There’s a break between fights, and Mateo’s back in the locker room getting ready for the second round. It’s a redemption of sorts, since he was too messed up last time to get in the ring. The main event still hasn’t been announced, and the speculation is loud that it’s going to be something exciting. An epic matchup between two heavy hitters.
We’re next to the line for beer, close enough to overhear the chatter. Some DKS guy in front of us laughs. “I heard it’s an Ashby-Maddox rematch. This time, Ashby’s getting frisked for weapons.”
His buddy snorts. “Don’t forget Bruin was the first one to bring a blade to the Fury. And Perez?—”
“RIP.”
“Left without a fucking finger.”
A cluster of girls nearby in LDZ colors, short skirts and glossy lips, giggle over their seltzers.
“Maybe Lex and Rath?” one suggests, eyes bright. “I’d double my donation to see those two slicked up and going at it.”
Another rolls her eyes. “Lex just had a baby. Give the man a minute to breathe.”
“Whitaker and Remy, then,” a third says. “Battling it out for hottest blond in Forsyth.”
“Please,” the first scoffs. “Then you’d have to include Tristian Mercer, because that man is straightfire.”
DK leans down, mouth brushing my ear. “Gonna go check on Mateo. Make sure he’s good.” He nods at Hunter, who lifts his chin in return, then squeezes my waist once before disappearing into the crowd.
Hunter guides me toward the stairs that lead up to the balcony, the raised platform where the Royals watch. We pass Killian’s section first: he’s sprawled in his chair like a bored king, Story is perched on his lap, legs draped over one armrest. Tristian Mercer lounges to Killian’s left, and as we pass, he leans in to press a kiss on Story’s throat. Rath sits on the right, arms crossed, dark eyes scanning the gym. Story and I make eye contact for a second, hers curious, mine guarded, but we don’t speak. No one does.
Next is Simon Perilini in his throne-like chair with Lavinia curled in his lap. Her two other Dukes aren’t with them, but I notice the pattern: only chairs for the Royal men and their Kings. The women, Duchess, Lady, Princess, sit with or on their men. No seat of their own.
Simon’s expression turns curious when he sees me, and he straightens up, his big hand holding Lavinia by the thigh to keep her in place. He nods to Hunter first, then says, “Baroness.”
“Hi.”
“How are you?”
The question is loaded, code for: Did you remember anything else?
There’s a slight shift from the Lord’s section as they take in the exchange.
“I’m fine,” I reply, reaching out to grab the back of Hunter’s jacket.
“You’ll be at the meeting on Monday?” Lavinia asks.
“I’ll be there. I’m excited to help.”
Hunter keeps moving, dragging me with him and effectively cutting off the conversation. We pass the Prince’s section, empty, and head to where the King waits, masked and dressed in all black, posture straight, hands resting on the arms of his chair like he was carved from the Shadows themselves. Hunter nods to him and takes the seat on the King’s right without a word.
I know better than to push Hunter in a setting like this, so I don’t follow him. There’s an empty chair to the left, clearly meant for Damon when he returns.
I stop in front of it.
No.
The word rings again, cold and clear, sending a ripple up my spine like ice water.
I don’t sit.
Instead, I step forward and stop directly in front of the King. Close enough that my knees almost brush his. Close enough that I can feel the weight of his attention behind the mask.
He looks up at me.
I hold his gaze, or where I know his eyes are, and wait, wondering if another rejection is coming.
