Dukes of Madness: Royals of Forsyth U (Royals of Forsyth University Book 5)
Dukes of Madness: Chapter 31

It’s just like I remember it.

Nothing ever changes about this place. Even at three in the morning as I tromp through the foyer and through the formal dining room, it’s as if nothing’s moved. That’s the table I used to do homework on—or pretend to do homework on. These are the floors I’d skate on with socks when the energy felt too big for me to possibly expend. The French doors I’d slam shut after arguments with my dad, the panes rattling like teeth. The desk drawer I’d swipe credit cards from, the armchair I fucked Tate’s cousin in, the powder room where I snorted my first line, the wainscoting I covered in maniacal doodles.

The last one’s been painted over, of course.

The only room in this house that was ever changing was my own. I don’t even know how old I was—too young to remember, maybe six—when my dad finally gave up on his attempts to make me stop drawing on the walls.

“Here,” he’d say, pointing at my bedroom walls. “Nowhere else in the house. Just here.”

A bargain.

Everywhere else in the house was pristine. If I left a sweater on the sofa, it’d be put away by morning. If Sy were here—and he’s not—he’d probably have something really profound to say about it, like…

Being starved of your ability to leave a mark on the world fostered a strong compulsion to deface anything in sight.

He probably wouldn’t be wrong. It’s a big part of why I love tattooing, forcing the universe to remember my presence, pieces of my thoughts living on in people who scatter outward like confetti.

The house is dark, but I traverse it from memory like a pro. When I pass the liquor cabinet, I reach out, smoothly snagging a crystal decanter. A sniff reveals it as gin and I tip it back as I turn toward the stairs, not bothering to be quiet when I stomp up to the second floor.

One after another, I tap the photos on the wall leading to the office—awful, stiff, posed things. I don’t look at them because I already know what I’ll see. Seven, nine, eleven, fifteen, all dressed up in a tie, empty eyes and a tense smile. The only thing here that isn’t horribly orange is a plaque congratulating Remington W. Maddox III on creative excellence in Sacred Heart Preparatory’s twenty-fifth annual student showcase.

I raise the decanter to it in cheers.

The door I’m looking for is at the end of the hall, unlocked, and I push through without hesitation, flicking on the light.

When I was a kid, I used to love my father’s office, though I can’t really remember why. It’s not particularly warm or cozy, although, as I survey the shelves and cabinets, I have to admit that it’s the only room, beside my own, that looks lived in.

“What the hell are you doing?”

I don’t flinch in surprise. I heard the footsteps. “Just came for a visit,” I say, distracted as I peruse his shelves. “I love what you haven’t done with the place.”

My father, tapping at his phone, sounds distinctly unimpressed. “You realize you set off the alarm, alerting security, the police, the fire department…”

“Yep.” My eyes land on a crude antique dagger, set in a glass case. I point to it. “That’s new.”

Scowling, he presses the phone to his ear. “False alarm,” he tells whatever sad schmuck is on the other end. “Yes, sorry for the inconvenience. You’re not allowed here.” He says the last part to me, but I’m too busy staring at the dagger.

“That didn’t used to be there.” I would have noticed it. It’s ugly as sin, but interesting.

My father huffs. “It was a birthday present from your Aunt. What do you want?”

I turn to him, placing the gin on his desk. My dad is about three inches shorter than me. He stays in shape, but he’s not imposing—not physically. Raising my chin, I ask, “Want to fight?”

He rolls his eyes. “For Pete’s sake, Remy. It’s three in the goddamn morning, and you came over here to… what? Relive graduation night?”

The night I graduated high school, we got into it, quick and dirty. He likes to act as though it was some big, elaborate showdown, but the reality is a lot simpler. I beat his ass. In and out. One and done. Knocked out his right canine.

“I came over here to tell you to stay away,” I clarify, swiping a fountain pen from his desk. I tap it against my palm, head tilting. “But I figured laying you out cold would be a nice feature.”

My father looks tired—exhausted in a way that isn’t just about a lack of sleep. “I’m not afraid of you, Remy. And I’ll stay away when you prove to me you’re not surrounding yourself with the human equivalents of whatever it is you must have snorted an hour ago.” My reflexes are lightning-quick, so when he strikes out to snatch the pen from me in one clean swipe, I’m shocked at his speed, left standing there, fingers still frozen around a phantom pen. “So if that’s what you came to say…” He gestures to the door.

My teeth grind. “There’s something else.”

He lifts his shoulders. “Well?”

I came here for a reason, to prove to myself, one way or the other, what’s real and what isn’t. But now that I’m looking at the wall, the dagger, the alignment, everything fits—right in place.

I’m the only thing that doesn’t fit in my father’s house.

I could ask him outright. Maybe that’s what all this leads up to, breadcrumbs leading me back here, back to him. Maybe he wants me to ask, to connect dots that don’t really exist?

“You know what? Never mind,” I say, waving him off. “It’s not like you’d tell me the truth anyway.”

My eyes track him carefully as he reaches down, a finger dragging a notepad to the edge of his desk. “She’s good at bargaining, that Duchess of yours.” He presses the tip of the pen to the small square of paper, wrist flying back and forth. “So pretty when she’s scared. Those big eyes of hers, staring up at you in the dark. I wanted you to know I see the appeal.” He lifts the pen, ripping the paper away from the pad, and then he holds it out to me.

It’s one big scribble of black ink.

He raises his eyebrows. “Black means sorry. Isn’t that right? It’s been a long while since I’ve had anything to apologize to you about, but I suppose playing with your little toy applies.”

I’d like to say it’s a nice feeling, having it all figured out, the pieces clicking together seamlessly. The clarity is there, but it cuts through me like a serrated edge, my stomach dropping.

I look into my father’s eyes and think about killing him. I could use that ugly dagger up there, sinking it into his throat. I could stab him with the very pen he’s making a sorry attempt at apology with. Hell, I could use the gun that’s resting against the small of my back, putting a bullet in his brain.

He doesn’t deserve the beauty of it, though.

Instead, I leave, knowing only one thing for sure.

There used to be something else where that dagger was sitting.

“Can you smell it?” I inhale deep, eyes closed, feeling the vibration of the people around me. Friday Night Fury. Gym packed to the gills with DKS, Beta Nu, gamblers, hustlers, and regular, run-of-the-mill students. It’s the only thing that’s quieted the screams in my head. My lungs fill with the scent of two hundred people: sweat, perfume, adrenaline, horniness. It charges me like a battery, making my fists curl and flex. It’s the exact opposite of where I went last night. No clean lines. No sterility. No orange. It’s fucking anarchy. I’d eat this feeling up with a spoon if I could, fueling myself for the fight.

“Um, smell what exactly?”

I look down at Haley, her eyes bright and happy. She just about tripped over herself when I waved her over from the group of cutsluts welcoming guests. “The promise of a victory.”

She nods along, and that’s why I always liked her. Despite the yellow about her, she’s here for the ride. The fun. The excitement. There’s no introspection or hovering, no constant ‘check-ins’ or secrets. There’s no depth with this girl, and that’s fine by me. It doesn’t hurt that she’s always available, ready for the smallest scrap of attention. It makes it easy, non-committal—which is exactly what I’m looking for before a fight.

“Maddox!” I look over and see Cash Money pushing past the beer line. He approaches, his smile all teeth. “Mad dog, my man!”

I like Cash because even when he’s fake, it’s authentic. He wants money—wants to climb the North Side ranks—and I’m a juicy catch. He’s never tried to hide it. The others think I don’t know his hustle, but I do.

I just don’t care.

His palm collides with mine in greeting, and I ask, “Didn’t you get kicked out of these things?”

“Yeah.” He laughs. “But that was before the Kings rounded all your asses up for that spanking. Lionel talked to Saul, and they came to an agreement. I’ve got an official green-light to hustle out here. Shit’s wild, bro.”

I shrug, scanning the seats by the ring, but the two Kings haven’t arrived yet. “Good luck then, plenty of boys and girls looking for a hook-up tonight.”

“Hey, listen,” he says, grabbing my shoulder to turn me away from Haley. “I know you’ve gotten some heat about using, but you’ve been a loyal customer.” His hand shifts and he slides something into my palm. The kid grins. “For after the fight, yeah? To celebrate your win. And you are going to win. Barons are bitch-made.”

I look down at the snake-stamped packet and the three pills inside.

They’re blue.

Not one to pass up a free gift, I close my fingers around it, saying, “Thanks.”

Internally, I’m wondering how long until I can take them.

The bell rings, signaling the first fight is about to start. I need to get ready. Cash Money dips back into the crowd, and I pocket the drugs, gesturing for Haley to follow me to the locker room.

Sy has a whole pre-fight ritual that involves a lot of silence and brooding and visualizing. Nick’s never been one for ritual, but even he has his little habits. Personally, I try to make every fight different, refusing to settle into a groove, to let it have power over me. The more spontaneous a fight feels, the better I do. Nothing beats my ass worse than having a plan.

I’m unbuttoning my shirt when the door swings open, which is nice.

That didn’t happen last time.

“There you are,” Vinny says, barging in the room. Her hair is up tonight, the blue all tucked away, and she’s got this pinch in her forehead as she surveys the scene. Normally I’d be focused on the low cut of her shirt, but the cloak of orangish-gold following her distracts me. Her eyes cut to Haley, sitting on the bench, and then back to me. “You were gone when we woke up this morning. We’ve been worried. I thought we were going to all ride here together.”

I shrug off the shirt and hang it on a hook in the locker. “I had shit to do. I figured you and Nicky would manage without me.”

She stares at me—one of those long looks where I know she’s trying to figure me out, calculate where I am on Sy’s chart.

Spoiler alert: I’m a fucking one.

Nobody’s gonna stop me. Not my dad, not Nicky or Vinny, and especially not the Baron bitch I’m fighting.

Tonight, I’m showing them all what’s up.

“It’s not about managing,” she says, lowering her voice, “it’s about the fact you’ve been… unsteady, and plus, we agreed to present as a united front. Especially after the last few weeks.”

“United front?” My smile feels sharp. I can practically see it slice through the concern in her eyes. “I thought that ship sailed when Sy ran away.”

She narrows her eyes. “Are you blaming me for that?”

“No.” Although I could. She encouraged Sy. I heard them every night in his room, getting him closer and closer. Anyone with eyes could tell he was about to pop. “This isn’t about you, Duchess, It’s about me.” I glance at Haley and she gives me a small grin back. “I’m the one fighting tonight, and I don’t need the distraction of DKS bullshit following me around.”

“Hey,” she says, grabbing me by the arm. Her eyes dart to Haley. “Can you give us a minute?”

“Sure,” she says, standing slowly. Haley has this way about her—she’s very in tune with her body. Her nipples are completely visible through her white tube top, and her skirt is so short that it’s effortless to catch a peek of her hot pink thong underneath. Vinny watches the back of her skirt swish back and forth as she turns the corner to go deeper into the locker room. See? Easy.

“Are you mad or something?” Her eyes search mine.

I finally turn my full attention to her, shoulder propped against my locker. “What would I have to be mad about?”

She’s wearing a tank top, and she’s cold, gooseflesh springing up her arms. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” Idly, she curls her arms around herself, giving her arms a brisk rub. “Are you… high?”

“No.”

She frowns. “Is this about Sy? Because I never asked him to leave.”

My jaw tightens. “Never said you did.”

“Then what?” she bursts, eyes sparking in frustration. “Would you just talk to me?”

“You want to talk?” I ask, the anger rushing to the surface so suddenly that my body jolts with the force of it. “Let’s talk about how you’ve been talking to my father, even though I explicitly fucking told you not to ever let him in!” My fists meet the locker and she flinches back, jaw dropping.

“You’re still on about this? I already told you, Remy. I’m not speaking to your father.” Annoyance sharpening the lines of her face, she lists off, “I didn’t speak to him before we had dinner; I didn’t speak to him after we had dinner, and I barely said more than a dozen words to him at dinner!” When I do nothing but stare at her, she deflates, asking, “What’s this about? Because I wouldn’t lie to you. Not after last time.”

She could be lying right now, in too deep to possibly come clean.

But she’s looking at me with those eyes—

“Those big eyes of hers, staring up at you in the dark…”

—and there’s orange, but there’s also blue, and for a moment, the confidence that’s been tugging at my gut like a rusty fish hook twists.

Is it her, or is it him?

Is it both of them?

“Stop!” I claw my fingers through my hair, head throbbing. “I can’t fucking think when you’re looking at me like that.”

“Hey.” Her touch is as soft as her voice, fingers wrapping around my wrist, tugging my hand from my hair. “This helps, right?” She pulls my hand to her hip, tugging down the waist of her shorts to show me the star.

Silly stars.

I stare at it for a long time, wondering if he saw it like this. Soft skin, the black stark against her complexion. The thought of it makes my insides curdle, but then she’s there, kissing my jaw.

“We can stop the fight if you need—”

“No.”

She watches me, concern still etched deep in her features. “Are you sure?” At my stiff nod, she says, “It’s our first fight together. What can I do to help you get ready?”

There’s this voice inside of me that tells me to chill the fuck out. Let my girl help me and go out there and kick some ass, but it’s overruled by something loud and demanding. The roar of the man threatening to come unleashed. I’m ready for it, for him, and I say, “I’m fine. Haley’s got it.”

“Haley.”

I drop my joggers, revealing the shorts I’m wearing in the fight. “Nick’s out there all alone. Like you said, united front. Haley was my ring girl before you came along. No reason she can’t do it tonight.”

Unlike my brothers, I’ve never struck the Duchess, but from the look on her face, you’d think I slapped her. “You’re serious,” she says, cheeks turning pink.

Needing to turn away from her blank, shuttered expression, I twist to call out for Haley. Confirming she’s listening around the corner, she appears from around the corner and asks, “Did you need me?”

I hold up a roll of tape, facing her. “Can you wrap my knuckles? You know I never get it tight enough.”

“You really do suck at it.” She laughs, straddling the bench. Her eye flicks over my shoulder to Lavinia and back to mine. “Don’t worry; I’ll take care of him. We have a system.”

I hear Vinny leave more than I see her, the sound of her slow, dragging footsteps receding, and the slam of the door behind her.

Haley wraps my knuckles, taking care to get it exactly how I want it. I don’t pay much mind to it, curling my free hand into a fist and banging it over my head. Haley isn’t alarmed. It’s like she said. We have a system.

“Next,” she commands, taking my other hand as I bash my head with the newly wrapped knuckles.

After, as I’m testing the tension of the tape, she rests her hands on my hips, gazing up at me with eyes lined in too much makeup. She’s yellow, but it’s always the happy shades with her, loud and miserable.

“Do you need anything else?” she asks, biting down on her bottom lip.

Right.

The system.

Haley’s used to getting off with me before a match, but I didn’t want it last time, and I don’t want it now. She’d do whatever I wanted her to, though. I could bend her over the counter, doggy style on the bench, let her suck me off…

But those aren’t the eyes I want on me. I don’t need it. What I need is to show the Barons who runs this shit.

“Thanks,” I tell her, brushing her hair off her face, “but all I need is five minutes alone.”

Her smile falters. “Oh, okay. I’ll just be waiting outside.”

I wait for the door to close to pull out the baggy of pills, sitting down on the bench as I empty them into my palm.

Something borrowed, something blue.

Up the hatch it goes.

The next few minutes are a blur as I go from the locker room to ringside, the noise of the crowd getting louder every second. If I were a stickler for routine, then I’d be fucked, because Sy isn’t here. I’ve never had a fight in this gym without Sy in my corner, yelling at me to watch my footing, and it doesn’t feel right to do it tonight.

The undercard fight must have been brutal—there’s blood smeared on the mat, and the refs are rushing around to clean it all up. With Haley by my side, it gives me a minute before I climb in the ring to scan the crowd. Nicky and Vinny are up front, his arm thrown over her shoulder. They’re close enough that I can see his thumb moving in a slow, sweeping circuit beneath the strap of her tank top as he leans in to say something into her ear. She looks straight at me as she listens, sending me a tight, brittle smile that falls away the moment her eyes move to Haley.

Behind them are the DKS boys, and behind them are the pledges, but the seats to the left are reserved for Royalty.

Saul isn’t a surprise. He had to come survey his Kingdom, watch as we’re put in our place by the probation he recommended. Doesn’t make a difference to me, though. I never train before a fight. Training is just another word for planning.

I’m marginally surprised to see the Lords: Payne, Rathbone, and Mercer, along with their Lady. They’re laughing and drinking, having a good time, all smiles and touches, even though Saul keeps shooting them these resentful glares. No doubt Tristian has some money on the fight.

But the chair beside Saul is empty.

The King of the Barons must be sitting this one out.

It’s not unusual. If anything, everyone would be shocked to see him show up at all. The initiation fight was an outlier, a spectacle. To watch a rival King’s daughter be won by another house? No way was any King missing that action.

I guess I don’t rank.

By the time I get in the ring, I’m buzzing so hard that my jaw aches from clenching it so much. The crowd is like a living, breathing, single entity. Their blanket of energy billows out to cover me, and I accept it with open arms, leaning out over the rope to help Haley up with me.

She glows up here, so yellow that it stings to watch her, and for a second I regret it all. It should be Vinny lifting my fist in the air, showing me off to Forsyth, escorting me to my corner, kissing me on the cheek.

The Baron is a stocky fucker—Liam, I think is his name. You wouldn’t know it to look at them in the daylight, but the Barons’ bodies are well-honed, adorned with ink that isn’t anywhere near as good as mine.

I rile up the crowd the way I usually do, standing on the bottom rope and commanding them to be louder, wilder. Someone throws a drink at me, and I catch it, downing the dregs that haven’t been sloshed onto the floor before chucking the can back in the direction it came. It makes DKS roar, and I raise my middle finger to them—to everyone—just to hear the approval in their cheers.

Jumping down, I meet the Baron in the middle of the ring, sending him a vicious grin.

By the time the fight begins, the pills Cash gave me are pumping hard through my veins, driving every swipe of my fist, every lunge of my legs, every taunt as I beckon him closer.

He gets one hit in.

One.

It rattles my teeth, and I taste blood, but I don’t even feel it. Everything feels like it’s going both incredibly slow and absurdly fast. Before the round ends, I catch the Baron with a sickening headbutt, right into the bridge of his nose. The act is fast, but the aftermath crawls, the Baron covering his face with both palms.

The Barons call a timeout.

When I get to my corner, Nicky is waiting, eyes sharp and alive. I look at him and it’s bittersweet. I’d wanted for so long to have Nick here beside me. Years. It never felt right without him in here, and now that I finally have him, I’m missing Sy. It’s as if the universe is sure of some unutterable destiny that says no one can have both brothers at once.

“Don’t let him get you on the mat!” he yells over the din of the crowd, head poking through the ropes. “His grapple game is better than his fists.”

I spit a mouthful of blood onto the mat, taking water from Haley. “I’ve got this shit, Nicky. Don’t even fucking—” Glancing over to where Vinny is sitting, my words die in my throat.

The King of the Barons is sitting beside her, in Nick’s vacant seat.

He’s in full garb: tailored black suit, gloves, and mask. She’s not looking at him, but her face is ashen and tense, and it’s not obvious—the mask doesn’t have a mouth—but I know he’s talking to her. He pivots toward her and lifts his hand, bronze horns catching the light, and slowly, gently, touches her chest, his gloved fingertips tracing the edge of the death head moth.

The ref passes by, blocking my line of vision, and when I can finally see her again, he’s gone, Nick’s seat empty once again.

It’s like it never happened, Vinny clapping her hands when the announcer signals the end of the timeout. Beside me Nicky is saying, “…and his left ankle is weak, so draw him out. Got it?”

I hear nothing but the rush of blood in my ears; the pills coursing through my veins, the awareness that this is my house. My rules. My win.

I step forward and claim it.

Head checks were Sy’s idea, and no one really knows this, but he started collecting them long before we made it to Forsyth U. I went along with it mostly because it amused me, but a part of me—a small, secret part—hoped he could crack the code.

The problem is, it’s not a code.

Numbers are too precise for what happens in my head. Colors are better; a hue, tint, tone, and shade for each feeling. Sometimes things are darker or lighter, redder or greener, grayer or brighter, duller or bolder. It’s not a science; it’s an art.

Right now, my mind is Jackson Pollock on steroids.

I lean my head back against the wall, nostrils flaring as I try to push it out of my brain, trying to enjoy my victory. It’s useless, even with the adrenaline running through my system. I see it again, replaying on a fucked up, mind-bending loop. It’s not always the same. Sometimes she’s sitting in the King’s lap, her arm around his neck as she grins. Others, he’s holding her down, making her cry out for me—us.

But the color is always the same.

Bronze.

Bronze.

Bronze.

When the door to the locker room opens, giving a distant thud, I’m both expecting it and not. I’m tucked away in a shower stall in the back, the light dim as I take another draw of my beer. It smells like damp feet and soap, but it’s private.

Mostly.

Her footsteps approach like a doppler as she searches for me, but I don’t call out to her. I let her wander slowly toward the back, voice cautious as she calls my name.

My fingers tighten like a vise, my jaw clenching. I grunt low, sagging back. At the same moment, I see her gray eyes peeking around the stall. I think that’s what I like best about them—the gray. They take on the color of whatever’s around her. The blue of her hair, the green of my eyes, the pink of the sunset, the brown of the tower.

The bronze of a devil’s mask.

“Remy? There you—” She freezes, and I think I see it, the shift of her chameleon soul drawing in the rich burgundy of the moment.

There’s a second of confusion as her eyes descend, and the lightning in my nerves chooses that moment to erupt. It’s so sharp that it’s more ache than pleasure, my teeth gnashed around a grunt as it charges through me. I’d never admit it, but it’s her skin that does it for me, the sight of the moth inked into her chest, the knowledge that I’ve made a mark on the universe, scattering, permanent.

Earlier, Vinny looked like she’d been slapped.

Now, she looks like she’s been punched.

She physically recoils, a soft, choked sound escaping her throat as she pins me under her wide, shocked gaze.

I pull my spent cock from Haley’s mouth, giving her head a pat. “Thanks, babe.”

She thumbs at the corner of her mouth, but she doesn’t look happy. If anything, she looks embarrassed as she shoots to her feet, sending Vinny a nervous glance. At my nod, Haley brushes past her Duchess, fleeing the building static and blazing bronze.

Smart.

I raise the neck of my beer bottle at Vinny, coldly offering, “To the victor go the spoils.”

There’s a long moment where she just stares at the tiled wall, arms folding around her middle. “Wow.” Her voice is weak and small, but she shakes her head, repeating, “Wow,” and I’ll hand it to her.

She does a passable job at looking hurt.

Her eyes are shining in that liminal way, a few steps from brimming, but when she swings them onto me, they’re full of fire. “I guess loyalty only works one way for you.”

We’re in the showers and the sound of her chewed words echoes, pinging back to my ears like a rubber ball.

It’d be easy to tell her what the relationship between a Duke and a Duchess is and isn’t. Cutsluts are here for a reason. Any Duchess worth her salt knows better than to expect something as pedestrian as fidelity.

But that doesn’t belong here.

I know just what I’m doing.

“Loyalty?” I ask. The lulling rush of my orgasm is already dissipating, leaving me itchy and full of red. “Like you, speaking to a rival King on my own fucking turf? Letting him fucking touch you?” When her mouth opens, I warn, “Don’t deny it.”

“I wasn’t going to!” She flares up, hiding away the tender, broken thing I see in her eyes. “He was just being a creepy son of a bitch. What am I going to do, Remy? Kick a King in the nuts?” She spreads her arms, hapless and desperate in a way I’m not used to seeing on her. “Don’t you get it? He was probably hoping you’d see. Both of you!”

“Oh, he was counting on it.” My breath puffs out in these hard, rapid bursts that don’t satisfy my lungs, but the strange thing is, I feel completely calm. “It was the gun, you know. Sloppy. I bet you thought I wouldn’t remember.” My brain whirrs in time to my pulse and I embrace it, darting forward to slam my palm on the tile beside her. “People like you and him, you think because my brain is broken that I’m a fucking idiot. But I figured it out, Vinny.”

Her gaze is like a physical frisking, jumping around from eye to eye as she struggles to take me in. “Figured out what?”

“That the Baron King,” I press my finger to the skull in the center of her moth tattoo, “is my father.”

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