Dukes of Madness: Royals of Forsyth U (Royals of Forsyth University Book 5)
Dukes of Madness: Chapter 7

I don’t scream—not soon enough to warn him.

On edge all night, I notice the shifting shadows, the crunch of gravel, the way the air moves strangely, in that certain sort of way that makes someone aware they’re not alone. I’ll regret it later. I’ll look back on the way I just dumbly stand here as the hooded man swings the bat, slamming it right into Sy’s spine, and I’ll feel like a fucking idiot.

Now, I scream. “Sy!”

Just as Sy swings out to snatch the bat from the other guy, a second man, taller and thicker, darts out from around a truck, grabbing Sy from behind and pinning his arms at his sides. The tall guy holds him there as the other one raises the bat again, and if I have any lofty notions about intervening, they’re instantly snatched away.

A third one appears from out of nowhere, shoving me effortlessly to the ground, my chest slamming onto the gravel.

The fall rattles my teeth, but before I can do much more than cry out, the attacker’s knee is pressing hard between my shoulder blades. “Get off me!” I snarl, bucking against his weight.

“Relax, sunshine,” the man says, leaning into the weight of his knee as he plants a palm on the back of my head, mashing my face into the ground. “This won’t take long.”

It says something that my surge of blinding panic isn’t even about the scuffle happening a few feet from me. It’s not the sound of Sy’s harsh, pained grunts or bone meeting flesh. It’s not about the speed with which it all happens, the flurry of movements, the loud, clipped breaths. It’s not even that I see Sy fall, tumbling to the ground like a limp sack of meat—just like Felix had when Nick shot him.

Mostly the panic is about my not being able to move.

The knee in my back presses down, wringing the air from my lungs, and one of the other guys kicks out, planting his boot into Sy’s abdomen. I know he’s not dead when Sy’s hand shoots out to grab the guy’s ankle, sweeping him off his feet with a powerful jerk. The hooded one is quick to retaliate, and in the melee of the struggle, I see Sy rising up on his knees, swinging wildly, blindly, recklessly. It’s nothing like the deliberate strategizing I’d seen in the ring back there. This isn’t a man fighting for the win. This is a man fighting for the kill, so crazed that when I get a flash of his face, he’s got his lips pulled back, teeth bared into an animalistic expression.

Something about it spurs me into motion. I’m not in the chest. I keep telling myself that. These are men, muscle and meat, vulnerable in their own ways, and I’m not Lavinia Lucia. Not here. Not when I’m with Sy.

Right now, I’m the Duchess.

And I brought a weapon.

I wiggle my arm, trapped beneath my body, until I can just get two fingers into my waistband. The fixed-blade knife I swiped from under Nick’s pillow is hard and warm from my own body heat, and I can feel as I inch it free that my weight is holding the leather sheath in place. I rock to the side just as Sy stumbles to his feet, swaying, to slam his head into the hooded man’s nose. There’s a sharp howl, and then a loud curse, and Sy is dropping to his knees once more, unsteady.

The hooded man is between us—me and Sy—and he has the bat again. He lifts it, planting his feet wide, and I get a good, hard look at his leg. Jeans. White socks. Worn trainers.

Soft spots.

I strike out with lightning speed, and it’s hard. They don’t tell you that—that stabbing someone actually takes some brute strength—and my muscles have weakened from eight days of lying down, doing nothing. The power with which I bury the blade into his Achilles tendon is driven by little more than optimism and pure spite.

I wrench the knife back, feeling the sickening drag of bone and flesh.

The bat suddenly clatters to the ground.

“Ah! Fuck!”

The hooded man spins and stumbles, reaching for his ankle as he crashes to the ground. It all happens very fast. The guy pressing me into the asphalt spits a curse and dives for the knife, but I stab it upward, plunging it into his forearm, and he jolts back.

As soon as the weight leaves, I scramble forward to Sy’s bag, my knees stinging against the pavement. The hooded guy is still howling in pain, blood gushing. I’m not sure where I find the strength or the momentum, but I manage to get the bag unzipped, find the gun he’s brought, and roll myself between him and the attackers before the man with the injured forearm even gets to his feet.

I raise the pistol, cocking the hammer.

“Don’t!” I warn when one of them reaches for the bat. He freezes, flinching back, and my heels slip against the pavement as I push myself closer to Sy, who’s fallen prone to the ground. “I’ve had a shitty week and will gladly kill every last one of you fuckers.”

They must see the truth in my eyes, or recognize me for who I am, a Lucia, because I see the wariness cross their faces.

They retreat slowly, the shorter one who’d held me down fleeing first. Another guy—the one who’d come with the bat—is barely standing on his injured foot, fists curling. “Fuck this bitch,” he mutters to the tall one. The words are pushed through gritted teeth. “The message has been sent. Dukes follow their King. Or else.”

He hobbles away between the cars, and then the last one follows, not taking his eyes off my gun until he ducks behind an old van.

Still, I wait, gun raised, eyes vigilantly scanning the shadows for any signs of their return. The moment I’m sure they’re gone, I whip around to check on Sy. I tuck the gun into my pants before grabbing his face, pulse racing with adrenaline.

“Hey, hey,” I rush out, giving his cheek a small pat. “Look at me. You with me?”

He doesn’t look ‘with me’. His eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t meet my gaze, rolling slowly to his hands and knees. The movements are stilted and look painful, and he shrugs me off when I try to help him. It takes him three tries to get his feet underneath him, but then he almost tips back over and it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t want my help. I duck under his arm, winding it around my neck.

“Come on,” I coax, turning him toward the car. “We need to get out of here, in case they come back.”

Luckily, he drags his feet clumsily along with my steps, and thank god, because there’s no fucking way I could carry Sy to the car on my own. Even if I hadn’t just spent four days locked in the box, dehydrated, and malnourished, he’s just too big. Halfway there, his weight starts to grow heavier, and there’s a strange rattle in his exhale that doesn’t make me feel good at all.

“Just get to the car,” I tell him, bearing as much of his weight as I can. “Then you can rest.”

He mumbles something, but all that comes out is a thick stream of blood and saliva. Jesus Christ. Why didn’t he throw that fight?

Because you didn’t want him to?

Because he’s a stubborn Duke who’s obsessed with winning?

None of it matters now. He’s hurt and barely conscious. As we lurch across the parking lot, his set of keys burns a hole in my pocket. Two weeks ago, I would’ve taken the opportunity to hop in the car and drive as far as I could away from Forsyth before they tracked me down. But a lot of shit happened in the last two weeks, and this asshole…

He once tried to sell me for a goddamn pocket watch. He’s made it very clear that I’m not worth more than the scum on the bottom of his shoe. His hatred isn’t like the others’. It was never about me being a daughter of North Side. It was never about my name or my pedigree. It wasn’t rivalry that drove him to treat me like that. It was just him. Some primal part of Sy just despises me for what I am.

And he saved me.

Sy risked everything to pull me out of that dark, rancid place, and then he spent days making me strong again, and here’s the real kicker. He hasn’t expected anything in return. He hasn’t acted on the hardness in his pants or the tension in his muscles. He’s had me near to him, unable to fight back, vulnerable to any manner of vicious words. But nothing.

And now, after all of that, he’s paying a price. The reason he’s been beaten to a bloody pulp is the consequence of that selflessness, and it isn’t fair.

It isn’t fucking fair.

“Just a few more steps, big bear, and we’ll figure this out.” We get to the car, and I prop him against it, ignoring my body’s own twinges and aches. I manage to get the door open and together we navigate him inside. He slumps in the seat, one leg hanging out, and I bend down to heave it inside the footwell, cramming him in and slamming the door before he topples out.

I catch my breath, but I don’t linger. Pulling out Sy’s phone, I tap Remy’s number and hope like hell he doesn’t have his music blaring. It rings and rings, eventually going to a voicemail recording that informs me, “This inbox is full.”

My shoulders fall.

Shit.

I scroll down to the next contact and hover there, my heart rising like a brick into my throat. He’d come if I called him—that much I know. But no matter how long I stand there staring at the name on the screen—Nicky—I can’t do it. I can’t face him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

There are his mom and dads, and Mama B, but I write them off instantly. I learned long ago not to trust parents. There’s Verity, but I don’t see her being equipped to deal with this. There are also a slew of nicknames I assume belong to the guys in the frat. But the thought of calling any of the DKS boys right now makes me uneasy, as if I need to shield Sy from being seen like this to his lessers.

I do a quick search for the only person I know who could possibly understand what I’ve been through, and then I press the phone number in.

The other end picks up and loud music pulses in the background. “Hello?”

I sink back against the car with relief, words surging out of me in a rush. “Where can I hide out for a few days away from the Counts and Dukes?”

“…can’t fucking believe I’m doing this,” I say, skin crawling as I peer up at the building in front of us. In my periphery, I see Sy’s head slump forward, and I whip around to catch him. “Hey!” I snap, shaking his shoulder. “No sleeping.”

He rouses and squints at me, then out the window. Sluggishly, he speaks. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere safe—” I grimace at the junkie leaning against the wall, “—ish.”

Auggy had answered the phone when I called the Hideaway. She didn’t ask any questions when I told her I needed a place to lie low for a few days. Something in her voice told me she knew more about my situation than I anticipated. She just shot me the address and told me someone would meet me there.

I didn’t realize the location was the same shitty motel Daniel Payne had me held captive in before locking me in the Hideaway basement. We’re deep in Lord territory. Sy would kill me if he was coherent. But I’d asked for a place to hide from both the Dukes and Counts, and this checks all the boxes.

“Goddammit.” I never wanted to come back here. If it were up to me, this shithole would have been torched instead of Daniel’s sterile, up-town office building. It doesn’t seem fair that the Crane Motor Inn is still standing, but then again, nothing is.

Fair, that is.

I climb out of the car, grabbing Sy’s bag on the way out, which is when I see the figure coming down the motel stairs. When the silhouette’s face hits the streetlight, I freeze, caught halfway between wrenching Sy’s door open and juggling his bag.

Moronically, I ask, “She sent you?”

“Come on,” Story says, jerking her chin toward Sy’s hunched over body. “Let’s get him inside.”

Still, I take a step back, trying to figure out why on earth Auggy would send the Lords’ Lady of all people to help me. “Look, I appreciate the gesture and all, but this is the result of some nasty beef and I’m not sure the Lords want to get involved.”

She laughs, her dark hair sleek and shiny in the moonlight. “One of your Dukes has been shacked up at the Hideaway for four days. We’re already involved.” She moves around me to open the passenger-side door. “But that’s not why I’m here. Auggy told me you needed help and… well, I wanted to. Help that is.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, revealing a black leather cuff with a gold skull. “I owe you one, don’t I?”

I raise an eyebrow, trying to figure out how I’d done something to earn favor with another Royal. I don’t know much about how the Royal women navigate one another since my mother died when I was young, but I’m well aware they aren’t known for comradery and support.

I’m not in the position to quibble.

It’s easier for the two of us to get him up the motel stairs than alone, and I’m relieved to see Story already has a key. The room is two floors up. I brace myself for the scent of mildew and must when she opens the door and I’m not disappointed. The room is identical to the one I’d been kept in, although there’s no water stain on the ceiling, and the antenna isn’t broken on the TV. Yet. Probably, no one else would notice the difference between these rooms, but me? I know my old room just as well as my own skin. I know its scars and marks with an intimacy that would drive a weaker person to madness.

I don’t give myself time to dwell on the swell of misery that fills me just being here. “Bed,” I grunt, ready to off Sy’s weight. We drop him on the mattress and it shudders a creak. “Grab that side of him, will you?” Gesturing to his arm, I remove the zip-up he’d put on after the fight. “I need to see how bad the bruising is on his stomach and ribs.”

What we reveal is his warm brown skin, mottled with dark blooms already spreading over most of his upper body. Story mutters a low curse when she sees the damage, but I’m not surprised. I saw the blows he took from the bat, the kicks, the absolute beatdown.

“Counts?” she asks, glancing up from a particularly gnarly welt.

My mouth thins. “Saul.”

She snaps upright, jaw dropping. “His own King? Seriously?” At my nod, she adds, “Motherfucker.”

“That sums it up.”

Silently, we get to work, grabbing all the towels in the bathroom and wetting them in the rusty sink. Grabbing the First-Aid kit from his duffle bag, I carefully begin cleaning the crusting blood from his face, doing my best to avoid the clotting splits in his skin. The one on the bridge of his nose is particularly bad, and although it doesn’t feel broken, it’s definitely going to need a few stitches. Fortunately, when I pull his eyelids back, I don’t see any major damage to his eyes—as blue and gorgeous as always—just the swelling beneath them. It makes me hopeful that we can make it out of this without any major damage.

“Are you okay here for a minute?” Story asks after bringing me the rinsed cloth.

I pause to give her a quick once over, wondering if all the blood and gore are too much for her to take. Stupid, though. She’s the Queen of South Side. Chances are, she’s seen a lot worse. “I’ve got this,” I tell her, making sure she sees the significance in my eyes.

If someone’s going to take care of Sy, it’s going to be me.

You heal me, I heal you.

“I get it.” Story gives me a small smile. “I’ll be right back.”

The door clicks behind her, and I leave a cool, folded up cloth over the jut of his cheekbone, split from a nasty hit. I pick through the First-Aid kit for the right supplies. Pulling off the adhesive for a butterfly bandage, lining up the pieces, cinching the cut together. His breathing levels off, and he dozes while I work. Somewhere in the middle of this, the adrenaline slowly waning, I pause, fingers skating down his jaw. It occurs to me that I’ve never taken the time to look at him, always too busy trying to scheme and survive and avoid to bother measuring him up as a person—as a man. Now, without his hard, angry gaze staring back, it’s almost too easy to let my eyes wander.

Even these last few days, while he’s been caring for me at the tower, he hasn’t slowed. He brings me food, water, books—hell, even Archie, despite Sy hating him. He manages to both keep his distance and hover over me. But now that we’re alone, and he’s incapacitated, I take a moment to study his body.

His cheekbones are sharp, cut high like his brother’s. His eyelashes are long and thick. His lips are dark pink, one side swollen and puffy. I press my fingertips to them, feeling the pulsing heat, and I get lost inside a question that’s suddenly crucial.

Why is he so nice to me all of a sudden? Is it because Remy thinks I’m important? Is it because he found me in such a pitiful state that it’d be too easy—no challenge at all—to hurt me more?

I draw away, using my hands to feel his ribs, searching for cracks or breaks like I’d read in one of the books from the library. I travel down his abdomen, taking time to check every inch, crisscrossing his hip bones, feeling hard muscle, but nothing out of place.

His body really is pristine. I let my palms linger over him, the perfect form of an athlete, toned from years of diligent training, solid and sure. The lower my hands get, the lower my eyes descend, until my gaze becomes glued to the ever-present bulge between his legs, hidden beneath his sweats. I’ve had that cock in mouth, forcefully driven, in a moment of rage. I’ve felt it sliding between my ass cheeks inside his parents’ basement, rutting against me as I fought through a panic attack. I’ve even experienced it willingly, grinding against him in a candlelit forest, in a disastrously successful attempt at making his brother jealous.

But I’ve never just… looked at it. I’ve never examined this thing that causes him such strife. Nick said he’s still a virgin, and that explains a lot. A girl would be mad to willingly let him push this monster inside her body. Most guys in Forsyth would use their dicks as a weapon if they were packing this much heat, but strangely, Sy never has. He’s taken his pleasure from me, sure. But it’s never really been about the hurt of it, the pursuit of possession. He did those things in spite of his size, not because of it. I see that now.

Even covered by his sweats and flaccid, the outline of his dick is obscenely obvious. Thick and settled next to his leg, stretching down his inner thigh. I dart a glance at his face, suddenly nervous that he’s seeing me check him out, because he’d get the wrong idea. My curiosity isn’t sexual. I don’t want to fuck that beast. I just want to know the full extent of it.

Luckily, his eyes are closed, his breathing still even.

I tentatively rest my hand below his hip bone, inching down. Spreading my fingers wide, I graze the outer part of his shaft—

“Okay, babe, talk to you later.” The door swings open and Story walks in. I jump back, reaching for his hand and fumbling for the ointment. Wryly, she explains, “Dimitri has an assignment due later this week and he just won’t do anything if I’m not standing ove—” She pauses, and I stare back. Her eyes dart between me and Sy. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just trying to get this,” my cheeks burn as I tear the package open with my teeth, “ointment open.” The paper gives and the creamy white gel oozes out. I swipe it across his knuckles, fresh scrapes over the old scratches Archie gave him. Some are from the attack. Others are from the fight before.

She bends and tugs up the leg of her jeans. Before I can figure out what she’s doing, she pulls out a gun from her boot. “You got a weapon?” she asks.

I tap my hip, the place where Sy’s gun is still tucked against my skin. I don’t mention the knife. She’s a Lady, after all.

“Good.” She checks the chamber of hers and walks over to the window, pushing back the curtain to peer around the iron bars.

“Yeah, that doesn’t open,” I tell her, eyes narrowed on the gun. Chances are she got it from her Lords, and chances are they got it from the Dukes. It doesn’t settle the unease in my chest.

“Dimitri sent someone we trust to watch the street.” She lifts her chin at someone below. “If Perez or Saul try to make a move, we’ll be ready.”

I stand, putting some distance between me and Sy, and face Story. “You don’t need to stay,” I tell her. “I think we’ll be okay.”

“I’m not leaving until I’m sure none of those assholes followed you.” She looks over at Sy, jerking her chin. “And until he’s out of the woods.”

Carefully, I assess her. “Why are you helping us?”

“He saved you, right? When Pretty Nick sold you out.” Her jaw tightens and she looks away. “That’s the word on the street anyway. Everyone’s saying Sy went in and got you back.”

Nodding, I move my gaze to his sleeping form, voice flat. “It’s why he got jumped tonight.”

Her brown eyes fall on him, and for a moment, it seems as though they hold a hundred questions. She doesn’t voice them, her words emerging resolute. “Then he’s worth protecting.” Her shoulders bounce with a little laugh and she raises her phone, giving it a wave. “So long as I check in. It wasn’t easy to convince my guys.”

I eye her phone. “They don’t have a tracker on you?”

“Oh, they do.” She lifts her hair and presses her finger against a spot of skin below her ear. I know the location well. “We fought about it at first, but it makes them feel better—and allows me more freedom.”

“You call being tagged like a pet ‘freedom’?” I cut my eyes toward Sy. His eyes might still be closed, but I know it’s possible he can hear me. I don’t care.

“I call that being a King’s Queen. It’s a position I agreed to.” Her mouth sets and she averts her eyes, tucking the phone back into her pocket. “And from what Killian has told me, I now understand that you didn’t.” She looks at me through her lashes, something resolute settling over her features. “That’s the apology I owe you, Lavinia. When I met you at the Baron’s party, I was under the impression things were different. I asked for this life, and despite the picture that was painted for me, I realize now that you didn’t have that choice.”

I shake my head, giving a quiet, bitter laugh. “You don’t know the half of it.” But her words give me pause. “What picture was painted exactly?”

Sighing, she moves to the chair beside the bed, dropping heavily into it. “Daniel and the Kings were planning to take me—groom me—as their little toy virgin.” The grimace on her face is severe. “But I ran away, and when I came back a couple years later,” she gestures to me, “there you were. A new ‘asset’. And I guess I felt responsible, like—”

“Like I was your replacement.”

She nods, suddenly looking very tired. “I felt like you were there because of me.” She raises her eyes to mine. “Because I ran away. Because I was a coward.” Her fingers fidget with the worn arm of the chair. “I think my Lords just didn’t want me to feel like that. So when they told me about you, and the plan to get you out, they pretty obviously… embellished some things.”

My eyes narrow. “Like what?”

“Like Nick loving you,” she answers bluntly. “Or that he protected you, and wanted to free you, help you, be with you.” She lifts a shoulder, shrugging weakly. “They just made it sound so…” Here, her face scrunches guiltily. “Romantic?”

“For someone who wants to believe it,” I say, scoffing, “that’s a nice story.”

“Yea, I’m good at those.” Her mouth slants deprecatingly. “And then I heard about the break-in at the Hideaway, and the old Dukes doing those things to you.”

It’s an effort to keep my scoff silent. I guess she still only knows half of the story if she still doesn’t realize it wasn’t the old Dukes who broke in.

It was the new Dukes.

Her eyes well with tears that make my stomach squirm uncomfortably. “Killian just made it all sound so perfect—letting Pretty Nick win you. Protect you. I thought we were saving you, Lavinia, but really, we were just handing you to a complete asshole.” There’s a plea in her gaze that’s so earnest, I find myself unable to hold it. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

I spend a long moment in complete stillness, staring down at Sy. The damage to his body looks brutal, but bruises will fade. Cuts will heal. “That sounds like a nice story,” I repeat, raising my gaze to hers. “Are you ready to hear the truth?”

Her face morphs into something calm and determined, and when she leans forward, I think I see it in her eyes. The hardness that makes her a Queen. The steel that gives her courage.

“Tell me.”

Three hours later, there’s a knock on the door.

“Sweetheart?” Tristian Mercer enters the shitty motel room looking like a runway model who got lost on the way to a show.

None of us look as incongruous with the surroundings as he does with his impeccable hair and tidy clothes. His eyes flash in relief when they land on Story, but he watches Sy carefully as he kisses her on the cheek, grazing the cuff on her wrist with his fingertips. When Sy doesn’t move, still dead to the world, Tristian’s shoulders relax.

He holds up a bag. “A cheeseburger and fries,” he says, voice dripping with disdain. “But since I was hoping that request might be a hallucination, I added a salad and a kale smoothie.”

“Don’t worry, Tris, it’s not for me.” Story grins and hands me the greasy bag. “Lavinia needs some meat on her bones and I don’t think greens are going to do the trick. Don’t,” she warns, thrusting a finger at him, “start.”

For the first time in a week, I find the smell of food doesn’t turn my stomach upside down. I sit at the crappy, circular table in the corner and immediately dig in, unwrapping the burger and biting into it with a gusto I’m not expecting to feel. Story and I have been talking for hours, and I think she’s sensed that the adrenaline crash has been a real bitch. Days of nothing but brothy soup was destined to make me ravenous at some point.

“Yeah, you mentioned that.” Tristian reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out three pill bottles and a fancy glass jar. Turning to me, he sets them down on the table, tapping the top of one of the bottles. “This will help with your immune system and the other one is for muscle repair.” He slides over the jar and the third pill bottle. “These are for your boy over there, courtesy of Rath and me.”

The pills are painkillers that I know from my experience with the Counts pack a hell of a punch. Reluctantly, I open the jar to find an odd, sticky brown substance inside. The label brightly declares ‘natural honey.’

“Manuka honey,” he explains, dipping his chin toward the jar. “It’s good for wounds. Nature’s antibiotic. Just make sure the wounds are dry before putting it on.”

I stare at the strange, handsome man who may be the heir to the only fortune comparable to Remy’s father. I knew a lot about Royal men even before I began shacking up with them, and this whole experience of being Duchess has only bolstered what I’ve always known to be true. With them, nothing is ever free. “You’re helping us out? Why?”

He shrugs, but his eyes dart to Story’s, and even though he falters, I think I know what he wants to say. Or maybe it’s just what I need to hear. Would the Lords do anything for their Lady, even if that means giving asylum, food, and supplements to a rival house?

He slides his hand around Story’s back and pulls her against his side. “One of Daniel’s unexpected legacies was giving us an unprecedented alliance with the Dukes. Two of your men are currently out of commission. It’s not good for us if West End is weak. Patch him up and get him back on his feet.”

Maybe there’s a strategy to this after all.

“Well, thanks for the food,” I say with a mouthful of hamburger. “You should probably go before he wakes up. I suspect seeing you here would just undo all the healing.”

“You’re probably right.” He bends down to press a slow kiss to Story’s mouth, licking at her lips until she parts them. I chew on my food and watch the way he palms her ass, getting a vivid memory of Nick doing the same as we walked into Friday Night Fury. The kiss goes on and on, and I get the feeling he wants me to watch, so that’s what I do. I chew and I watch him devour her much like I’m doing to this delicious hamburger.

Story is the one to push him away, looking dazed and flustered. “Really?” she says, voice dry. “Time and place, Tris.”

He licks his lip, sending me a smirk. “Good luck, Duchess. Don’t keep my girl tied up too long. Killer’s already halfway to busting in here himself.”

Story rolls her eyes and shoos him out. Once he leaves and the door is locked, I sigh and broach the conversation I’ve been avoiding.

“So Nick is at the Hideaway.”

Every bit of softness and mirth drops from her expression. “He showed up five days ago looking like he got jumped in a back alley.” There’s no mistaking the small smirk on her mouth. “Auggy and Mrs. Crane tried to kick him out, which he didn’t handle well. Killian had to intervene.”

I think of the yellowing bruise I noticed on Remy’s face. I knew something went down while I was out of it, but it must’ve been worse than I thought if he went running back to South Side.

“Why didn’t he just toss his ass out on the street?” Or better, bury a bullet in his head and put us all out of our misery.

“You heard Tris. There’s a bigger game at play. Chess pieces are all over the board and they’re not ready to make any sacrifices.” She sits across from me and stabs her straw on the table, unsheathing the plastic. She spears it into the green smoothie. “Killian is trying to do things differently than his father. It’s not easy, and it definitely won’t be fast, but he wants to be his own King.”

I eat a fry and lick the salt off my fingers. “So I guess it’d be a bad idea if I slit Nick’s throat?”

“Probably.” She snorts. “If it were one of the others, I’d be the first to hand you a knife.” Sighing deeply, she levels me with a significant look. “But Nick is a Bruin, and Forsyth loves its blood legacies.”

My eyes tighten. “Not always.”

Wincing, she tucks her hands into her lap. “God, I’m sorry. You’re right. It must be different for daughters.”

I think of my sister, a flash of memory from that dream of her on the swing set, and I want to tell Story that it’s not different for all of us. Some daughters get doted on and protected, while others…

But that wouldn’t quite be true.

Leticia was groomed to be an heiress, with all the privilege that entailed. But it had pitfalls a son would never have to endure. “Well, Forsyth loves its sexism most of all.”

Story nods. “No doubt that taking out a male legacy will upset the ecosystem.” There’s a beat of tense silence where I’m pretty sure my appetite has disappeared, but then Story straightens. “But that doesn’t mean you have to forgive him.” She sips at her drink, looking suspiciously sunny all of a sudden. “And you certainly don’t have to forget.”

Sluggishly, I wonder, “What does that mean?”

She shrugs, eyes darting over to where Sy is sleeping. Hopefully sleeping. I get the gesture. Talking about Nick like this in front of his brother is dangerous for an outsider. “These aren’t functional men we’re dealing with, Lavinia. They may be handsome, but they’ve been trained in a violent, restrictive, misogynistic world. They’re raised to be gods and everyone around them is put here to spread their legs or do their bidding.” She leans forward, arms crossed on the table. “Except us.”

I shake my head. “That may be how it is in the Lords’ house, but not with the Dukes. I know for a fact I’m expected to spread my legs.”

“I’ve heard other Royals speak, you know. All that stuff about Royal women needing a firm hand to keep her in line?” She reaches out to tap the gun I put on the table. “They’re the ones who need a firm hand. Someone strong—strong enough to take what they dish out and return it threefold. Someone who can take their tantrums and petty outbursts.” Smiling, she props her chin on her hand, looking strangely innocent for someone I know for a fact is willing to pull a trigger. “Sometimes that means bowing, but sometimes that means striking back.”

I arch an eyebrow skeptically. “You did that?”

“I did some… pretty drastic things.” She plays with the straw. “Things that quickly escalated and got bloody, violent. I’m not saying I’m proud, but I also can’t regret it. Sure, there were a few fires, but once the dust settled and we all rose from the ashes, there was a new respect there.” She carefully regards her smoothie, a pensive line in her brow. “It’s their language, Lavinia, and you have to speak it before they can learn yours.”

“You’re different.” I point to the food Tristian Mercer brought over as a pretext to lay eyes on his Lady. “The three of them fucking worship you.”

“They really do.” Her phone buzzes with a text, as if proving the point. “The difference is that my Lords are pillagers. They steal, claim, and possess. Your Dukes…” She looks over at Sy, still handsome despite the swollen bruises and cuts. “They’re fighters. Protectors. If you want to survive this, you’re going to have to give them a chance to be who they are. Maybe they need to lose before they realize there’s something to win.” She stands, grabbing her smoothie and her bag.

“You’re leaving?” Truthfully, I wasn’t comfortable with her being here in the first place, but now I find myself dreading the thought of being alone in this place.

It’s 3am.

It’s the quietest it gets here.

She gives me an apologetic look and heads to the door. “I’ve had more than one run-in with Pretty Nick Bruin, and I know he imprinted on you at some point along the way. You have more control in this situation than you realize, but to grasp it, you’re going to have to work with them instead of against them.”

I stand, tossing my wrapper on the table. “Thanks,” I say, cheeks heating awkwardly as I gesture to Sy. “For helping me out, and everything. And tell Auggy and Mrs. Crane, too, would you?”

“I will.” She gives me a tight smile and a moment later she’s gone, the door locked. This time, though, it’s locked from the inside.

I’m not a prisoner.

That idea is probably the hardest to shake.

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