Chapter 14: Dukes of Peril: Chapter 14

Sometimes it’s handy to have a brother who’s studying psychology. It’s not like I don’t understand the word–desensitization–but he’s the one to explain the process.

Later that evening, he does.

“The point of exposure therapy,” he says, nodding to the elevator door beside him, “is for a subject to gradually experience their fears in a safe, controlled environment. The idea is that avoidance nurtures phobia, so what do we do instead?” Sy raises his eyebrows. “We face it, head-on.”

Remy shrugs. “Kick it in the teeth.”

I add, “Make it your bitch.”

“Exactly,” Sy says.

But when we all turn to look at Lavinia, she doesn’t look anywhere in the vicinity of bitch-making. She’s as far away from the elevator as she can be without just completely leaving the room, leaned back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed tightly.

Her shoulders hitch up closer to her ears. “So you’re saying I’m going to have to go inside there.” It’s not really a question. More like she’s trying to convince herself. She swallows, throat jumping. “All alone.”

I take an involuntary step toward her. “Who the fuck is saying that?” I whip a glare on Sy. “That’s not a part of the deal.” She’s the one who wanted to do this—it was her idea—but fuck, my Little Bird looks like she may puke, and I don’t exactly feel much better.

Sy shakes his head. “No, I actually think it’s best that you’re not alone. If you panic too much, you could hurt yourself. One of us should be with you in the car while the other two are at the top and bottom floors.” He lifts an eyebrow. “This isn’t about torturing you, Lav. It’s about making you comfortable. One step at a time.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t look or sound okay, but sure, .

“Where do you want me?” Remy looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor, body curved over a sketch pad.

Her face scrunches up like this is the hardest decision of her life. “Um…” she reaches up, rubbing the back of her neck in a strangely aggressive way.

When it’s clear she can’t answer, Remy offers, “How about I wait for you up here?

“Right, right,” she says, face as ashen as I’ve ever seen it. “Good.”

Sy must sense the moment is spiraling, so in the least pushy voice I’ve ever heard he asks, “We’ll go slow. You control the pace, even if that means you can’t get in.” Gently, he asks, “Are you ready to start?”

“Yes,” she says, even though her head gives a definitive shake.

“You want me in the elevator, or up here?” I ask. We already talked about it. We’re going to let her have the choice on who goes in the elevator with her. She may tell me to fuck off, and it’s not like I don’t deserve it. I’m the one who locked her in there as punishment. We’ve all noticed the wide berth she always takes around that door, as if some part of her is always innately aware of the threat of it. Sighing, I add, “It’s up to you, Little Bird.”

She shifts her weight back and forth, eyes jumping from me to my brother. It won’t bother me if she picks him over me. I can deal with it. I think.

Finally, she meets my gaze, nodding. “I want you with me.”

Fuck fuck fuck.

Responsibility.

Knowing it’s cowardly, I ask, “You sure?”

“Yes.” This time she looks like she means it, squaring her shoulders as she straightens, locking stares with Sy. “And you’ll be downstairs, right?”

My brother whips out his phone, thumbing it open to reveal the stopwatch screen. “For as long as you need.”

But even after all is said, nothing gets done.

Lavinia stares at the elevator across the room, body frozen.

Sy clears his throat, shooting me and Remy a look before approaching her. “Hey, it’s okay if you can’t go in. Just try to step as close as you feel–”

“I’m going to do it,” she says, voice both firm and uneven. “I just need a minute.” Closing her eyes, she inhales deep, unmoving.

So we wait, me and Remy sitting against the wall on either side of the elevator while Sy rides it down. Each clang and whir of the car, no matter how distant and muffled, makes her flinch, but she doesn’t open her eyes, brows creased in concentration.

I try not to count the minutes it takes for her to actually cross the line between the living room and the elevator. It’s only seven. We’ve already eaten dinner at the gym and tended to our business for tomorrow’s Fury. The four of us can stand here all night, if we need to.

As we wait, the sun begins dipping lower through the clock face. Remy and I share the occasional skeptical glance before he returns his attention to the sketch pad. Sometimes, my eyes follow, narrowing questioningly at what he’s drawing. It looks like mechanics, all hard lines and confusing circles–nothing like the colorful chaos I’m used to seeing from him.

In between picking at a scab on my knuckles and wondering if we have enough beer stocked for tomorrow night, Lavinia’s eyes suddenly fly open. “Okay.”

Just like that, she’s marching for the door to the elevator, spurring me and Remy into a flurry of motion. He shoots up and slams the button, the door rolling open, but I’m the one to wrench the metal gate aside, revealing the badly lit interior. If I’d had time to prepare, maybe we could have spruced it up. New bulbs. Air freshener. Liquor.

.

It takes everything in me not to just pick her up and show her I can fix this, but she walks right inside, spine rigid.

Never missing a step, she turns, striding back out.

“Alright, so basically, this is fucking crazy.” Her eyes are wide and already growing wet. “That elevator is a million fucking years old. What if it dies? What if it’s like the clock? Everything around here is ancient and broken!” She flails around, gesturing wildly from me to the elevator. “We’re going to get stuck in there, Nick! We’ll be trapped, and before too long, all the air will get breathed up, and then–”

I grab her shoulders, giving her a soft shake. “This hunk of metal has survived decades of rowdy frat boys, Little Bird. It’s unstoppable.”

She breathes hard, clutching at my shirt sleeves. “Nothing is unstoppable!”

“I am,” I tell her, chasing her gaze when she rolls her eyes. “I’d never let anything hurt you, and you know it. There’s a door,” I point up, into the elevator, indicating the emergency hatch eight feet up. “If we get stuck–and we won’t–I’ll haul your perfect, tight, fuckable ass up there and carry you out on my own back. You got me?”

She holds my stare, some of the wildness in her eyes easing. That’s when Remy swoops in, scooping her into his arms. “Come on, baby. Deep breaths.” She breathes, although I’m not sure how deep it goes. “Can you close your eyes for me?”

She looks wary—but he rubs her back and slowly they flutter shut. “Good girl.” His hand wraps around the column of her neck, and he ducks his head, whispering into her ear. “I want you to think about the two of us on that cliff. Think about how that was the scariest fucking moment of our lives. Think about how certain we were, Vinny. If we stayed, we wouldn’t be here now. But we jumped. We pushed past the fear and took that step off the edge, because we needed to survive, and somehow–some way–that made us bulletproof.” He makes wide strokes with his thumb down to the hollow of her neck and shoulder. “But the truth is, fear wasn’t how we ended up there. I had a weakness and everyone saw it.” Remy’s eyes flit to mine, hardening. “Our enemies have weaknesses too, but we have something the rest of them don’t.”

Lavinia groans. “If you say ‘each other,’ I’m going to barf.”

Remy pauses, mouth twisting. “Well, I was going to say… a massive stockpile of ammunition and the heaviest balls in Forsyth.” Her lips twitch and he grins, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “The point is, our weaknesses will tear us apart faster than our enemies will. It’s why we have to fight it. Get stronger. Better. Harder. The rest of them don’t have the guts for that, Vinny. They’re not like us.” Brushing a kiss against her temple, he adds, “They’re not survivors.”

It may be the most coherent thing I’ve ever heard Remy say in his life, but he’s right. Our weaknesses will be our downfall. Not just the Dukes, but us—the four of us. Sy’s weakness is the reason he hurt her. Mine was the reason I sent her back to her father.

But Lavinia’s may be the worst, because anyone can use it against her, and I won’t let that happen.

Not even if I have to go down stopping it.

A tear runs down her face and Remy thumbs it away. “You’re right,” she says, exhaling slowly, evenly. “You’re absolutely right.”

She steps past me and walks right in, head bowed.

Sharing a nervous glance with Remy, I follow her, stepping into the small box. Immediately, I can feel the waves of panic rolling off her. It’s an energy that buzzes like a warning, an animal caged, her body strung so tight that she flinches at the mere sound of my foot touching the metal. The pink in her cheeks from a moment before is gone, although it seems to have traveled down her throat in red streaks. Tears well in her eyes and she gulps for air.

“What if I can’t do this?” she whispers, hands latching onto my chest.

“Hey.” I smooth down her hair, tucking her gingerly into my chest. “Everything is fine. I’m here. Remy is a few feet away,” I nod out the open door, “and Sy’s waiting downstairs for you. Do you want to go to him?”

In all my life, I’ll never comprehend how my brother became anyone’s pillar of comfort, but I know that’s what he is to her. Warmth and reassurance. Strength and security.

She nods, but her throat bobs as she tries to catch her breath. “What if the lights go off? What if we can’t get the door back open? What if—”

Her panic is making me panic, and , I’m not even afraid of elevators, but she kind of has a point about this tower being older than dirt. I glance at Remy. “Dude—”

He narrows his eyes at me and mouths, “

!”

“Baby,” I say, running my hands down her back, “none of those things are going to happen.”

“But—”

I cut her off with a kiss that’s gentle, less demanding than usual. She’s still crying, and I’ve got to give her the chance to breathe.

Her jaw relaxes, and I feel the muscles in her back ease.

“Better?” I ask.

Her eyes flutter open, eyelashes wet. “Yes.”

Searching her eyes, I ask, “Ready to shut the door?”

Her eyes dart to Remy, who’s still standing just outside the elevator. “It can’t be me or Nick.” He jerks his chin at the gate, telling her, “You’ve got to be the one who does it, Vinny.”

The sound she makes is strangled and full of dread, but she lifts her trembling hand, giving the two of us one last nervous look. Her whole body vibrates as she wrenches the gate closed, slamming it hard into the frame.

Then she punches the button–violently, like it deserves to feel pain.

As the door slides closed, I feel her heart against my chest, pounding like a jackhammer, and do the only thing I know I’m good at. Taking her face in mine, I kiss her again, drawing her attention away from the walls literally closing in. Seeing her like this makes my chest hurt. This is a girl who kicks fuckers in the face, looks Kings in their eyes and dares them to try to break her, keeps going even when she’s held down.

I won’t let this take her away from me.

The car moves with a lurch, and she whimpers in my mouth. “Nick!”

“You’ve got this, baby.” Gathering her trembling body closer, I ask, “You want to know what my biggest fear is?”

She gasps, burying her face into my neck. “W-what?”

Solemnly, I answer, “Crickets.”

She doesn’t relax, but her exhale is definitely edged with exasperation. “Stop.”

“Hey, I’m dead serious,” I assure, stroking my fingers through her hair. “Menacing little Geppetto freaks. Always hiding, but screaming so you’ll know they’re there, jumping around, even though they can fly, and they’ll never let you forget they fly, because those disgusting wings of theirs flap around like–”

The doors slide open with a rusty grinding sound, and then Sy is there, yanking the gate open. I get a flare of envy when Lavinia leaps at him, Sy catching her with both arms like he was anticipating it, but it melts away just as quickly as I watch her gasp into his neck, chanting, “I did it, I did it…”

My brother’s always been good at helping others train, so he doesn’t even look awkward when he cups the back of her head with his big palm, saying, “Nice work, Lucia.”

I hold the door, feeling so tense that I need the break, too.

He glances at me to ask, “All good, brother?”

Giving her a worried look, I shrug. “I told her about the crickets.”

Sy snorts, ducking his head to catch her gaze. “He never did get over that thing in second grade. How about you?” He brushes her hair back, searching her eyes. “Status report, Lucia.”

She shakes her head, a little of the color coming back to her cheeks. “I fucking hate that thing.”

Sy nods. “I know.”

Inhaling deep, she seems to rally herself, spine stiffening. “And I have to ride it back up.”

“You’re sure?” I ask, but this time it isn’t cowardice that’s driving it. Seeing the spark of victory in her eyes, I want her to know–to feel, without any doubt–that this is all her.

She glances at the doors leading outside, and then to my brother. “Losers aren’t allowed through the doors, right?” The smile she gives is watery and weak, but it makes something inside of me unwind at the sight of it.

Sy gives her a slow, stony grin. “No losers here.”

Squaring her shoulders, she finally lets him go, turning to me. “Okay,” she says, sounding far more convincing than she had upstairs. “Let’s do this, Bruin.”

Sy grabs my arm to hold me back as we watch her enter the elevator again. In a low voice, he says, “Help her keep her breathing under control. In through the nose—out through the mouth. It’s okay to distract her from intrusive thoughts or panic.” He gives me a longer, considering look. “The cricket thing was a nice touch.”

I flip him off as Lavinia begins clutching for me, dragging me back to her. “I’ve got this.”

The ride back up is a little easier.

Her body still trembles, strung tighter than piano wire, and she’s still making these little gasping whimpers, but I get halfway through a story of my harrowing second grade cricket war before the sounds.

This time, I’m prepared. The door slides open and I instantly roll her out of my hands to Remy, who steps in the elevator the second he can.

Then he grabs her hand and shoves it down his pants.

“What the fuck?” I snap.

. I kept my dick completely out of this.

“Just showing her a touch point,” Remy explains, ducking his head to watch her fingers trace the crescent moon tattooed beside his hip.

“That helps?” I ask, both confused by this ritual of theirs and annoyed that I’m not a part of it. I’ve got tattoos for days.

“Yeah,” she says, looking up at him. My Little Bird looks wrung out and halfway to falling apart, but she doesn’t. She firms her jaw and says, “Because I know he’ll find me.”

“Always.” He brushes her hair off her face. “Are you okay?”

She shudders an exhale. “Yeah, I think so. It’s… a little easier?” She doesn’t sound convinced, but she sounds like she wants to be. So when she pulls away, shaking out her arms, I already know what she’s going to say. “Ready for the second bout?”

There’s something satisfactory about seeing a douchebag get his ass kicked, even if he is DKS.

It would feel even better if I was the one pummeling Bruce in the ring, but Wicker Ashby is surprisingly agile. Especially for a fucking lacrosse player.

It’s the second fight of the night, a sophomore cub, Kaczinski, having already won the first. Bruce, who’s currently getting his ass kicked, is my undercard. I’m up next, and the room is abuzz with anticipation. Mine will be the Dukes’ first real fight since our probation expired, and I’m lucky it’s me, because all three of us are itchy with the need to punch someone.

“Yeah!” Lavinia cheers when Bruce takes another hit, then freezes, looking up at us to weakly add, “I mean, , get him, Bruce.”

Remy looks at me from where he’s leaning against the railing, and we share a smirk.

Maybe make that all of us.

Seems like I’m not the only one willing to let Bruce get his ass handed to him.

PNZ is notorious for recruiting pretty, rich fuckboys, but despite all the jokes and insults about them being pampered little pussies, they’re more than a nice trust fund. A Princeship might necessitate some form of blood lineage, but getting into the frat is somehow both easier and harder. Their skills run the gamut, because Ashby doesn’t care about specialty like the other houses do.

He’s a collector.

Only the best and brightest for his house. The future surgeons. The law majors with the highest promise. Engineering majors with a focus on security. CS majors who dominate hard enough that their op-sec is absolutely fucking bulletproof–something that used to drive Daniel Payne up the wall. They are undoubtedly the cream of the Forsyth crop, and I’ll give Ashby this much–it’s smart. For all the Princes might be about kicking out more Royals, he’s not building a family. He’s building an empire, and he pulls the brightest stars from the frat right into it. Saul has Neon and Ewing. Lionel Lucia has Cash Mallis. Daniel Payne had .

But Ashby doesn’t recruit Forsyth’s garden-variety goons, and despite the fact he raised the man in the ring–even gave him his own last name–that’s exactly what Wicker Ashby and his two brothers are.

Recruits.

No one has ever been fooled. These three were chosen not by blood, but because they excel at something. God only knows what. Whatever it is, Wicker has a hunger in his eyes that I haven’t seen since my time in South Side, and it makes me more alert.

His two brothers, hovering just outside the ropes, watching him fight, aren’t much better.

Lavinia leans into me and follows my gaze to the hulking one. He’s got the hood of his sweater pulled up over his head, so I can’t see his face, but I know it’s his brother, Lex. “Is it weird that sometimes I feel better knowing Leticia, and I weren’t the most fucked up sibling group in Forsyth?”

I throw my arm over her shoulders, wondering, “Are you talking about me and Sy, or Ashby’s Powerpuff Boys?”

Her mouth purses in this insanely sexy way that always makes my dick twitch. “I’m talking about the farce of it all.” Loosely, she gestures to them. “The Prince tradition being all about blood links when their own King’s sons are adopted.”

Remy’s head whips around. “Wait. You’re telling me they’re not his real sons?”

“Dude,” Sy says, fixing him with a look. “Pace is half black.”

Remy waves a hand at me. “So? Like you’re as white as your brother?”

My eyebrows rise. “He’s got a point, Brown Bear.”

Sy shakes his head, pinning his gaze back to Bruce’s beatdown. “Let’s face it. He calls them his sons, but they’re really just glorified employees.”

Remy turns to the ring, looking at Wicker a little more thoughtfully. “Princes get so hard about their paternity machine, I guess I just assumed.” And then, “How the fuck did Ashby become King without a blood heir, anyway? What a hypocrite.”

Sy shrugs. “Something nefarious, I’m sure.”

Lavinia looks between them, balking. “You don’t know, do you?” When the two of them just give her blank looks, Lavinia tuts. “Ashby have a son. He died when he was little, just after Ashby became King.”

Already knowing this, I mutter, “Cancer or something.”

“I know he’s a total prick and all,” she says, frowning, “but I always thought it was really sad. Don’t you think?” She adjusts the strap on her top—a drapey thing that covers all the good spots while teasing me with the possibility underneath. There’s plenty of exposed skin, and I can’t keep my hands off her.

I tug her closer, not liking that she’s looking at those three. “Sad for a normal person, sure. For a Prince, it’s catastrophic. And for their King?” I let the silence speak for me.

Peering at her, Remy wonders, “Obviously Nick has a pocket full of Forsyth chatter, but how do you know all this?”

Scowling, she explains, “Oh, my father never missed an opportunity to gloat about that. He drilled our superior lineage into us whenever possible. Sadly, his own Royal spawns didn’t come equipped with dicks.”

Remy raises his beer, saying, “And we thank god for it every day,” and rests his hand on her ass, fingers sliding down to toy with the hem of her skirt. “Not everyone can be pure-bred studs like me and Nicky.” He shoots Sy a look. “No offense, brother.”

Sy, distracted with the fight, answers with a quick, absent-minded, “None taken.” His hands are coiled around the railing with a white-knuckled grip, but he pries one away to gesture angrily toward the ring. “I kept fucking telling him he needed to work on his cardio!” His eyes narrow, assessing every move. No matter the beef between him and Bruce, DKS losing even a single fight is an abomination in his eyes. He leans over the railing and shouts. “Block him! Use your legs!” When Wicker’s left hook lands, Sy drags a palm down his face. “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe he’s getting his ass kicked by an East Ender with manicured fingernails.”

While Sy spits curse after curse, I lean down to brush a kiss beneath Lavinia’s ear. “That shellacking will make my victory even sweeter. Everyone loves a comeback, and I already know how I want to celebrate it.”

A loud shout comes from across the balcony, drawing our attention. Obviously, we’re not the only ones enjoying the beat down. The Kings’ box is across the gym from us, but near enough to hear their ruckus. Tristian Mercer leans over the railing and shouts, “Ashby’s manicurist can fight better than that!” making Sy thrust out a palm, as if to say, Killian and Dimitri laugh. The Lady rolls her eyes, but they all look like they’re having a great time.

Saul is sitting in the best seat in the section, alone, a sour expression on his face. Like Sy, he’s not pleased with the impending defeat. They bet so much money on every match, I can’t imagine what kind of hit his wallet is going to take tonight.

The thought almost makes me want to throw my own.

Almost.

Not quite.

“Lionel’s a no-show,” Sy says, nodding over to the Counts’ empty box.

“Good,” is all Lavinia says, voice hard and toneless. All of my sources say Lionel has gone underground, probably licking his wounds from the failed hit, not to mention being down two daughters and his best Count. Also noticeably absent is the Baron King.

No–

. Remy’s dad. The guy who’d dragged my best friend away in high school. The boring stiff all the whores at the Hideaway used to dread giving head to.

That’s still going to take some getting used to.

I know Ashby is here, though. I saw him earlier, on my way up here. I scan the gym now, wanting to catch a glimpse of his satisfied expression before I wipe it off his face with his best Prince’s loss. It takes a few minutes to find him, but when I do, he’s by the judge’s table.

Standing next to him, dressed in all black, her shirt cut low and in boots so high the heels look like weapons, is Mama B.

I watch as the two have an interesting exchange.

Huh.

“Hey.” I nudge Sy with my elbow and he reluctantly tears his eyes away from the shit show on the floor. Quietly, I ask, “That’s weird, right?”

He looks to where I’m gesturing, forehead scrunching. “That they’re talking? I don’t know, man. All these people go so far back, we’d need diagrams to connect all the lines.”

True. Our parents and their muddied relationships with all of the Royals is evidence of that but— “Look.” I lift my chin, jolting him. “He just touched her.”

Sy’s shoulders tense. “What, like he hurt her?”

“No. Like this.” I turn to Lavinia, who’s sipping a beer of her own, and rest my hand on her shoulder. Slowly, I drag my fingertips to her wrist.

She turns to face me. “Hey. What’s up?”

I smile. “Nothing.”

“Okay, weirdo.” She rolls her eyes and refocuses on the match.

I look back at my brother. “See? It’s weird.”

He shakes his head, but at that moment, Wicker gets a final hit, knocking Bruce flat on his ass. I guess what Wicker lacks in power, he makes up for with speed and stamina, because minutes later, he’s gotten the best of a DKS. The floor turns into utter chaos—upsets always do. The Princes and their sorority girls explode into excited, inebriated celebration, while the DKS boys and the cutsluts throw cups of beer and trash on Bruce’s dazed body.

“Shit,” Sy hisses. “Come on, Remy, we better get down there.” He palms my shoulder. “And you and Lavinia better hurry up and get your ass dressed, wrapped, and in that ring. Don’t leave these animals without entertainment for more than thirty minutes. They’ll tear this place apart.”

I give a lazy salute, knowing it’s enough time for the boys to get another beer, but not long enough for people to get restless.

I grab Lavinia’s hand, but she’s the one pulling me down the stairs.

“Hey, what’s the rush?”

She tosses me a glare over her shoulder. “You’ve got people down there waiting, Nick, and despite your earlier show of supreme , I’d personally feel better if you went into the ring prepared.”

I scoff. “Thirty minutes is plenty of time to take off my clothes and get taped.” I’m already warmed up, having spent a couple hours on the bags before Bruce’s bout began.

Crisply, she says, “Yes,” and then arches an eyebrow at me. “But is it enough time to do all that eat my pussy?”

I stumble a step, but she doesn’t wait, meaning I have to sprint to catch her wrist, tugging her faster toward the locker room. “Fuck , Little Bird. You can’t just say shit like that in public. My poor dick’s going to pop right through my shorts.”

She’s been on a tear ever since the elevator last night, high on the conquest of riding the elevator through four whole trips. The energy rolling off her ever since just makes me want her more, and I practically ply myself to her ass, navigating us through the wild throng.

The main hallway is crowded, and possessing the whiff of something that isn’t conducive to seductive oral shenanigans, but we wrinkle our noses and power through.

Until I slam into someone.

“Coming through,” I explain, impatient and annoyed.

The guy turns to narrow an eye at me from beneath his raised hoodie, but I just keep plowing on by. I’d stop and deal with it but… pussy, motherfucker.

A man’s got priorities.

I turn down the back hallway, toward the training room, but there’s someone blocking the door.

Is everyone in this building a cockblocker?

It wasn’t in my plan to take Lavinia into the locker room, and I don’t really feel good about it now. Too many bad experiences for her in there, and the last thing we need is her reliving the memory of Remy’s mindfuck. However, needs must.

But before we even turn the corner, I hear a voice that makes me tense.

“To the victor, go the spoils. Isn’t that how your Dukes play this game?” When he comes into sight, I see Wicker, shoulder propped against the wall. His body is slick with sweat, a towel draped around his neck. Beads of blood drip to the floor from a hit Bruce managed to land, and he’s still catching his breath. Wicker tilts his head, smirking. “Well, I won that fight, Red, and you’re the prize I want.”

I can’t see the girl’s face, but when she speaks, I recognize the voice in a heartbeat.

“You’re on the wrong side of Forsyth to claim any,” Verity says, voice dripping with disdain.

“Rumor is, West End’s cutsluts get mounted like bitches,” he shifts, moving to cage her against the wall, a hand on each side of her head. “I could fuck you until you scream.”

The cutsluts know how to handle themselves but Verity isn’t like the rest of them. She’s sweet. Soft. And this prick would fucking tear her apart.

I curl my fist, stepping forward to break it up, but not before Lavinia does.

“Hey!” she shouts, charging toward them. “Get away from her, asshole!”

There goes my pussy feast.

Wicker glances over at my girl, a smug grin already plastered on his stupid face. His eye is swollen, and I see now that the blood is coming from his knuckles. I can feel the post-fight adrenaline running through his system and it makes my fingers twitch toward the gun against my back.

“Oh, the Duchess,” he says, eye-fucking her. “Ready for that threesome yet? Obviously, if I’m going for this one over here, I’m not in a picky mood. I can mount you both like bitches.”

“And I can tell the future,” I say, jaw hardening as I step in front of her. “Ask me what happens in five seconds?”

Wicker’s eyes dart down to where my hand is tucked beneath my shirt. “Ah, Dukes. Never travel anywhere without that piece on you, do you? An observant man might call that cowardly.”

“That man might observe his brains splattered on the floor.” Smiling coolly, I add, “A lot like his cousin.”

Any teasing nature drains right out of his eyes. “Look at you, Bruin. You’ve barely been in the belfry three months, and you’ve already caught probation and implicated yourself in multiple murders. Yeah, you run a real tight shipwreck.” His lip curls pompously. “Pathetic.”

“You’re the pathetic one,” Lavinia grinds out, and it’s only then that I feel her hand clutching mine–the one reaching for my gun. Her fingers clamp like claws around my wrist. “There’s not a woman in this gym who’d willingly fuck you over what we’ve already got.” Snapping forward, she grabs Verity’s hand and tugs her away from him.

I give my most polite ‘you just survived murder’ smile. “I’d stick around and kick your ass the way Bruce should have, but I’m saving my energy to take down your reigning Prince.”

Wicker snarls, “I’d wipe the floor with you, Bruin,” and I step closer, ignoring the hand tugging hard at my shirt.

“I know what you are, Wicker. More importantly, I know you are, and where you come from.” Up close, I can see the flash of split-second panic in his eyes, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came.

“You don’t know shit.”

I search his face, trying to figure out what it is about him. It’s something just beneath the surface. He tries hard to hide it, and most of the time, I’m betting he does a pretty convincing job.

It only takes a couple seconds for me to find it.

Desperation.

I grin wider, showing my teeth. “Too bad you don’t have the title that earns you the chance. Featured matches are for Royals only.” Coolly, I add, “

Royals. Not cheap knock-off orphans of Roy–”

As expected, he lunges, meeting the force of my palms as I slam him back toward the wall. It’d probably be a nice fight too–a better warmup than hitting the bag could ever be–but then his King steps into the hallway.

Ashby pauses, looking between the four of us, and Wicker suddenly goes rigid. His dad’s eyes pass right over him though, landing on Verity. “Whittaker,” he says, not sparing me a second glance. “I came to tell you what a good fight you had, but I see you’re not quite finished with the last round.”

Wicker raises his chin, shaking out his fists. “Just playing in the dumpster a bit.”

Ashby gives Lavinia and Verity a cold grin. “Excuse my boy. His appetites are legion.” He shifts his gaze from the women and raises his hand, two fingers extended in a small wave. “Come, Whittaker. Since you won the fight, you’re invited to my box as my personal guest.”

Wicker’s shoulders ease, but his smug expression stays firmly in place. “Perfect. I’ll have an excellent view of you getting demolished on the mat.”

It’s an empty threat, but Wicker Ashby isn’t my concern. I have a bigger prince to ruin.

Once they’re gone, Lavinia turns to Verity, frowning. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Verity exhales. Despite the bluster she’d shown before, her hand gives a tremble when she lifts it to tuck her hair behind an ear. “Thanks for stepping in. That was getting… intense.”

Lavinia holds her gaze, her words strong and clear. “I’ve always got your back, Verity. I’d never let anyone fuck with you and the other girls.” She shoots me a pointed look. “And neither would your Dukes.”

It’s only then that I let my gun go, flexing my tense fingers. “Never.”