Dukes of Madness: Royals of Forsyth U (Royals of Forsyth University Book 5)
Dukes of Madness: Chapter 28

If I ever thought the Dukes were unbearable after a victory, then I had no real understanding of what they were like after a loss.

It’s not a real loss or anything. There wasn’t ever a moment in the ring where someone else’s glove was raised. The other side didn’t throw a party to celebrate. There was no trophy or belt or girls stolen out from under their noses.

This is the kind of loss that drags on in the ears of strangers.

Royal probation.

The energy that buzzes between them is somewhere between pissed off and vengeful, followed by a heavy dose of depression. I know them all well enough to understand how they’d all usually react to something like this. Sy would train until he’s too exhausted to feel anything else. Nick would hustle and engineer things back to their favor. Remy would either stop taking his drugs or begin taking the wrong ones at a worrying volume.

But all of that has been taken away.

The gossip around campus makes it worse, the spotlight shining on every member of DKS as they walk across the quad or sit in the student center. Each and every move is like one big walk of shame. The only relief is when my Dukes get back to the tower, but even then, it’s like three rats circling in a cage.

They need something to do.

Sy has taken to compulsively working out in the living room. Remy is lost in his artwork, headphones firmly attached over his ears as he works on this piece he’s doing of the Baron King. We’ve had two more sessions on my moth, but it needs to heal before he can add more. And Nick?

Well, Nick follows me around, room to room, usually quiet, thinking about something he’s not quite ready to share.

“You know what I keep thinking about?”

Until now, apparently.

Nick leans against the cold bricks, legs sprawled in front of him. We’re up in the area of the clock tower that holds the mechanics. I’ve almost rebuilt the clock parts, which has been intricate, tedious work that I’m not even sure is anywhere approaching ‘right’. He’s got his ring in his hand—the one with the brass Bruin on it—and he keeps flipping it up in the air and then snatching it into his palm, fidgeting with it.

Tink.

“What?” I ask, straining to tighten one of the bolts.

The ring spins and falls, his hand coming out to grab it. “We need some leverage on your old man.”

I spare him a dry look, wondering, “Are you saying you don’t have any? You’ve been the one in the trenches for the last two years.”

His eyes tighten as they follow the ring. “Nothing big enough. I mean, not unless you count… well, you.”

I give the wrench a hard pull. “I doubt he does.”

He holds the ring out, brows furrowing as he inspects it. “He wanted us to send you back. At the tribunal, that was one of his requests. But you’re right.” He closes his palm around the ring, his head falling back against the wall. “He doesn’t really care about getting you back. He hasn’t made a play in weeks. He just wants to—”

“Take away your shiny new toy,” I grumble, wincing as I struggle with the wrench.

Nick’s silent as he watches, a shadow filling his eyes. “We need to do something about your dad’s failsafe.”

I bark a humorless laugh. “Oh, you mean the four-square miles of bombs running under our feet right now?”

“Yes.” He flips the ring again.

Tink.

“Don’t you think that if someone could have done something about it by now, they would have? The other four Kings don’t seem happy about it, and they’re not exactly powerless.”

Tink.

“I get the feeling those old geezers are so set in their ways, they don’t even realize how fucked up they’ve become,” he says, catching the ring and jamming it onto his finger. He leans over and holds out his hand, making the universal signal for ‘gimme’. Defeated, I place the wrench in his palm and watch as he rises to his feet to get to the bolt. He tightens it easily, the long muscle in his forearm tensing as he ratchets it up and down. “But we’re not old, and I don’t like the idea of living on a live-wire.”

I sit back as he tests the rest of the bolts, tightening them where he feels a weakness. Something like this would have annoyed the shit out of me a few weeks ago: someone going in behind me and testing my work, finding it lacking, doing it their way.

Now, I just sit back, arms around my knees as I watch his muscles and sinew. The Bruin brawn sure is something, Nick’s back flexing with every revolution of the wrench. If it were summer, I bet he’d have to take his shirt off.

Clearing my throat, I shake out of that insidious, creeping daydream. “You’re on probation. You can’t do anything right now without risking your title.”

“My title.” He scoffs. “I wasn’t lying when I told them I don’t want it, Little Bird.” He glances at me under his arm, the tendons shifting above his wrist. “I don’t give a shit about any titles. I came back into the fold for one reason.” He points the wrench at me. “To win you.”

He could have told me that a million times before and I would’ve called bullshit. But not anymore. I understand him better. I believe him. Nick sacrifices for the people he loves and I don’t doubt that he loves me more than most.

It’s still an uncomfortable realization that I try not to think so much about. Accepting that I’ve somehow gained a guardian attack-Bruin is one thing. Facing the other aspects of it is hard enough when he’s not in front of me, all flexing and rippling and… pretty.

Ugh.

He finishes tightening the last bolt and drops the wrench into the toolbox.

“My sister loved secrets,” I say, trying to get my brain back on the rails. “I think Tate was her biggest one yet—maybe one she would have fought for, tooth and nail.”

He sits opposite me, making a winding motion with his hand. “Elaborate.”

“To leave with Tate,” I explain, eyebrow arching, “to truly escape my father? She had to do more than run. She’d need something else.”

“Leverage.” His expression smoothes. “Just like the kind we need.”

I nod. “Leticia had access, knowledge, and resources that I was never privy to. On top of that, she was good at it. Conniving, you know?” Like you, my mind whispers, thinking of Nick. My stomach twists at the thought of him and my sister having something in common and I scramble to my feet, holding out my hand, offering it to him. “So maybe she already put in the work.”

Nick gives my hand a short look before grasping it, rising to meet me. “You think she found something,” he guesses. “Something useful.”

I stare up into his blue eyes, my voice firm and sure. “Oh, I’m certain of it.” Leticia wouldn’t have left for anything less.

Nick searches my face. “How would we find out what it was?” And then he groans, hand rubbing through his hair. “Are you going to make me break into that house again? That dog really doesn’t like me.”

“No,” I tell him, feeling the buzz of energy in my chest. I take his hand. “Because you may have already stolen what we’re looking for.”

He stares at me for a moment, comprehension dawning over his features. “The box.”

I grin and drag him downstairs.

Nick pulls the SUV behind a nondescript beige office building. There’s nothing but the street numbers affixed to the side, and I don’t like it. The street is dark and too normal-looking. Silent. Still. East End is always so neat and tidy; it reminds me of North Side. Money and pretense.

My skin crawls with unease.

Nick cuts the engine and rests his wrist on the wheel, casual in a precise way that tells me he’s on edge, too—just better at hiding it. “We still have about ten minutes.” When I nod, his thumb taps the wheel, eyes scanning the street in front of us. “We could make out.”

I peer out my window, eyes rolling. “Seems like a nice way to get ambushed.”

Nick knows I’m right, which is why the offer is hard to take seriously. His next question isn’t a joke, though. “Are you fucking Sy?”

I turn to look at him, not sure what surprises me more; the question or the mildness it’s asked with. The familiar snap is on the tip of my tongue. It’s none of your business. Only, he’s watching me back with such an aloof expression that the defensive feeling never arrives. “No,” I answer, nervously rubbing my knees. “We just… you know. Fool around. Sometimes.”

Despite the words, I think of Sy’s question from yesterday and have to fight back a grin.

“Are you my girlfriend?”

Sy is this massive guy, so strong and commanding, but sometimes I get these glimpses of the boy within—the man who doesn’t have any experience with girls—the ear-blushing, stilted, fumbling lover that is Simon Perilini.

Every day, I find myself hoping to catch another glimpse of it.

“Hm.” Nick rests an elbow on his door, inspecting his nails. “He’s just been really wound up lately.”

I groan, head falling back. “God, tell me about it. I mean, he’s intense even on a good day, but ever since the tribunal…”

Nick meets my gaze, his mouth set into a grim line. “Just be careful with him, alright?”

I blink. “What does that mean?”

“Sy can be…” Nick shrugs, looking away. “Explosive. Like a faulty fuse. I’m not saying he’d break bad on you or anything, just… sometimes I think his urges to fight and fuck fork off from the same root.”

Slowly, I say, “Okay.”

After a moment, Nick sighs. “He got in a fight this morning.” I turn to decipher whatever it is I hear in his voice. Disappointment? Dread? He glances at me, explaining, “He used to do that a lot back in the day, before he found DKS. Pick fights, find someone to beat the shit out of, get into all kinds of heat. He hasn’t gotten into a fight outside of the ring in years.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to figure out what this means. “Is he… in trouble?”

Nick shakes his head. “It was some random LDZ in the parking lot outside of campus. Killer’s letting it slide. For now.” The last two words are ominous, signaling a weight that I didn’t realize Nick felt. I get the impression that, however Sy used to be, Nick possibly got familiar with smoothing things over for him.

It’s a weird flip of the tables.

Nick must sense my awe because he glances at me, snorting. “I know it’s hard to believe, but there was a time when Sy was the problem child and I was the good one.”

“You’re right,” I say. “That is hard to believe.”

When the ten minutes are up, he shifts. “Hand me that case,” he says, pulling his gun out from under the front seat. Smoothly, he reaches behind himself to tuck it into his waistband before handing me a second pistol.

I trade it for the metal case lying in the floorboard below my feet. Nick swears up and down there’s not a severed body part inside, but I still grimace as I hand it over. “You really think they’ll have what we need?”

All we have to go on is the old receipt we found in Leticia’s box. I figured it was worthless—nothing there but four random numbers scribbled onto the back, and no way to figure out what they go to—but Nick told me he’s been mulling it over for a while now, making calls, doing recon on the pharmacy.

Now we’re here, at some weird, back-alley company.

Nick explains, “Bastion Security is owned by Ashby. He knows everything going on with the businesses in his territory. Word on the street is they keep tight records on all of their clients.” He slides me a look. “Extortion, robbery, blackmail… easy things to do when you know everything about how a place runs.” With a jerk of his chin, he gestures to the building. “I confirmed through one of my old South Side contacts that Kilpatrick Pharmacy is one of their oldest clients. We can at least see if we can find a video of the day she bought that stuff.”

Okay, so it’s still a long shot. The only thing keeping me going is the fact she kept that receipt. She wouldn’t have kept a random piece of trash in that box. My sister was a lot of things, but sloppy was never one of them. She had to have known there was only one person who’d find this trove of clues: me.

We step out of the car, but as soon as I round the front, Nick stops me. “There’s one more thing.”

I look at the hand he has on my arm—not gripping, just holding—and then his eyes. “What?”

He opens his mouth and then closes it. The low light of the alley punctuates the deep set of his eyes, carving them into hollows. “The thing is… this guy we’re meeting…” he stalls, scowling for some reason that I can’t suss out.

“Yeah?” The unease in my gut grows. “Spit it out.”

Nick takes a breath. “This guy—he thinks me and you are together, like a legit couple.” Nick looks toward the building, jaw tight. “And I need him to go on thinking that.”

My nose screws up. “What? Why?”

He whirls back to me, hissing, “Because, it’s just one of those things we have to do to get the intel. Don’t ask questions!” My head snaps back in outrage, but before I can bitch him out, he gently jabs a finger into my shoulder. “You know, I ran South Side for two years pretending to be loyal to Daniel Payne. You can handle a few hours as my girlfriend.”

“Fine!” I snap, keeping my voice low. “But you should have told me before we got here!”

He links our hands together and drags me across the alley, ignoring the daggers I’m glaring into the back of his head. On the way to the door, I hold up the receipt, searching for something, anything that makes sense. There’s a date and time on the slip of paper, and underneath, I can barely make out the three items she purchased. A phone case, a portable charger, and a package of sour gummies.

It’s the last one that keeps tripping me up.

“Tisha hated sour candy.” I think about how, when we were kids, she’d toss it out if she ever got any: trick-or-treating, church functions, goody bags from friends’ birthday parties, holiday baskets.

“Yeah,” Nick says, pressing the button by the glass door, “well, Tate loved them.”

I watch him from the corner of my eye, feeling nervous and out of sorts. As soon as Nick mentioned checking the video, I had to wonder if he just wanted to see if Tate was with her. It seems far-fetched that we’ll find anything useful on a video that’s over two years old. If it even exists.

Through the glass, I see movement at the end of the hall. A skinny guy appears, walking toward us. His brown hair is shaggy, long enough to brush his shoulders, and he’s got a thin, pitiful-looking mustache that must have taken him years to grow. His bright Hawaiian-print shirt is the loudest thing about the moment, and he approaches us without any sense of alarm, his feet bare.

I raise my eyebrows at Nick. “This is the big scary guy we have to convince we’re dating?”

Bullshit.

I try to tug my hand away, but Nick tightens his grip, too focused on the door opening to notice my furious stare.

“Pretty Nick,” the guy greets, licking his lips. “Pretty on time and pretty fuckin’ fine.” He smirks, eyes crawling down Nick’s body. I know an eyefuck when I see it, and this guy is already balls deep. He lifts his chin. “Ready to pay up for the put up?”

“Charlie.” Nick hauls me up against his side. “This is my girl.”

Charlie’s mouth turns down as he looks at me. “Ah, I don’t know, Nick.” He scratches the back of his head, pulling a face. “I don’t do threesomes. Not with chicks. I mean, no offense. She’s got a great rack, but it’s lost on me. I’m more about vibing on this.” He makes a long, serpentine gesture to mimic Nick’s body.

“Oh,” I whisper, “my god.” I twist to gape at Nick. “Are you whoring yourself out for this?”

“Hell yeah, he is,” Charlie gushes.

Nick shoots Charlie a sharp look. “No. I brought the alternative payment. The one we discussed. At length.” From the long-suffering look on Nick’s face, this isn’t a conversation he wants to revisit.

Charlie’s face falls when he sees the case in Nick’s hand. “Oh.” Clearly disappointed, Charlie lets us in, locking the door behind us and punching in a code. “Can I just…” Turning to Nick, he brings his forefinger and thumb together in a pinching motion. “Just a little?”

“No,” Nick answers, unequivocally. He hands the case to Charlie, who takes it with a beleaguered expression.

“I hate this fucking town. Hot guys everywhere and none of them will sell their ass to you,” he grumbles, waving us toward the back. “Third door on the right.”

We head down the hall, and a small glance over my shoulder reveals that Charlie’s eyes follow Nick’s ass the whole way. The room we enter is filled with computer equipment, the air humming with the vibration of fans. There’s a giant cup of soda and a pile of discarded snack wrappers on the desktop. The room has an odor. It’s not good.

“Oh,” Charlie says when he enters, like he’s noticing his little depression nest for the first time. Scurrying around us, he pushes the garbage into the bin on the floor, clearing his throat. He sits in a chair and gestures for us to grab two others. I move to take one, but Nick grabs my hips suddenly, pulling me down into the other with him, settling me on his lap.

I try my best not to lock up as he winds his arms around me, breath rustling my hair.

Charlie begins, “Since you gave me a general date—and that pic of your abs—I already pulled up the file.” He opens a tab, and the screen is split into four black and white sections. It takes a moment to process it, but there are four different security cameras: the front checkout, the parking lot, the pharmacy counter, and the drive through.

I twist to give Nick a look, mouthing, your abs?

Nick pointedly doesn’t notice this. “Is this the best resolution?”

“It’s shrunk to fit the frame,” Charlie says, glancing over his shoulder. His eyes fall to Nick’s arms around my waist. “Did you have a time?”

“Yeah,” I say, pulling out the receipt again. “Ten-forty-seven. AM.”

Charlie narrows his eyes and turns back to his screen, pressing a few keys. “Keep an eye out on what you’re looking for and tell me when to stop.”

The videos start moving at high speed, all four at once, and I scoot forward to track it. My eyes and brain try to keep up with the images, people coming in and out, the clerk and pharmacist talking to customers, stocking inventory, answering the phone.

Nick curls close behind me, his hand moving to my hip as he ducks in. “Since she was a paying customer, but not buying meds, we should focus on the front,” he tells me, his eyes obviously as strained as my own. “I’ll watch the parking lot.”

“Go back,” I say, knowing we’ve gone too far.

Charlie rewinds and slows the footage. Someone walks in the front door in a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up and I jump, pointing. “There,” I say.

“That’s a dude,” Nick replies, his thumb rubbing a soothing circuit into my hip.

Frustrated, I argue, “No. See the flash of light on the hand? It’s a reflection. Those are rings. Leticia always wore three on that hand.”

Nick pauses to ask Charlie, “Can you make that bigger?”

“Yeah, sure.” Charlie clicks around, expanding the frame to fit the whole screen.

It’s still grainy, and it’s hard to see her face, but I recognize the shape of her, slender and elegant, and the way she walks, smooth and graceful, floating like a dancer. “That’s her.”

“You’re sure?” Nick asks.

“Completely.”

He deflates. I can feel it in his body beneath me—against me. “Right. Okay.” The disappointment is even clear in his voice. No Tate.

“So… she goes in,” I say, watching my sister’s moves. It’s strange seeing her like this, in an unguarded, unknown moment, especially now that I know I’ll never see her again. “She grabs the case and charger.”

She heads to the counter, puts the items onto it, looks down, glances toward the door, and then…

Leticia grabs the sour candy, placing it beside the case and charger.

Nick and I share a look.

“Expand the parking lot,” he says, leaning so far over, he’d dump me out of his lap if it weren’t for the way he’s clutching me close. Charlie presses two keys and the screen shifts. There are several cars in the lot, but one is idling by the curb, exactly where Leticia had been glancing. It’s not a car, though. It’s a Jeep. The top is on, of course, making it hard to see inside, but once Leticia pays, she walks out and goes directly to it, hopping inside. On the video, it’s easy to see her toss something into the backseat to a shadowy figure.

“Tate,” I whisper, touching the forearm Nick has clamped around me. “She’s in the back.”

“Who’s driving?” Nick says, squinting. “Do you recognize this Jeep?”

I shake my head. “No.”

But then the driver takes off, turning the car in a tight U-turn, giving us a full view of his blond hair and sharp profile.

Nick slams back into the seat. ‘Son of a—’

We look at one another. I pull out my phone. “Guess it’s my turn to make some calls.”

We sit in the car for a long time, staring out the windshield at the building in front of us. There’s something heavy rising in my throat, a fist clutching my lungs, and for a second, I think I might be sick. It might have been different if we’d planned this. Maybe. But we just left Bastion Security fifteen minutes ago. It’s all happening too fast.

“I don’t know if I can go in there.” The words emerge in a thin rasp, as if I’m just testing them out, determining the truth of them.

Nick rests his Bruin ring against his curled forefinger, thumb flicking it into the air again.

Tink.

“Okay.”

“I went into the motel,” I say, feeling weirdly defensive about it. “I slept there with Sy for three nights.”

Tink.

“I know.”

I go on, “I’m not a coward. It’s just different here.” And then, “You wouldn’t get it.”

Tink.

Nick finally looks at me, blue eyes hardening. “I wouldn’t get it?” Shifting to slide the ring onto his middle finger, he asks, “Do you know why I asked you to pretend we were together back there?”

I scoff. “Because Charlie wants your dick, and you needed a way to let him down gently?” Curtly, I add, “And because you wanted to make me sit on your cock.”

Nick snaps, “That wasn’t it at all.” The sharpness of the words makes me flinch. “I don’t let people down gently, Little Bird. And I didn’t ask you because I don’t trust Charlie. I asked you because I don’t trust myself.”

I pull a face. “With… Charlie?”

“No, I mean—” Flustered, he looks forward, out the windshield, pointing to the building. The Velvet Hideaway. “You know what’s back there? Behind the building? The Pit. You’ve heard of it, right?”

I fight down a shiver, hugging my middle. “Of course I’ve heard of it. It was my sword of Damocles for months.”

Nick jerks his chin in its direction. “Then ask yourself what kind of guy Daniel would want in there, on camera, fucking his best girls.” Turning to me, he raises an eyebrow. “Someone good-looking, right? Someone with a nice cock. Someone who could look scary.”

I freeze, eyes growing wide. “You mean, you… did that for him? With the Hideaway girls?”

His eyebrows crouch low, making him look menacing. “I’m not stupid, Lavinia. I know what I look like, and I know when it’s useful. I can put people at ease with a smile, or I can make them nervous. My face—my body is a weapon.” He shakes his head, reclining back in his seat. “Do you have any idea how easy it could have been for me back there, with Charlie? I could have had Bastion’s whole operation laid before me with nothing more than—” His words bite off, face hardening as he looks at me. “But I’m done being that kind of weapon. Do you understand?”

I’m not sure I do. “You didn’t trust yourself?”

He sucks his teeth, tapping the steering wheel. “Sometimes, when I’m out here on the streets, doing shit like this… I lose perspective. Sometimes, the mission is all I can see.” He lifts a hand, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His eyes follow it, burning a trail across my cheek, my temple. “The mission, and you.”

The cabin is quiet and dark, and Nick is close—close enough that I inhale the scent of him, spicy and industrial. I think of walking back into that place, the Hideaway, and remembering what we are. A prisoner and her guard. A victim and her attacker. A Duke and his pawn.

Swallowing, I ask, “Can we pretend for just a little longer?”

Nick’s blue eyes blaze into mine, and I worry for a moment that he’ll get the wrong idea. But he just takes my hand, lifting it to brush his lips across my knuckles. “As long as you want.”

I didn’t plan on ever going back to the Hideaway but here I am, walking hand in hand with Pretty Nick Bruin as we cross the parking lot. Story meets us at the side door—a private entrance to the office—and only gives our hands a brief look before waving us in.

“Hey,” she says, “Get in here before anyone sees you.”

We’re not here to see Story, though. Or Killian. The Lord we’re looking for is sitting behind his desk, forehead creased as we walk in. Tristian Mercer watches me and Nick closely as the door shuts behind us.

He looks disgruntled. “Anyone want to explain why you dragged me down here on a Thursday night? Because Killer already told you Sy was off the hook for that scuffle with Tucker today. What more do you want?”

I hadn’t told Story what we needed Tristian for—just that it was important.

“It’s not about that.” Nick pulls out a tablet and queues up the video, sliding it across the desktop. Tristian picks it up and watches the video play through twice, chin propped on his palm, clearly bored.

“What am I looking at?”

“You,” Nick answers. “Isn’t that you driving the Jeep?”

Tristian looks down again, recognition taking hold. “Uh, sure… maybe?” He plays it again and slowly nods. “Rath crashed that Jeep into a dumpster behind the liquor store our freshman year during LDZ initiation.” He points at something on the screen. “You can see the bent fender here. So yeah, sure, that’s me.” He looks up at us. “Why?”

Nick rolls his eyes. “Watch it again—do you remember who you were with that day?”

Tristan clucks his tongue. “Man, that was like two or three years ago. How am I supposed to remember that?”

Story looks between me and Nick. “What’s this about?”

“That’s my sister,” I finally tell them. “The one in the passenger seat, wearing the hoodie. There was someone else in the backseat.”

He narrows his eyes. “Seriously?” Comprehension crashes onto his face and he rears back. “Whoa, I did not kill your sister, if that’s what this is about. I didn’t even know it was her!”

“Cut the shit, Mercer,” Nick says. “You knew.”

Tristian holds up his palms. “I didn’t. Back then, people just referred me for things that met my specific skill set.”

From the way his lip curls, it’s clear Nick doesn’t believe him.

But I press forward. “What did you do for her, exactly?”

“I think…” Tristan studies the video again. “Yeah, if this is the one I’m remembering, she needed help with a remote detonator. Not my favorite way to light shit on fire. Personally, I like the smell of gasoline on my skin for a few days, but, hey. To each their own.”

“So you met up with Leticia Lucia and helped her with a detonator?” Nick asks, looming above the desk. “A detonator for what? Where? Be specific.”

Tristian sighs, sliding the tablet back to Nick. “Yeah, I programmed a phone for her, but it was just the raw mechanics. She never said what the explosives went to. It’s not something I do often, and it was pretty elaborate, so it took me some time.” Looking impishly pleased with himself, he turns to his Lady, explaining, “I left a group of contacts on it. All she had to do was call the contact of her choice, and the fuse would blow.”

Nick’s jaw tenses. “And you didn’t think to ask what she was planning to blow up?”

Tristian swings a glare to Nick. “No, I didn’t. I don’t ask questions.” He raises his chin defiantly. “Do you?”

Nick doesn’t even blink.

I hold up the receipt, pointing to the numbers scribbled on the back. “Do you know what this is? She would have written it down while she was in the Jeep with you.”

“Well, yeah.” He leans back in the chair, hand snaked out to pull Story closer. “That’s probably the passcode to unlock the phone.”

“The phone.” Nick says slowly. “The one you gave to Lionel’s heir. To remotely detonate explosives.”

I see it come together on Tristian’s face when the pieces click. Surely, Killian gave his men a rundown of the tribunal meeting and the discussion about my father’s cache of explosives. He touches his lip. “Ah, fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck,” Nick says, turning to raise his eyebrows at me.

“Look, dude, I had no idea,” Tristian insists. “I’d never met the chick before. I didn’t know who her dad was or any of that shit. I just knew that the two of them…” He gives Nick a significant look. “They were hot, bro—like, seriously, all over each other. We’re talking making out, groping, teasing. I was hoping they’d let me in on it, if you know what I—ow!” Story scowls at him, looking unapologetic for the slap she just landed to the back of his head. He rolls his eyes. “Sorry, sweetheart, but it’s true. I was just a stupid frat boy looking for pussy and shit to light on fire.”

I believe him, and from the scowl on Nick’s face, he does, too. “Thanks for your help, Mercer. Make sure no one knows we were here, and we’ll make sure no one finds out you created the key to Forsyth’s complete annihilation.”

So my sister not only had the means to destroy my father if he came after her. She had the means to destroy anyone. Which means one thing. Leticia wasn’t killed for running away.

She died because she didn’t run far enough.

The street outside the Tower is quiet, typical for a late Thursday night. Sy and Remy are probably upstairs and I’m wondering how we tell them everything we just found out.

Nick parks the car and exhales, leaning back in the seat. I feel like I’ve spent all night watching him like this: tracing the lines of his face in the shadows, waiting for his blue eyes to find mine within them.

Slowly, they do. “So what was your sister’s backup plan? To blow up Daddy if he tried to stop her from running off with Tate? Or to blow up all of us?”

I answer honestly. “I don’t know.” Leticia was cold and calculated, but a plan of destruction and death on so wide a scale would be a thing of utter fucking madness. “I doubt it was either of those,” I admit, remembering my sister, thinking of her skull, still tucked away in stone, up in the tower. “Tisha was good at what she did, Nick. She wouldn’t hold something like this in the palm of her hand for the sake of it. If I had to guess, I’d say it was just… insurance. A way to make a credible threat.”

“You realize what this means,” he says, searching my eyes.

Nodding, I agree, “Whoever killed her and Tate… this was their motive.”

“And anyone could have had it,” he finishes, not looking happy at the realization.

Two steps forward, one step back.

Nick’s eyes never leave my face, descending to my cheeks, my nose, my mouth. His hand is still gripping the steering wheel, and I can hear a faint creek when his fingers tighten. “I guess we don’t need to pretend now,” he says, eyes dark.

“We don’t,” I answer, finding my gaze narrowed onto his lips.

Later, I’ll swear up and down that Nick was the one to surge forward first. It’d be a lie, though. I’m the one to push my mouth against his, setting off a cascade of pyrotechnics I feel deep in the pit of my belly.

Nick meets me instantly, a hand coming up to tangle in my hair, crushing me close as he grunts into my open mouth. Our tongues meet like magnets, and he tastes sharp, like desperation and heat and want. It’s the first time I let myself acknowledge that I’ve been squirming for this all fucking day, watching his shifting muscles and stoic eyes. To be the one who makes him groan, low and strained, as he roughly wedges a hand between my knees. To fist my hand into his shirt and wrench him over the center console, so frenzied that I slip in my haste to meet him. I don’t give myself time to think, to feel anything except this ember in my belly flaring to life, hungry and demanding.

It’s a power I never knew I wanted, the knowledge that someone could be mine, any time, any way. Nick would kill for me—die for me—and I feel his hunger for me like a wild, angry thing. For the first time, I let myself indulge in the crush of his brow as he kisses me, sloppy and too hard, too fast, as if he knows it’s a hairsbreadth from being snatched away.

Kissing Nick is like trying to harness lightning.

It isn’t until he pushes his palm up my skirt, rough against my inner thigh, thumb grazing my center, that I freeze, sense flooding back to me like a sledgehammer. I gasp as I rip myself away, chest heaving, mouth so hot that I swear it could be glowing in the dark.

Nick snaps back to his side of the car like a rubber band.

We both sit back in our seats, the cabin noisy with our labored breaths.

Awkwardly, I straighten my skirt, whispering, “I think we should stop pretending now.”

That’s the problem with Nick. He’d die and kill for me, but his love is too savage and twisted to endure without hurt. Tonight, the prospect of it is sexy—painfully enticing. But what will it be like tomorrow, when he wants to hold me down again?

What will Nick’s love look like when I’m unable or unwilling to return it?

He clears his throat, reaching down to not-so-subtly adjust himself. “Yeah, alright.”

We open our doors at the same time, and I gulp in the chilled air as I tumble out, eager to reorient myself. That’s when I hear the sound of music—the same fast-paced chords I often hear coming from Remy’s room late at night. It’s echoing down the street, distant, yet close, and when I bend my neck to peer up the tower, I see the windows of the party room’s floor illuminated.

Nick and I share a dark look before entering the tower.

The climb is slow and quiet, and even though he doesn’t look back at me, I can still feel his awareness like static across my skin. Maybe the hardest part of tonight is that we haven’t been pretending at all. Nick wants me, and in some deep, primal way, I want him back.

At the top, Nick yanks the door open and Ballsack must be on door duty, because he grins when he sees us. “Hey!” he cries, eyes foggy with intoxication. “Duke! Duchess! Welcome home!”

“Isn’t this specifically not supposed to happen?” I ask, pointing to the crowd of people behind him. “Or did the probation get lifted?”

Ballsack snorts. “Oh, hell no. This is what we call an unofficial event,” he explains, waving to another kid who rushes over with two drinks. “Those bastards canceled Family Dinner, but even though the Dukes aren’t on the bill tomorrow, gathering before a fight is tradition. We’re not gonna let those shriveled old fucks interfere with crucial DKS rituals.” Sniffing, he squares his shoulders. “We all talked about it and decided the underclassmen are willing to take the fall. Plus,” he adds, twisting to gesture to a group by the stereo, “We invited some LDZ guys to smooth over that little spat before. Mutually assured destruction.”

It’s a surprisingly sweet sentiment, but I don’t think I can relax enough to have fun. I look back at Nick, assuming he feels the same way, but he grabs one of the red cups and tips it back, swallowing it in one gulp.

“Good call, Ballsack.” Nick hands over the empty cup, face blank. “Hit me again.”

“Seriously?” I ask him, lowering my voice. “After everything we learned tonight, you’re going to just… get fucked up and party?”

Nick stares at me. “What else am I going to do? If I worried all the time about the rope that’s constantly tightening around my neck, I’d never do anything else.” I gape at him and the tattoo on his temple shifts when his eyes pinch. “Maybe this last week has confused you, but I’m not a hero, Little Bird. I’m the piece of shit heroes call when they need dirty work done. You find one of those, give me a call. In the meantime…” He pushes the drink toward me. “Take it while you can.”

Relenting, I take a reluctant sip. The drink is fruity, spiked with something hard that burns down the back of my throat, and I realize Nick’s right. Wallowing over this new information isn’t going to change anything. Not tonight, at least. We’ve all been living on top of my father’s intricate deathtrap for years. One night of debauchery isn’t going to set it off.

And if it does?

Then I guess we went out having fun.

I take another sip, feeling warmth instead of the burn. The place is packed, from every fresh-faced recruit, to the more mature faces of upperclassmen. It looks like every DKS member showed up, along with all the cutsluts. Verity’s talking to a few people back by the dartboard, and Haley’s sitting with a few girls I don’t recognize, watching Remy give a brother a tattoo.

“Hey, Nick.” I look over and see white-blonde curls and a lot of cleavage.

“Brittany,” Nick says back, and then nods at me. “You’ve met the Duchess.”

“Yeah, hi,” she says, eyes flicking down my not-so-party-ready outfit of a skirt and an oversized hoodie. Her hand rests on Nick’s forearm. “Can I get you anything? A drink? A blunt? Or…?” The unspoken offer that hangs in the air is obvious enough without the way she bites her lip.

That, plus the way the other girls no longer seem to be giving him cold glares, tells me the cutsluts have dropped their moratorium on entertaining Nick. I’m not mad about it. I’m surprised they gave me the courtesy at all, and I have been looking decidedly non-murderous around him. They probably think we’ve buried the hatchet.

Maybe they wouldn’t be wrong.

Problem is, Nick’s gaze drops to the hand she’s still resting on his forearm, and for a second I feel this white-hot jab of spite. The moment makes my chest constrict, a dull ache that forces me to think about taking a breath. Nick would be well within his rights to take any woman in this room. Plus, I just got him all worked up in the car. Why shouldn’t he? It’s not like I’m putting out for him.

I raise the cup to my mouth and start to turn away, oddly unwilling to watch him take her up on the offer.

It’s the most Lucia-like I felt in a long while.

But then he gently removes her hand, saying, “Nah, I’m good.” He lifts his chin. “You should go check on Weasel, though. He looks like he could use some company.”

Something in her eye falters, but she still grins back. “Sure, okay.”

She’s barely two steps away when he leans over and runs his thumb down my cheek, drawing my eyes to his. “Jealous, Little Bird?”

I immediately scoff. “Hardly.”

He doesn’t look convinced, eyes dropping to my mouth. “I see how it is. I can’t have you, but I can’t have anyone else, either. Is that right?”

It is right. I can’t rationalize it and I don’t try. It’s greedy and senseless, and I won’t let Nick have me, but the thought of him choosing someone else makes me want to fucking scream.

Leaning away, I say, “Have whoever you want,” and feel my stomach churn with the words. “I’m not stopping you.”

Nick watches me, those blue eyes studying mine too closely. “You’re right. I can have any pussy in this place. But in case I haven’t made it clear,” he ducks down to speak into my ear, “it’s you or nothing. Never doubt that.”

In a blink, his heat is gone. I watch, hypnotized, as he grabs another drink and weaves through the crowd, all cocky smiles and knuckle-to-knuckle fist bumps. The weirdest thing of this whole day is that I know he’s telling the truth. After all we’ve been through—after all the hurt we’ve inflicted on one another—Nick still wants me more than anyone else.

The tension in my chest dissipates, and I leave the crush of the bar. Nick has made his way to the dartboard, his smack talk loud enough to carry over the music. My eyes seek out Remy, who must sense me watching him because he pauses what he’s doing to reach down, grasping the neck of his beer bottle. The long, greedy look he gives me while taking a pull settles in my bones like lava. His pupils are wide and black and it makes me shiver, being under the phantom weight of his attention.

Before I take another breath, he’s back to work, the hum of the tattoo gun sending a chill down my spine. I’ve gotten addicted to the feel of the needle in my skin, and the way his hands and mouth touch me when he’s finished?

That’s not so bad, either.

Since he’s clearly too busy to take care of the pressing situation between my legs, I retreat, searching for something—anything—to cool me down. I duck between two couples making out and take a step right into a solid wall of muscle.

Big hands steady me, and I look up into lazy blue eyes. “Oh,” I say, relieved to find Sy. And then, “Jesus, Sy, your face!”

There’s a nasty scrape just below his eye, already scabbing, the skin around it red and raised. He responds by dipping down to kiss me, hard and slow, the nearby whistle of a DKS member spurring him to gather me close. “Hi,” he says, breathless and deep, and from the bulge digging into my hip, already hard. “I’ve been looking for you. Where have you two been all night?”

“Long story.” I put my hand on his chest, indulging in the feel of him, always so warm and solid. I suppose I’ve found the advantage of having three Dukes. If I won’t let myself have Nick, and Remy is too busy to see to me, then there’s always Sy. “Can we talk about it tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Sure.” He’s hot. I can tell by the way he pushes back his mop of curls, eyes fixed to my mouth. He’s also something else…

I narrow my eyes, noting how his muscles are loose, even though his eyes are quick and cutting. Oh, and his thumb keeps making small circles on the skin just below the low rise of my skirt. “Are you drunk?”

He gives an easy shrug. “If I’m going to be forced to spend the next month as a loser, I’m going to need to self-medicate.”

“You’re not a loser,” I tell him, pushing up on my toes to soothe him with a kiss.

His hand winds around my back, crushing me to him, deepening the kiss. I’m well aware this is more PDA than Sy would usually be comfortable with. We only just worked up to brief kisses in front of the frat, and now his hands are all over me, clutching, rubbing.

If he were sober, he’d never kiss me like this in front of all these people—deep and frantic, just like he is in the dark, late at night, when we’re tangled in his bed. Shamefully, I meet his intensity with my own, unable to hold back the surge of want that’s been building within me all day.

Sometimes, when Sy looks at me, I see the parts of him that match Nick.

And right now, I want them.

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