Dukes of Madness: Royals of Forsyth U (Royals of Forsyth University Book 5)
Dukes of Madness: Chapter 18

It’s been approximately twenty-four hours since I was in the gym for Family Dinner—or as I may refer to it from now on, the night Sy figured out how to get a girl off. I can tell he’s thinking about it when we walk in for Friday Night Fury, because I watch surreptitiously as his eyes dart straight to the ring. His back stiffens, and he gets that weird, shifty walk that means his dick is getting hard.

I fight back a grin because the sight of this handsome, hulking beast of a man blushing himself into a fluster over anything even remotely sexual hasn’t stopped being funny. The darker truth is that the minute my father handed me over to Daniel Payne, I knew a big portion of my life’s purpose would be to pleasure men. Over the years, I’ve had a lot of free time to ponder what that might entail. Every knock on the motel door, every footfall down the basement steps, I braced myself for it, sure the time was arriving for me to make good on my ‘value’. I’ve imagined the worst scenarios possible. Old, rich, monstrous men forcing me to my knees. Pain. Degradation. Violation. Humiliation.

I did not expect what would transpire between me and the Dukes. Well, two of them, at least, because Nick certainly has lived up to the hype. But Remy and even, Sy?

It’s not so bad.

A new little niggling worry in the back of my mind flares to life that perhaps Sy was right about me all along. I’ve been taken and owned, and I’ve found pleasure at the same hands that bruised me, so maybe I really am just a whore.

Because I’ve been horny as fuck for days now.

“I’m going to go check with Mama B and make sure everything’s lined up for the undercard,” Sy says, fussing with the hem of his shirt. Sy is normally a very tidy type of asshole, so I’ve intuited that when he wears his shirts untucked, it’s an attempt to cover the monster in his pants. Before he slips into the growing crowd, his eyes meet Remy’s and they lift chins—a silent conversation passing between them. I can read it, and it says, “Watch her.”

I can’t tell if they’re worried for me or about me.

What they don’t realize is that, for the first time in my life, I’m not feeling the urge to bolt. I haven’t decided what that makes me yet. Weak, for laying back and accepting the shitty hand fate has dealt me? Or is this strength, rooting around to find the bits of being their Duchess that can work to my advantage?

I don’t know.

When I got home from my lesson last night, I retired to Remy’s room and watched him paint. It was a smaller canvas, but you wouldn’t have known it to look at him, frenzied and covered in black and red pigment, eyes barely tracking me as I climbed between his sheets and laid my head on his pillow. I watched him move and let his energy feed me, build me, shape me.

Mostly, I just feel ready.

Remy glances at me, doing a double take as his eyebrows knit together. “You turned dark purple.” His fingers ghost the side of my face. “What’s with all the amethyst, pretty girl?” There’s an energy to him these last couple nights that I don’t like. Pupils big and black, he’s too jittery, more easily distracted than usual. Even now he’s got that marker between his teeth, gnawing away at the cap absentmindedly, jaw flexing and straining.

He’s high.

“I’m not purple,” I tell him, not knowing exactly what that means, but hating how he’s become so in-tune to my shifting emotions. There are a lot of things I need to hide and the more Remy focuses on me, the harder it gets. Smoothly, I lie, “It’s just loud in there and I’m not used to all the chaos.” I tug at the ruffles on my shirt. “Or all the attention.”

“Sy would call that classic second-child syndrome or something,” he says, eyebrow quirking. Besides a pair of ripped up jeans that hang perfectly on every part of his lower body, he’s wearing a black button down with the sleeves rolled up and the boots he got from Jade.

“Nothing about my home life was ‘classic’,” I argue, but he’s probably not wrong. I was taught to be invisible, quiet, unseen and unheard to give Leticia space to shine. It’s not something that prepared me for the role of Duchess.

He presses his hand just above the V of my neckline, palm flat against my skin. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

I totally am.

I should be back with Nick right now, prepping him for his fight, playing the attentive ring girl. We haven’t been alone since we worked on the clock together and he offered to go to the Barons with me. He and I share another secret and it makes me feel squirmy—amethyst purple, apparently—like something is wrong. It’s a little bit like the tickle you feel in your throat before you get sick. It’s just the kind of thing that will make him think more than he should.

Remy’s palm is still flat on my chest, but he takes the marker out from between his teeth and traces my collarbones with the capped top.

“A tattoo would look sexy here,” he says, tilting his head like he can already see it. “I’m just waiting for the right whispers. You’ll let me, won’t you? When the time comes?” His green eyes bear down on me like a wide, dark chasm, and I almost think of telling him the truth. That I wish we could be in his room right now. I’d let him draw on me, ink me, fuck me. Whatever he wants.

“You’re my Duke,” is my answer, eyelashes fluttering as his hand slides up my chest, around my throat. “My body is yours.” The words don’t taste as bitter as they should, and while part of the reason is that I’ve come to accept this as a means to an end, the rest is far more complicated.

When it comes to Remy, my body is in capable hands.

Cradling the back of my neck, he pulls my face to his, pressing his forehead to mine to quietly say, “Go be a good Duchess and prep Nicky for the match. He’s not gonna bite.”

Sometimes I think Remy is a mind reader.

“I’m not sure he wants me there.”

His lips curve. “You and I both know that isn’t true.”

Dammit. He’s right. Again. “Fine. But if I’m not back out in fifteen minutes, come find me.”

I sense his eyes on my back as I weave through the drunken frat boys and tipsy sorority girls toward the locker room, disappearing into the fray. But I pause when I catch a flash of a familiar face. At first, I’m sure I must be imagining it. There’s no way he’d come to West End to sling his junk.

But sure enough, standing between the bathrooms, leaning against the wall, is Cash Mallis.

He’s passing off a baggy to a fresh-faced LDZ member, not even trying to be discreet about it. It’s a part of the job, knowing when to signal who you are and what you’ve got. Advertising at its sleaziest.

Remembering Sy’s words from a few days ago, I change course, storming over to grab him by the arm. “Are you fucking insane!” I hiss, dragging him to the side.

Cash’s mouth spreads into a grin. “Lavinia! I thought you’d be here. Damn, your ass is looking tight.”

“First of all, ew. Second of all,” I slap him upside the head, “are you trying to get yourself killed?”

He rubs his head, jaw dropped in outrage. “What?! I’m just hustling!”

“Not here, you aren’t.” I thrust a finger at the door. “You’re going to walk out of here and never come back, do you hear me?”

He scowls back. “Friday Night Fury is open to all houses.”

“You’re not in a house!”

He argues, “Think again. I pledged to Kappa a couple of months ago.”

“Great,” I mutter, teeth clenching. “Cash, you have to get out of here. If Sy sees you selling North Side dope in his territory, he’s going to kill you. And there’s a very good chance I’m being literal.”

Cash frowns, still rubbing his head. Moron. “Come on, Lavvy. We had a whole moment back there with that Felix guy. It was beautiful. A real moment of inter-house cooperation. I’m building bridges here.”

“And you’re going to get pushed off of it.” I shove him toward the doors. “I mean it, Cash. Stay away from the West End, and—I cannot stress this enough—Remy.”

Cash’s eyes light up. “Dude, Lav, that Remy guy is a Maddox. Did you know that? He’s fucking loaded!”

Oh no.

The stars in his eyes are unmistakable, all the sparkle and delight of a drug dealer who just lassoed himself a fat cash cow.

I slap him again, and then again, and when he brings his arm up to shield his head, I slap them, too. “You,” slap, “are,” slap, “not,” slap, “listening!”

He slaps my hands away, “Because you’re making my fucking ears bleed, woman!”

“I’m trying to save your life,” I hiss, and there must be something frightened in my eyes, because he finally goes still, watching me. “Sy is sparing you as a favor to me, if I can keep you away from Remy. So you’re going to head back to the Avenue and hustle there like a good little pill pusher. You understand me?”

He stares at me like he’s trying to see me, the real me, the one who is no longer a part of the Count’s world but a Duchess—and that’s who I work for—who I protect.

“Whatever,” he says, shoulders going loose, but I see the lie in his eye as he walks toward the back exit. Cash may not have Royal blood, but he’s a viper through and through, and he’ll just settle down and lie in wait.

A bell chimes back in the gym, the first fight is starting. Shit. I hurry down the hall, distracted, and that’s when I run straight into her: Verity.

“Hey,” I say, looking over my shoulder, making sure Cash really left. When I turn back, her eyes roam over my outfit. The last time I was here, I needed her help with looking like a real Duchess, but I’d chosen this one myself, under the watchful assistance of Jade.

“Not bad, Lavinia,” she says approvingly, looking pretty dolled up herself in ripped up denim shorts and a sparkly halter.

“Remy’s friend helped me out,” I say, glancing surreptitiously over my shoulder to make sure Cash has left.

She laughs. “Ah, Maddox money. Well, wherever he took you, they nailed your vibe.”

“Thanks.” For some reason, her approval means something to me. I jerk my head to the locker room. “Is Nick in there?”

“Yeah.” She scowls, subtly adjusting her boobs. “Alone, by the way. We heard what he did to you. It violates every principle of the Dukes’ system. They’re supposed to protect us, not—” She swallows, maybe noticing the hot tears pricking at my eyes. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just want you to know that we all talked about it—even Haley—and agreed that none of the cutsluts are stepping in tonight to be his ring girl. We wouldn’t blame you for blowing it off.”

It’s not that I’m upset about Nick because that score has been as settled as it can be. I’m stunned by the girl in front of me. First Story, and now Verity? Camaraderie from the women in the Royal system isn’t how it’s done in North Side. It’s opposed to my entire combative relationship with Leticia and what I observed from the many Countesses over the years, who have always been catty and cutthroat, bitchy and paranoid. But kind? Supportive?

I didn’t see that coming.

Taking a deep breath, I say, “Even though I’d like to bail on him, I’m not. I’m a Duchess now and I’m taking those responsibilities seriously. I don’t want the Dukes to look anything but unified in front of the outside world. Inside, we may be a huge fucking mess, but as far as everyone else is concerned, we’re solid.”

She gives me a long look, something decisive crossing over her face. “You’re really good at this, Lavinia.”

My cheeks heat. “Eh, I’m working on it.”

“No, seriously,” she insists, giving me a soft grin. “I wasn’t sure at first, because you’re from North Side and the daughter of a King. And okay, fine, I was jealous—maybe even a little hurt—that I wasn’t chosen.” She watches me, pensive. “But the more I get to know you, the more I’m sure they picked the right woman for the job.”

I’m not sure ‘picked’ is the right word. More and more, it just seems like some kind of shitty cosmic fate has hurtled us toward one another, stars colliding.

God, I’ve been around Remy too much.

I rest my hand on the locker room door. “Thanks, Verity. And tell the other girls I appreciate their support.”

She gives me a small smile and heads out to the gym. I push the door open and wind through the rows, hearing him before I catch sight of him. I see his open locker first, the last on a middle row. He’s just to the side, around the corner, but the name Bruin is painted in marker on the inside of the locker behind him. Before making myself known, I let myself inspect the photos taped inside.

One is old—vintage. A man bearing a striking resemblance to Nick stands with his fists up, sweaty and wild-eyed. This must be his father, Davis Bruin, the man who gave up his Kingdom to Saul.

Another photo is of three boys and a girl on what appears to be a basketball court. They’re spindly in that awkward way kids are when they’re still growing into their long limbs, the boys posing shirtless in the sun. They’re standing close but not touching, chins thrust up, eyes hard. There are no tattoos, no guns, no scars, but I can still place the boys instantly.

Remy, Sy, and Nick.

Remy is the skinniest of the three and despite the small, vague smirk he’s wearing, there’s a distinct bleakness in his eyes. His hair is short, practically buzzed, and it takes me aback to see him like this, pink-cheeked and soft, and so… clean. Unblemished by ink, spared the chaos of his unruly platinum hair. He looks all wrong, like a boy who hasn’t been given the providence of freedom yet. An empty canvas, my mind supplies, and that’s exactly what his eyes show back at me. A hollowness, and an impatience to fill it.

Meanwhile, Sy is the opposite. It takes me the longest to match him up, his black hair being worn long, swaying just past his shoulders with less curl than he has these days. I study him for a long moment, fascinated by how much he’s changed since boyhood, but also how much he hasn’t. Even back then, he looked like a fighter, that special gleam of pride touching his eyes. His skin is a warm brown, darker than I’m used to. Evidence of a summer spent in the sun, perhaps? Weirdly, I get the feeling that I would have really liked to have known him back then. He looks looser here, beautifully carefree and—he’d probably kill me if I ever said it aloud—absolutely fucking adorable.

Nick is still somehow the most different. Sure, there are no tattoos and it feels odd to see his skin like this, blank and smooth, but that’s not the reason. His hair is a lot like it is now. The bit of ego in the way he holds himself, arms crossed over his chest, isn’t much of a change, either.

It’s just that he looks so…

I struggle for a moment to describe it, because I’ve seen it a lot, but never on Nick.

Happy.

That’s it.

His blue eyes are bright and full of life. He’s smirking a lot like Remy is, but he wears it better. His tongue is peeking out, pushing at the edge of his smile, and there’s zero doubt in my mind. If I’d met this version of Nick when I was a kid, I would have fallen head over heels. Even with just a still image, he oozes this… charisma, limbs long and loose, a basketball clutched between his palms. He looks fun and wily, nothing like the arrogant, steel-faced soldier I’m used to.

This, I’m guessing, is a Nick who hadn’t learned about the dark corners of Forsyth yet. A Nick who hadn’t found himself behind a trigger yet. A Nick who hadn’t lost the people closest to him, a boy whose biggest concerns were probably schoolyard scuffles and flirtatious girls.

What might have he become if the girl next to him had never died?

Because I know right off this is Tate.

She’s as tall as Remy, as carefree-looking as Sy, and as magnetic as Nick. Her hair is a warm auburn, so long that it grazes her hips. Almond-shaped eyes over a broad nose and thin lips against a round face. Her skin is almost as dark as Sy’s. She’s nothing like I expected her to look, and somehow exactly right. She has her hip popped out, lips pursed as she obviously fights a smile.

So this is the girl Leticia was… involved with.

I feel a sadness at the sight of her, the knowledge that the light in her eyes has been snuffed out. What must she have been like, to roll with boys like these? Tough, certainly. Unwilling to take their bullshit. Hard enough to bring them down a notch, but soft enough to be a safe haven if they could lower themselves to ask for it.

That’s not Tate, my mind whispers. That’s you.

The thought is wiped away by the sudden shock I feel at the sight of the last photo in his locker.

It’s of two blonde girls in school uniforms. One is radiant, smiling prettily at the camera while the other wears a sharp frown, looking just off to the left of the frame. The radiant girl has her hair curled flawlessly, hands clasped behind her back, shoulders squared. The other is slumping, body slightly curled as if she could hide herself. But she can’t. No one knows that better than me.

The photo is of me and Leticia.

I reach out and snatch it away, rounding the corner to ask, “Where did you get this?”

He’s sitting on the bench, tape dangling from his teeth. The sound of my voice doesn’t startle him, nor does the sight of the photo I wave in his face. “Your bedroom,” he answers, unapologetic.

Although he lost weight during his time in the cage, it just makes his muscles appear more defined and veiny, any excess flesh withered away. The tattoo on his shoulder tenses when I stuff the picture into my pocket, but he doesn’t look up, just continues wrapping his knuckles. Or trying to, at least. The piece he’s working with sticks to itself and he balls it up, tossing it onto a pile of others on the ground.

Huffing, I fold my arms. “You want some help?”

He grunts, ripping off a new strip of tape. “I’ve got it.”

I let him struggle, watching his jaw lock tight, forehead pinching as he ruins another piece. “God-fucking-dammit!”

He stands, but before I can warn him, he’s slamming his head into the corner of the open locker door above him—Remy’s from the looks of it. He swallows another curse and decides to close the locker door with his fist, crashing a hard punch into it. It closes noisily, a dent in the metal, but apparently that wasn’t enough, because he punches it again, and then once more.

I stare at him, unblinking. “You done?”

He slams both palms against the metal doors and pauses there, dropping his head between his shoulders. This isn’t the bright, happy boy from the photo in his locker, and it’s not the stoic South Side soldier I’ve some to know. This is a man on the ragged edge, scarred and inked, battle worn and exuding exhaustion.

The tendon in his throat is sharp, and even though his eyes fall closed, his body is vibrating with tension. When he speaks, it’s low and terrifying. “I swear to god, Lavinia, you do not want to be in here right now.”

I lean against the bank of lockers, unmoving. “Call the fight.”

He cuts those wicked eyes at me over his lean bicep. “Fuck that.”

Rolling my eyes, and having expected as much, I point to the bench. “Then sit down and let me help you with your wraps.”

His shoulders sink, a long, resigned sigh falling from his nose before he straddles the bench, landing heavily. I grab the tape and straddle the bench in front of him, ripping off a long strip. His knuckles were already red and scraped from being in the cage, but now there’s a fresh cut from the locker vent.

“Idiot,” I mutter, taking his hand in mine. His fingertips twitch against my palm, calloused and thick and heavy. Ever since I put him in the cage, I’ve been seeing Nick in a new light. I spent years thinking of him as this imposing figure, unbeatable, unshakable. But Nick’s not unbeatable. He’s flesh and bone, miles of veins, a network of tendons, and a tight pile of muscle. I’ve beat him once, and I could do it again.

So what could a LDZ do?

“Do you need more support in your thumb?” I ask, focused on the task. “Sy always makes me double up, but he has that old fracture he’s always complaining about.”

“Why are you helping me?” When I glance up, Nick is giving me this look, a crease in his brow. His eyes rove my face slowly, taking in every morsel of my features, inch-by-inch. “You don’t even like me.”

It isn’t about being a proper little ring girl. It’s not about the fact I fucked Remy and have been attentive to Sy, and I’d be a bad Duchess to ignore my third Duke. It’s not even that I look at Nick, so frayed and worn thin, and feel a silent, secret mourning for the shining, expressive boy in the photo.

I tell the truth. “It’s about doing what’s best for our house.” Looking down at his fist, I test the joints before grabbing his other hand. “I like this place. I like learning how to fight. I like the cutsluts. I like the pledges and the way they treat me like a person, even if the three of you tell them not to. I’d rather be a Duchess of the West End than a daughter of North Side, and if your house falls apart because of something I did to you…” Glancing up, I finish, “You might not deserve better, but they do.”

He stares at me, his blue eyes boring into mine with something akin to awe. “You really are the perfect Duchess.”

My jaw tightens, and I yank the tape to break it, jarring his arm. “It helps when you get to actually have a choice in the matter.”

We walk out minutes later as a pair—a fighter and his ring girl—and it might be fake, but it’s convincing. I’m feeling pretty proud of that fact, up until he’s standing at the corner of the ring, about to enter.

An odd bit of hush falls over the Dukes’ side of the gym, and it takes me too long to realize why. The kiss. They’re waiting to see if I’ll give it—if the rumors they’ve heard of Nick betraying me are true.

I don’t think much about it beyond the necessity.

Straining up on my toes, I press a quick, firm kiss into the pulse point of his neck, struggling not to fling myself away once it’s done. My lipstick print stands out starkly against his skin and I fight the urge to wipe it away, turning to find Remy and Sy.

Everything I said to Nick about why I’m helping him is true, except one omission. If this house falls apart, then I have nothing left: no home, no friends, no protection, and as much as it hurts to admit it, no family.

Remy’s on me the second I take my seat. “Was that Cash?”

“Who?” I look around, pretending I don’t know what he’s talking about, which is when I catch Sy’s eye. He doesn’t look pleased.

“The guy you were talking to before.” Remy grabs my chin, forcing my gaze to his. “Was it Cash Money?”

“Oh, him.” I make a casual, dismissive sound, taking Remy’s hand in mine. “No, that was just some pledge asking where the bathroom is.”

Remy watches me closely—too closely. I’m a Lucia. The ability to tell a lie is pretty much embedded into my DNA. But somehow, I get around Remy and forget all my cues, his green eyes piercing straight through me. I know I’m fucked when his hand slips away. His expression closes up, shutting me out, and even when he turns to watch Nick square up with the LDZ guy, there’s a coldness to his eyes that makes me look worryingly at Sy.

That’s why I miss the first hit.

I see it in Sy’s face, though, the way his brows crouch low when he winces. I hear it through the roar of the crowd, half of them excited, half of them enraged. When I turn to look, Nick is staggering, but clearly doing his best to shake it off. The first time I saw Nick fight in here, it was like watching an artist. The hits, the taunts, the arrogance. Nick commanded the fight, leading Perez always where he wanted him. He planned, he calculated, he strategized.

Tonight, Nick barely even gets past watching the LDZ’s foot movements.

He takes a hit to the jaw, one to the ribs, another to his chin. He always backs away and regroups, and I can see the annoyance simmering behind his blue eyes, but the fire… the fire isn’t there.

His heart only looks half in it.

Remy leans forward, elbows on his bouncing knees as he watches, and he sees it, too. “Where the fuck is Nick tonight?” he growls, scowling as Nick takes a mean right hook. I can hear the smack of skin all the way up the bleachers.

“Son of a—shake it off, Nicky!” Sy calls next to me. “You’ve got thi—”

Nick takes another hit, this one a foot right in the hip. He sways and doesn’t fall, but it’s close, and watching him struggle to keep his bearings puts my teeth on edge.

This is going to be a bloodbath.

“Fuck this, I’m going down there,” Sy says, pushing past us. He moves like a freight train, one second on the bleachers, the next up on the ring, shouting, “Time! I need a fucking time-out!”

The ref approves, and the LDZ sophomore Nick thought he could take so easily, struts over to his corner.

Nick limps to his.

“This is bad?” I ask, but I already know. It’s really bad. Nick is losing and I’m the reason why. He’s worn out, exhausted, his body a wreck from the days in the cage.

His hands are still twitching.

Remy shakes his head, not even looking at me. “Bruins don’t lose. Not on our turf.”

The rustle of the crowd changes during the timeout, less cheering, more chatter, and that’s when I start to hear the shit-talk.

“I knew letting that no-good traitor in DKS was a mistake. Legacy or not, he’s more loyal to the Lords than us.” I turn, shoulder brushing against Remy’s to see who said it, but there are a dozen frat boys surrounding us, all with the same disgusted, annoyed expression on their face.

“You think he’s throwing it?” I hear.

“I heard he spent a week at the Hideaway. He probably made a deal for free pussy,” someone else says. “I’d probably throw a fight for less.”

Remy tenses beside me. He hears the gossip, too.

“Plus,” another adds, “he chose a Lucia as his Duchess. You just know that bitch is scheming. I bet he’s laying pipe to all the other houses.”

“Man, this is bullshit,” a deep voice mutters, this one closer. “Waited all this time to become part of DKS and who do we get as Duke? A fucking turncoat.”

I face Remy. “You don’t believe that do you?”

“Nicky’s no turncoat,” he replies, eyes flashing over the scene. Sy has Nick’s face in his hands, giving him a stern talk. Blood runs down Nick’s temple and I should be out there, giving him water, doing my job, but instead I’m here marinating in the certainty that there’s not going to be a victory party tonight. “I need to—”

Remy shoots to his feet. “You need to follow me,” he commands, taking my hand. He pulls me off the bleachers, down the crowded path between the ring and the seats. He drags me right past where Nick is talking to Sy, those cold blue eyes watching as we pass.

“Where—” I ask, but he’s pushed through a door and down a hallway. It’s vaguely familiar but in a hazy, distant sort of way. It’s not until we get to the steps that I abruptly stop. “This is where I was kept the night Nick fought for me.”

“To the balcony,” he says, not stopping. “Hurry up. Once that time-out is over, Nicky will be too, unless we fucking do something.”

“Do something?” I ask, but he’s already up the stairs, fingers curled too tightly around mine to do anything but be dragged along. It’s a different feeling this time when we emerge at the top, the whole gym spread out beneath us. Across the way, I see the box seat, with the bookies and Mama B, Saul up against the rail looking absolutely irate.

Directly below them are the Lords.

They’re in the same seats they were in that first night, watching their boy take on Nick Bruin. Story is perched on Killian’s lap, her arm looped over his shoulder, and they all look happy.

“Okay, what are we doing here?” I ask, trying to get a hold on Remy’s mental state.

His jaw is working, teeth clenching and unclenching as he looks out below. “Nicky’s got no color. No reds, no blues, no yellows.” He shoots me a sidelong glance. “He’s got nothing to fight for.”

Instantly, I’m reminded of what Nick said to me the other night.

“Every soldier needs something to keep him going.”

“There’s only one thing that’ll bring out the beast in Nick Bruin tonight.” He spins me around and shoves me against the railing, his chest solid against my back. “Remember that night, when I found you up here all alone?”

I swallow and nod. “Yes.”

He touches my hip, ducking his thumb beneath my shirt. “I wanted to fuck you so bad, Vinny. Claim you right above everyone, show them that we’d already marked you as ours. But back then I couldn’t. You still belonged to the Kings. Lords, Counts… whoever.” He yanks up my skirt, rough and fast, and I fall forward from the force. He bends to speak against my neck, voice ragged. “But tonight, you’re ours, and I can show anyone I want.”

Energy, in its purest form, vibrates through Remy. It’s like along with whatever drug he’s on, he’s caught the mood of the crowd, the frustration of his best friend, the desire to fuck and fight. The way it mingles with his sharp, curt jostles of my hips, hands tearing my panties down my thighs, sends a shock of worry through me—one I haven’t felt in a while.

“Remy,” I begin, grabbing hard at the metal bars as I hear his belt buckle being undone. “Remy, wait.”

He kicks out, spreading my ankles. “Why? None of what those guys said is true, is it? You’re not loyal to North Side.”

I shoot up, jaw dropping. “Of course not!”

He fists my hair, tugging my head back. “Then what’s the problem?” His voice is too hard—still angry over the Cash situation—and I’m not sure how to mend it. “Don’t you want to help your house, Duchess?”

The bell rings below, signaling the fight is back on. Nick’s distracted, though, eyes searching. He’s looking for me and it clicks. Remy wants him to find us. “You think he’ll Hulk out or something if he sees us.” I look over my shoulder, but Remy’s too busy pulling his cock out of his pants. Stiff, hard and red. “But I don’t think—’

“You don’t need to think,” he says, reaching down to jab two fingers through my slit. “You just need to be loud and look good. Think you can do that?”

The words sting just as much as his fingers when he pushes them inside, rough and invasive. The awareness chimes through me that this hold is breakable. Sy’s taught me how. I can get away from him.

I don’t.

“I can do that,” I decide, watching the ring. Down below, Nick’s opponent circles him, but Nick is only half focused on the other guy, still scanning the crowd.

“What if we’re just distracting him?” I worry, but my belly bottoms out when Remy begins rubbing the hard tip of his cock through my folds. I suspect this is going to be very little about my pleasure and more about Remy making a point, but my body doesn’t seem to get the memo that this is to serve a greater purpose.

“That’s it. Be my good girl.” Remy makes a low, rumbling sound at my growing wetness. “Don’t worry about Nicky. I know how my boy ticks.”

My hands grip the railing as the head of his cock bumps against my clit. “Oh, fuck.”

“Have you ever had it like this?” he asks, spreading my cheeks with his palm. I think for a minute he’s going to go for my ass, but his fingers dip lower, spreading the warm heat around. “Out in the open, where anyone can see us?”

“No.” I don’t know if Remy understands how limited my sexual experience is. I’m thankful for his though, because he knows how to make it feel so good that my knees buckle when the head of his cock nudges inside, stretching me from a different, new angle.

“Come on, Nicky,” he breathes. “Look at me and our girl.”

I don’t know if it’s their psychic connection, or if somehow he heard him call his name, but Nick’s eyes dart up to us at the same moment Remy decides to slam inside. My cry is anything but quiet, escaping my mouth in a shocked yelp. I’m grateful for the bars in front of me, keeping me upright, holding my weight as Remy forces his way inside. It’s too fast, too soon, and my body is torn between squirming away and bowing myself closer.

“Stop pushing me out,” he grunts, kicking my ankles wider. The stance lets him thread his way deeper and the hard, bruising grip of his fingers on my hips yanks me back into him, spearing me wholly on his cock.

“Oh, god—oh, fuck!” I don’t mean to be looking right into Nick’s stare as I say the words. It’s just that my body is so overwhelmed that I can hardly pay attention to anything that isn’t the liquid hot fire between my legs.

I see the tic in Nick’s jaw as Remy curls over me, around me, clamping his teeth into the side of my neck as he bucks, shoving me into the bars.

“There we go,” Remy pants, and I know when Nick’s eyes move just a little to my right that their gazes are meeting. “Watch this, brother.” Remy pulls his hips back and punches them forward, violently, his forearm like a steel bar across my chest.

Nick gets punched in the face, knocked back so hard that he lands flat on his back.

“Oh, shit!” I hiss, half because of the blow, half because of the way Remy is fucking me, these short, painful, brutal slams of his hips against my ass.

“Don’t worry about him,” he says, and it’s hard to think with Remy fucking so frantically in and out, his feet keeping me spread apart, but I keep my eyes on the ring, on the beatdown and defeated man who tried his best to ruin me.

This could be his ruin.

I watch as Nick rises, spitting blood on the mat. He looks at it for a moment, a splatter of bright crimson, and then slowly raises his gaze to the LDZ lordling.

“There it is,” Remy grunts, crushing me closer.

The fire grows in Nick’s eyes, his hands balling into tight fists. What is unleashed isn’t a man’s fury; it’s a Bruin’s force. Wild, animalistic, feral.

The first blow is a kick, solid in the ribs. The next is a punch, hard across the jaw. The hits land hard, just like Remy’s thrusts, and if that isn’t enough, the entire gym explodes from his comeback, the screams ricocheting off the metal ceiling, drowning out the sound of mine and Remy’s panted grunts.

“Come for me, Vinny,” he says, but I’m too caught up in the match, in the utter force of Nick Bruin, to be anything more than what he asked of me. A good girl. A good Duchess. A warm, willing hole.

Down below, Nick finishes the LDZ with a quick, decisive TKO. I watch as he stands over his defeated opponent, chest heaving, glistening with sweat. He looks like the soldier again, blank-faced, chin raised arrogantly. But his eyes aren’t on the man he just destroyed in the comeback of a decade.

They’re locked on mine.

It’s only then that the shudder starts at my core, spreading outward when Remy surges into my clenching muscles, holding me so tightly that I have nowhere to go except into the solid expanse of his chest. My mouth opens in a silent scream as I come, barely registering the warm flood of Remy’s release being battered into me by his driving hips.

By the time I come down, Nick is gone, disappearing through the locker room doors.

Remy collapses against me, breathing warm, damp exhalations into the juncture of my jaw. He raises a palm to smooth my hair away, lips soft against my cheek as he speaks, low and dangerous.

“Never fucking lie to me again.”

The party that night is wild.

Everyone is drunk. Everyone, including me.

Over the music and the partying, I can hear the deep vibrating hum of the tattoo gun. Across the room, Nick sits in Remy’s chair, head tilted to the side, getting his victory tattoo.

To the victor, I raise my plastic cup before throwing it back, finding only lukewarm dregs.

Remy hasn’t looked at me once, not since he stormed down the balcony stairs, angrily fastening his fly. Neither has Nick, but that’s more of a relief than anything. The knowledge of how much headspace I occupy with him is unsettling. I know how Nick feels about me. He’s proven it over and over again, but it still comes as a shock when the intensity of it is put on full display.

“Here,” Sy says, swapping my empty cup out for another. The liquid inside is fruity, specifically designed to get women shit-faced and loose.

I eye him, wondering if that’s his goal. “What are you doing?”

“Being a good host,” he replies, leaning his elbow back on the bar. “Is that so impossible?”

“Yes.” But it is a party, and a victory party, at that. Sy does love to win, even if it’s living vicariously through his brother’s. Every Duke accomplishment is one of his own, I guess. Remy’s loud voice carries across the room, distracting me from my thoughts. I frown as he changes the needle in his gun, grinning over at Haley as she hands him his tools. “So he’s pissed at me.”

“Well, yeah.” He watches his best friend and brother, a wayward curl falling into his eyes in the way his hair tends to do when he’s like this—easy and relaxed. “You lied right to his face, and Remy doesn’t tolerate liars.”

“I didn’t—”

Sy’s stare is hard, his dark eyebrows hiked to his hairline.

“I was doing what you told me to do!” I explode. “Keeping Cash away from him. What did you want me to do? Tell him the truth? Because then he’d be pissed at you instead.” Maybe I can talk Remy into taking his pills sometimes, but I’m not stupid. Sy is far more important when it comes to keeping him balanced and well-behaved.

First, there’s a long sigh, and then he looks at his friend. “This is a tricky situation, Lavinia. Remy spends his whole life chasing one dragon to the next. Going after that high means that sometimes I have to bullshit him just to keep him safe. Problem is, he’s been lied to by his family for years now, and we’re talking big lies. The kinds of lies that make you question your own reality, and when you have a diagnosis like his? He’s been jerked around a lot.” He shifts and I feel his hip rub against mine. “You like him. I can tell. Everyone does. But the thing that keeps him from chasing every female who’s nice to him is a finely-honed sense of distrust. The difference with you is that he wants to trust you.”

“But you want me to lie to him.” Jesus, my head hurts.

“If you have to.” He nods, like this logic makes sense. “But you need to get better at it. A lot better. Remy has a high level of emotional intelligence. Sometimes it’s not that you’re telling a lie so much as how you lie.” He tips the mouth of his bottle toward me. “You looked him in the eye and told him a load of not-even-believable bullshit. That’s not acceptable.”

The irony here is that I’ve been lying to these guys for days—weeks. I lied about my father coming for me. I lied about keeping Nick in the cage. I’m lying about our plan to go to the Barons for information.

But somehow I’m in Remy’s crosshairs for lying about Cash Mallis?

“Whatever,” I tell him, ready to leave the bar. Honestly, I’m ready to leave the whole-ass party. But Sy snatches my wrist as I pass, pulling me back. I look him up and down. “What?”

He sucks on the inside of his mouth, eyes dropping to my chest. Finally, he says, “Maybe we can go upstairs while it’s quiet.”

My eyes dart from his face to his cock, hard and pressed against my thigh. “You want a lesson? Right now?”

He falters for a moment, eyes tracking mine, before he firms his expression back up. “That’s what we do, isn’t it?”

“Sy,” I begin, batting down the flare of disbelief. “Look at me.” I point to my face, knowing it’s blotchy, eyes probably puffy. I’d had a bit of a cry on the ride home, Remy stiff and silent next to me. “Do I look like someone who’s in the mood to touch your dick?”

His eyes narrow and he drops my wrist—well, more like he throws it down. “Don’t be one of those bitches who expect a guy to read her mind. If you have something to say, then say it.”

I laugh, the sound humorless and too quiet. “Wow, for a guy who can read someone else’s emotional intelligence, you should try gaining some.” At the flash of rage in his eyes, I spread my arms. “I went out of my way to do something to help someone I like, and they ended up punishing me for it. I’m fucking miserable!”

He crosses his arms over his chest, mouth tensed into a tight purse. “You let Remy fuck you on the balcony to make my brother jealous, but suddenly you’re too good to get me off like you promised?”

The words shouldn’t hurt, but it feels like a slap, anyway. A reminder that my presence is tolerated for what I can be used for: protecting Remy from Cash, helping Nick win his fight, jacking off a horny, desperate, frat-boy…

In the end I’m a Duchess, at their whim.

I raise my chin, biting back, “I’m just not in the mood, so you can either force me to get you off like your brother would, or you can take your five-fingered best friend and go inflict all this romance onto it!”

His eyes shutter, expression turning cold. “Well, here’s the real viper, the poisonous little slut who doesn’t give a shit about her obligations, so long as she’s getting her own needs met.”

I barely process it when he grabs the plastic cup from me and slams it across the room, punch spraying all over, because right then Nick saunters over to the bar, shirtless, beaten halfway to a pulp. He leans over the counter and demands a beer, and I finally see his victory tattoo.

It takes me a second to realize that’s what it is—inked into his skin for eternity—because I’ve been staring at it all night.

The perfect shape of my red lipstick print, tattooed into his neck.

He slides his gaze to me through a swollen eye, taking the drink from the DKS manning the bar. He raises it lazily. “To the victor…”

I don’t hear the rest of it, don’t want to, and don’t care. I’m done with the Dukes for the night, and leave them and the rest of the idiots in the tower to celebrate without me.

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