fuck around and party, then you’re not wanted. If you want to be good for only one thing, then fine, but I think the men of BNZ deserve something better. So decide. Right now.”
The room goes dead quiet. Even Ares stops and sits.
