Chapter 3: Dukes of Peril: Chapter 3

I only sleep for a few hours, dipping in and out of awareness every time Lavinia shifts, rolling back and forth between me and Nick. In sleep, she seems conflicted about who to press up against. I lift my arm to welcome her when she turns my way, clearly seeking out my heat, and for a good while, I’m halfway to contentment, pressing my nose into her hair as I doze off again to the feel of her skin against mine.

But she always rolls back to Nick.

That’s where she is when I wake up, struggling to orient myself within the strange surroundings. The light struggles through the blinds, signaling late afternoon, early evening. I spend a long time there on my side, watching the shape of them as they sleep. Lavinia and Nick. He’s on his back, and much like I’ve been doing, he’s extended his arm to tuck her in close to his side, palm resting on the delicate expanse of her back. Her cheek is resting right in the nook between his shoulder and neck, arm thrown over his waist. Below the blankets, halfway to being kicked off, I can tell her leg is threaded through his.

They look perfect, like a Greek painting of mythic lovers, the woman wound around her man. It’s impossible not to remember the way they’d looked hours ago, passionate and powerful as they fucked their way to whatever little bliss is available in this messed-up world.

It’s not jealousy–not anymore.

But there is envy.

Nick can do that. He can wake her up by thrusting into her. He can let the man inside himself free and know that she won’t come out of it bleeding and crying. Nick doesn’t need to ask or plead or plan. All he has to do is roll between her legs and give it to her. Nick and Remy are allowed the heat of a moment.

I leave them there in bed, my neck feeling too heavy as I force myself to turn away from the sight. To not edit the image in my head, putting myself in Nick’s place. To not get caught up in the hardness of my cock, balls aching from a lack of release.

I check in on Remy instead, ducking out of the hallway to seek the long line of his figure reclined on the couch. His face is illuminated by the glow of the absurd flat screen on the wall, and I realize he’s already awake.

“Hey,” I say, glancing down to make sure my cock isn’t still bulging with need before I step out of the hallway. “How’s the arm?”

He gives me a look before raising his hand, pressing a tip of each finger to the tip of his thumb. “My dexterity is still solid,” he says, voice low and flat. “I don’t think there’s any damage.”

He certainly looks like there’s damage. His face is drawn and ashen, and as I observe him, his body erupts with a shiver. “Want a blanket? Another ice pack? Something to eat?”

He shivers again. “No.”

Falling into the armchair, I shrug. “Alright.”

He cranes his neck, giving me a suspicious look. That’s fair. In any other circumstance, I’d be forcing food down his gullet and hounding him into a hot shower. Berating him to take his meds. Demanding a head check. Jotting any observations down in my journal–were I to have it with me, which I don’t.

“I really want you to be okay, Remy.” My voice is quiet and worn, just like everything else in this house. “I want that more than almost anything. I think I might want it too much because I’ve been ignoring what’s been right in front of my face all this time.” I slide my tired gaze to him, watching as he pushes himself to a sitting position. “You can rely on me–you can rely on me–but you can’t be dependent on me because I’m not perfect. Sometimes, I fail.” I walked away that night, left him on his own for a week, and he crumbled. Nick told me all about it. The drugs, the lack of meds, the insidious delusions. Maybe all this time, I haven’t been helping him. I’ve just been giving him crutches. “I can’t control you.” God knows I’ve tried. “And I can’t make you care about as much as I do.”

“So it’s finally happening.” Pushing his hair out of his eyes, his mouth curls into a bitter, joyless grin. “You’ve realized you can’t win. You can’t fix me.”

“I can’t win because it’s not a game. Look at me,” I demand when he scoffs, eyes rolling. “Man, I love you. But I can’t always be there to play warden for your worst fucking impulses. I would if I could. Believe that. But the only way it’d be effective is if I locked you up and threw away the key. And then how would I be any different from your father?” Leaning forward, I prop my elbows on my knees, willing him to hear me. “This is something you need to do yourself. And the thing is? You can, Remy. You’re stronger than me. Hell, when it comes to knowing yourself and fighting your demons, no one is stronger than you.”

“I don’t feel strong.” He stares at the floor, his eyes welling with anguish. “I feel like I’d rather rot in the green than destroy one more thing I give a shit about.”

It takes everything in me to not go to him and make him impossible promises, like that I’ll make him better. That we’ll go back to the schedules and the graphs. That I’ll stick by him every day and make sure he stays level. If he asked me to do any of those things, I would.

He never actually has, though.

The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, possibly in my whole life, is say this:

“Then that choice is yours to make. I can’t stop you.” I struggle not to break when he looks up at me, eyes rimmed in red. The only reason I say it at all is because I’m confident in this one thing. “But deep down, we both know that’s not who you are.”

“Oh yeah?” He gives a mangled laugh. “Then who am I, Sy?”

“You’re an artist. A Maddox. A Duke.” I level him with a look. “But most of all, you’re my brother, and no brother of mine could be anything but the most stubborn asshole on the goddamn planet.”

His eyes flick toward the hall, where I know Lavinia is still curled around my other brother. “So you’re telling me I’m on my own,” he mutters.

I straighten, shooting him a glare. “Fuck that. You’re never on your own, Remy.

I’m telling you that it’s time to walk beside us instead of being dragged on a leash. Either that’s something you want, or it isn’t. You need to figure that out.”

His head bows, fingers raking through his hair. “It’s too late. Everything’s fallen apart.”

“Then we’ll put it back together,” I insist, voice brooking no argument. “It’s never too late.”

Something in his posture uncoils at my words.

, not . Not alone. He swings his green eyes on me. “You think?”

“If that’s something you want to put the effort into doing?” I dip my chin, my tone serious. “Always, Remy.”

He falls back against the couch, looking deflated. “I guess she hates me now.”

“Open your eyes, dude. She doesn’t hate you. If she hated you, do you think she’d be half as hurt as she is right now?” I kick out, catching his ankle with my foot. “She cares about you, dumbass. She was head-over-heels for you before she even knew what hit her.” This is the part that worries me, though. He’s strong–I meant it when I said that–but he’s also so fucking fragile. “Remy, not everyone is as forgiving of your antics as I am. Maybe you can fix what’s broken there between you and Lavinia. But maybe…”

Tonelessly, Remy says, “Maybe I can’t.”

He fucked around with Haley. Nick told me everything. Lavinia’s never asked or expected us to be exclusive with her, but Remy knows as well as I do that he’s not the only fragile one here. That shit probably cut her deep. That’s probably why he did it, too, and it’s probably just going to make it that much harder, knowing he did it out of malice, contempt.

I wince. “I need to know you have what it takes to accept that.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, looking nothing like the snotty, rebellious rich kid everyone’s known him as. It makes my heart sink to see him like this, diminished and defeated. But then he meets my gaze, lifting his chin. “I won’t accept that.”

Hope swells in my chest and I feel a slow smirk curving my lips. “No?”

He crosses his arms and I finally see what I’ve been searching for all day. The fight. He’s still got some in there, buried beneath the shivers and sickly pallor. “Either I can add auditory hallucinations to my rapidly expanding list of problems, or I heard her and Nick fucking earlier.”

“Yeah. They do that now.” I see what he means. Nick fucked her up pretty bad. He betrayed her. And yet? “They’re… together now.”

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Remy leans forward, holding my gaze. “We’re going to have to ask for .”

I drag a palm down my face, hiding my laugh. “God, help us.”

There’s only one thing that would bring my dad back into Forsyth politics, and that’s a threat to one of his sons. That’s why I asked him to set up this meeting. I was backed in a corner, swinging, but missing every shot. Pride falls when it comes to the Bruin-Perilini family. For him. For me. For all of us.

I get to the club, Underworld, just before midnight, rolling my eyes at the name. Of course Maddox, the crypt keeper, wants to meet at a bar named after the pits of hell. He’s a goddamn demon. Even more than we ever thought.

“You guys know what to do,” I say to the two pledges in the backseat. “Ballsack, you’re with me.”

“Got it,” he says, and we both climb out of the SUV. I see the black gun tucked into the back of his pants as he adjusts his jacket. “Anything I should know before we go in there?”

Nothing I can tell him. The whole point of this meeting is to make it clear the Dukes can keep their mouths shut—as long as the hit is taken off my brother.

“Sit at the bar. Order a drink. Just stay frosty. I can deal with Maddox.” I should be able to, I’ve known him since I was a kid. But the idea that Maddox is King of the Barons… it’s made me question my intuition. “I just don’t want to get ambushed.”

“Right.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I’ve got your back.”

The bouncer waves us in, barely glancing at our IDs. I see why when we get inside. Some of the clientele is young—catering to the nearby women’s college and the boarding school, Preston Prep. The interior lives up to its name, dark and gloomy. We’re a long way from the country club.

Ballsack peels off, slipping into the crowd, and I scan the room, checking out the bar and tables around the cavernous space. There’s a staircase that leads upstairs, roped off. I instinctively walk toward it, knowing Remy’s father would never deign to lower himself to mingle among the masses. A tall guy stands at the bottom, eyes pinned on me. His hair is blond and tousled, and he oozes an annoyed, rebellious rich kid vibe, just like Remy once did. Something about him is familiar, and I think at first it must be that.

And then he speaks.

“Simon Perilini, right?” He thrusts his hand out. “I’m Heston Wilcox. This is my establishment. I told Mr. Maddox I’d escort you up, personally.”

I raise an eyebrow but shake his hand. Something niggles at my brain. Wilcox. “Any relation to Sebastian?”

“Only by blood.” He gives me a sharp, sarcastic grin, unlatching the rope. “I saw you fight at the Shell a few years back, actually. Fucking grisly.”

The ‘Shell’ is a half-built amphitheater the city of Northside began constructing before running out of money. There’s a platform and a half-covering the shell–which is mostly used for underground fights and skateboarding. Before I landed a spot in DKS, I threw myself into a few fights down there to hone my skills. Sebastian Wilcox was a legend in his own regard, even back then, barely in high school. Scrappy. Strong. Fast as hell. “I heard Sebastian quit fighting.”

I don’t say it, but there had been talk about recruiting him to Forsyth and DKS. Last I heard, he’d moved up north.

“A few too many concussions.” He shrugs. “It didn’t hurt that the girl he’s banging told him it was the fights or her pussy. He chose the pussy.”

I grunt in response. Three months ago, if someone had told me I’d change my life over a woman, I would have told them they were fucking crazy. That, of course, was before Lavinia crashed into our lives.

We reach the top of the stairs, and I finally see him. Timothy William Maddox. He’s lounged back on a red velvet couch, and it takes me a second to process the scene. There’s a girl perched sideways on his knee. Her arm is wound casually around his neck, and her eyes, tinged with shame, are turned away, as if she’s avoiding his gaze. His hand caresses the small of her back, which is bared by the sluttily-low scoop of her dress.

She has a pentagram tattooed there.

The gold ring on his finger catches my eye. The King’s ring. His fingertips trace the tattoo slowly, sensually, but his green eyes are bored, staring out over the dance floor. I’m not sure if it’s this new knowledge of him being another Royal that makes him seem weirdly human all of a sudden, or the rumpled appearance. I’ve known Remy’s dad for years, and never once have I seen him look anything but eerily immaculate. Tonight, he’s shucked his tailored suit jacket, the top three buttons of his shirt undone. His eyes are heavy with the drink he’s holding, a glass of amber liquid resting on his other knee. His head is tipped back so that he stares down his nose at the people below, but there’s a visible exhaustion–or maybe disappointment–in the set of his mouth.

He’s never resembled his son more.

It’s only when the girl turns, catching sight of me in her periphery, that I announce myself. “Am I interrupting?”

The girl springs to her feet, looking relieved. “I’ll be downstairs!”

Maddox’s hand falls away from her skin, eyes narrowing as she saunters away.

“Thank you, Wilcox,” he says, leaning forward to place his drink on the table. “Make sure no one bothers us. Simon and I have some private matters to discuss.”

Irritation flickers across Heston’s face, his jaw tensing at the command. I get the feeling he’s not used to taking orders. It’s an indicator of Maddox’s power, one he’s used to flaunting. Like Wilcox, I’m not interested in measuring dicks. Not tonight. I need solutions.

The minute we’re alone, he turns his cold eyes on me. “How’s my son?”

“Alive,” I reply, not willing to give him more than that.

“Obviously.” He flashes me a condescending grin. “I could tell from the call. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be celebrating.”

A bottle of brandy sits on the table, along with two glasses.

“Do you always celebrate by railing your Baronesses?” I sneer because it’s downright illicit. Kings do, take, and keep whatever they damn well please, but there are some lines that just don’t get crossed, and fucking the current leaders’ house girl is one of them. Unbidden, the thought springs to mind–Saul on top of Lavinia–and I ball my fist.

“Ah, you really do have that Duke charm, don’t you?” He reclines back, nodding at the space beside him. I take the chair directly to his left instead, disgusted by this new view of him. “Regina simply needs to be brought to heel. That’s the problem with recruiting brides from the wicked path. Fickle, psychotic little bitches. She’s driving my poor boys up the wall. But I suppose you know a thing or two about that.” He holds my stare, which is how I realize he’s halfway drunk already.

. “Not that it’s any of your business, but the only Baroness I’ve ever ‘railed’ was my own, twenty-three years ago, and I’ve been carnally faithful ever since.” Maddox raises an eyebrow at my snort. “Does that surprise you? I suppose it would. This new guard doesn’t value loyalty at all.”

“It’s more that my brother has pretty expansive knowledge of the Hideaway’s clientele.” I give him a long, meaningful look.

Flippantly, Maddox waves a hand. “A man has needs and a myriad of ways they can be met.”

“Oral doesn’t count, huh?” I scan the floor below, looking for anyone wearing just a little too much black. “See, that kind of pedantic horseshit is exactly the kind of ‘loyalty’ I’d expect from the old guard.”

Maddox leans forward and refills his glass, spilling a little down the side, and then pours the brown liquid into the empty one. He pushes the fresh one toward me. “Tell me, did the Lucia girl survive?” At my dark, warning look, he hums. “Well, of course she did. Else, it would have been my son coming up those steps, ready to kill me.” Sipping his drink, he adds, “Or ready to try, in any case. Still, I’m a bit offended they sent you instead of Nicholas.”

I roll easily with the topic change. “Well, seeing as how you want to kill him, I’m not sure who else you’d expect.”

“Want is a strong word.” He tips his chin and leans closer, as if he’s about to tell me a secret. “Irritating as he may be, Nicholas is merely a job. He understands being in that position more than any of you, so I know for a fact he has the guts to look me in the eye. Most importantly, he has a name fitting of someone who’d hazard to negotiate with a senior member of the highest Royalty.” Maddox tsks. “What gives you the authority to make this kind of arrangement? You aren’t the Bruin Heir.”

It’s meant to be an insult, but my patience has run thin. “No, I’m not. But it’s not safe for my brother to be traipsing around town right now, is it? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Maddox. If you want to start a war, you call Nick. If you want a negotiation? You talk to me. ” He eyes me long and hard, realizing the truth of that statement.

“Still, Perilini doesn’t strike fear into the hearts of men.”

“Maybe it should.” I point out, “I’ve taken down a lot of men–all bigger and better than you.”

“Yes, the fighter. Catch and release.” He raises his glass to his lips, which are curled in obvious distaste. “I do wish it’d been Nicholas. He’s insufferable as a person, but as a murderer? He shows potential.”

I give him a grin as cold as his own. “Next time, I’ll be sure to bring you his autograph. In the meantime, you want to cut to the fucking chase?”

Maddox regards the sweep of my hand with a dark, severe expression, and I try to reel it in. This is why Nick couldn’t come. Not because he’s afraid. Not even because I was afraid for him. It’s because Nick is an escalator. Unfortunately, sitting like this with my best friend’s father, it’s easy to forget he’s a King–one out of the five most powerful people in Forsyth.

So I tack on a belated, “…sir,” and try not to pull a face.

“I’ll admit,” he says, holding up his glass, “things didn’t go as planned last night. My intention had been to get Remy somewhere safe.” He takes another sip, savoring it. “But, as usual, the interference from the Dukes and your Duchess ruined my best laid plans.”

I stare at the glass, unable to look this man in the eye. Not now that I’ve been reminded how close he’d come to taking the most important people in my life away from me. “I happen to know a little about not being the man your father wants you to be. Like you, my fathers never wanted their sons to be Dukes. They thought this life was too violent. Too deceptive. They opted out—for me. For Nick. For their Duchess.” I pick up the glass, giving it a covert sniff.

“It’s the fatherly Forsyth curse. Look at Daniel Payne.” His voice turns casually conversational, just a touch of a booze-slur, as if we’re just two friends meeting for a drink. “We raise defiant men because we want them to survive. If we ask them not to pledge Royalty, they’ll do it just to spite us. If we ask them to lead our houses, they’ll ultimately come to overthrow us. There’s no winning, Simon.” He tips his glass toward me. “No victor. No spoils.”

Hearing the solemness of his tone, I try to reason with him. “Remy isn’t made for the darkness of a Baron’s life. It would consume him, and you know it.”

He laughs. “Oh, it’s much too late to think he’d ever take the Baron’s path. Especially now that he knows I’d like him to.” The bright lights reflecting off his green eyes make him look sinister. “Naturally, I’d hoped to have my heir serving my house, but I gave up on that the moment he pledged to the fists.”

“And the alternative is what?” I ask, fighting back the welling anger. “Locking him in an eight-by-ten room for the rest of his life, painting watercolor landscapes? It’d drive him to suicide.”

“It’d mean that he’s safe,” he says, a bit too sharply. “He’d be medicated and well cared-for. He’d be with his mother.” There’s a flash of angry, bitter grief in his eyes. It surprises me to see something so familiar. A feeling I know like the back of my hand.

It’s the anger of someone who loves Remington Maddox, but is completely fucking unable to save him.

I feel it every single day.

More reserved, he looks out over the pit below. “In any case, you’re wrong about why your fathers didn’t want you and Nicholas to become Royals. They didn’t care about the violence of this life. Your mother, maybe. But for those two, it’s the secret. It’s the .”

I balk. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You see,” slowly, he turns to look at me, “in Forsyth, a Royal man can only lead a house that’s willing to follow him. Imagine how terrible of a leader your father–a Bruin, born and bred–must have been to have lost the loyalty of his entire territory to Saul Cartwright.”

“You’re not going to rile me up,” I insist, pretending to be bored by this tidbit of information.

Maddox leans back and throws an arm over the back of the couch. “If you’re not going to encourage Remy to come home, then why did you ask me here, Simon?”

“You know why I’m here.” I hold the glass to my lips and tip it back, swallowing the drink in one gulp. It burns, giving me the courage I need to make my demand. “I need you to get the hit on Nick removed.”

Once again, he looks bored. “Lionel made that hit, not us.”

“But you’re carrying it out.”

Maddox releases a low, insidious laugh. “If you think I can control Lionel Lucia, you misunderstand the application of my power.”

Shrugging, I keep my voice matter-of-fact. “Then you’re going to have to figure that out, because if you don’t?” I pause to make sure he hears the gravity of my words. “Every citizen in Forsyth is going to know who and what you are.”

He watches me back for a long beat, not even breaking my gaze to set his glass down. “You’re threatening me. A King.”

“To them,” I gesture to the dance floor, “you’re a King. To me, you’re just Remy’s sperm donor.”

“Hm.” He rubs his fingers together, swaying a bit from the liquor. “In truth, that makes this all much easier.”

I barely see him move, a shadow zipping over the distance. Before I can do more than tense, flinching to bolt, he’s behind me, fisting a handful of my hair.

Something cold and sharp digs into my throat.

A knife.

He speaks into my ear. “It’s been so long since I felt blood on my hands.” Maddox’s voice is suddenly crisp and fierce, the slur now completely absent. “That’s why I took the hit, you know. An artist has to keep the gears oiled.”

I rest my hand on the arm of the chair, sighing in annoyance. “Come on, dude. You’re not going to kill me.”

The knife digs in deeper, his voice a low growl. “And why is that?”

“For one, because this place is public as hell.” Rolling my eyes, I add, “But also because Remy would never forgive you.”

My scalp stings as he pulls it, extending my neck for the blade. “I think that ship sailed when I took the hit on Nicholas.”

“Maybe,” I concede, because he’s right. Remy wouldn’t have forgiven him for that, either. “But there’s another reason you’re not going to kill me, and it’s a lot more convincing than the others.”

I can practically hear the mocking smirk when he asks, “And what’s that?”

With one jerk of my legs, the chair jolts backward, knocking into his chest. I snatch his wrist before he can react, spinning, leaping from the chair and shoving him back.

I have him pinned against the wall, knife pressing into throat, before he even knows what’s hit him. “Because,” I smirk, “I’ll win.”

He fights back, which I expect. Years of training, scuffling with Nick and Remy and the guys at the gym, have taught me just about every maneuver. Maddox lifts his knee, but I lift mine first. He tries to wrench my wrist back, but even though he’s not soft like the other Kings–there’s definitely a lot of muscle and strength hiding under all that darkness–I’m younger, hungrier, and definitely stronger.

When he finally huffs, furious eyes glaring into mine, I give the signal, a quick sharp whistle.

The footsteps ascending to us are quick and loud, just like Baroness’ panicked breaths. “Daddy,” she says, voice frantic and gasping. “Help!”

Maddox’s gaze flicks over my shoulder, but I don’t need to look behind me to know what he’s seeing. Regina Thorne, the Baroness, with her wrists bound and the barrel of a pistol to her head.

Behind me, Ballsack cocks the hammer. “Ready for your signal, boss.”

Maddox’s eyes move back to mine, nostrils flaring wide. “You said you’d come alone!”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “But I lied.”

.

“No true Baroness fears her death,” he barks, speaking just as much to Regina as he is to me. His eyes flick back and forth between us, and it’s clear as day, really. He’d let this woman die.

“I bet her Barons do.” I lean in close, trying hard not to see the similarities between him and his son. I bet Maddox ran wild back in his day. I bet he could do it now, just like Remy, catching the eye of women half his age. “Imagine the ways you might lose the loyalty of territory. For instance, killing their woman over some bullshit contract that you only took because you value your heir more than them.”

.

He presses against the blade, slowly, deliberately, smiling as blood trickles down. “They worship me. She’s just a warm hole.”

“You really don’t know the new guard, do you?” I wave the knife between us. “We all get a little psycho over our girls. Probably something to do with how we were raised by people like you.”

He looks at Regina again, jaw tight, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. He’s as good as lost Remy–his one true son. Does he risk losing the three stand-ins? “Make your fucking terms.”

I back off, glowering down at the knife. “You get Lionel to call off the hit. We’ll keep your secret, and I’ll even offer something you want more than that.”

Maddox straightens his shirt aggressively, not even bothering with the cut on his throat. “And what do you think you have that I want?” he asks, sneering.

Spinning the knife, I offer the hilt to him. “I’ll keep your son safe.”

He doesn’t take it. He , the sound jagged and grating. “Oh, you’ve done a real bang-up job of that so far, haven’t you?”

Sighing, I make a gesture to Ballsack, watching him pocket the gun. “No, I haven’t. But now I understand where I went wrong.” To Maddox, I cock my head. “Have you?”

Maddox twists the ring on his finger, the lines of the pentagram catching the light. My heart hammers in my chest. What I’m doing, it’s unheard of. A no-name Royal making a deal with a King. I should’ve gone through Saul, but I don’t know who I can trust right now, only who I .

“Fine,” he says, finally swiping out to snatch the knife from my hand. He bares his teeth in a sadistic grin, reaching up to smear the blood on his neck. “But I only make deals in blood, Perilini.”

I stare at his out-stretched, blood-stained hand. “Fucking gross.” Nevertheless, I play his stupid, unhygenic game, flicking at the blood on my own throat before taking his hand, matching his strong grip with my own.

He leans in and says in my ear, “If any harm befalls my son–if my secret gets out to anyone–it won’t be like it was tonight, boy. You won’t see me coming for you.”

He steps back and gestures over my shoulder, Regina rigidly sprinting the distance to him.

Maddox may not be the devil, but I still have the feeling I made a deal I may regret.

I drop Ballsack and the other guys back at the gym, then take a long, convoluted way back to the house on the river. All the while, I keep vigilant, making sure I’m not being followed. I still feel grimy from the meeting at Underworld, and I’m glad that this isn’t my destiny; making deals in shitty bars, with narcissistic assholes fighting a decades-old turf war. Nick gets the pleasure of dealing with Kings in the future, not me. My dreams are bigger than being a Duke. I’ll get my degree, go to med school, become a psychiatrist and rise above it all.

I pull up to the house, parking next to the garage. Slumping back, I scrub a palm over my face and get a look at myself in the rearview mirror.

, I look like shit. I’ve barely slept since I left my parents’ house. I’m lucky it didn’t give Maddox the upper hand.

Or maybe he just let me win out of pity. The Dukes, in the current form, are a fucking shit show.

I get out of the car and walk to the house, the crunch of gravel under my feet. I need a shower and about sixteen hours of sleep—preferably in my own bed.

No. Preferably in my own bed with Lavinia curled up next to me.

But no, I fucked that up, too.

I punch in the code for the security system and walk in the foyer. The house is quiet. Remy is hopefully still asleep. I feel like we’ll have a few hours before we get the signal from Maddox.

we get it. Fuck knows what we do if he can’t get Lionel to cooperate. There’s no way he’d negotiate with one of us.

I slide the keys into my pocket and walk into the kitchen, heading to the cabinet for a glass. A rustle across the room draws my attention. I peer around the corner and catch a covert peek at Lavinia and my brother on the couch. She has her elbow propped on the arm, eyes fixed on an open book, while he lounges beside her, shirtless and in his boxers, scrolling on his phone.

I can’t help but notice his hand on her thigh.

The hem of Nick’s oversized T-shirt is stretched out over her knee. From where I stand, I can see the white of her panties underneath. Seeing them like this, calm and casual with one another, is a shock to the system. Lavinia and Nick, who just weeks ago couldn’t even be in the same room.

Nick’s hand glides up and down her leg, pushing at the hem with every pass. Lavinia ignores him, focused on her book. I’m frozen, watching the two of them, trying to figure out how they went from wanting to murder one another to this? How do you get to this?

Do I need to decapitate someone? Hound her relentlessly?

Fuck, maybe Remy was right.

Maybe Nick has the answers.

Nick’s hand vanishes under her shirt, and she shifts, thigh dropping. My instinct is to leave, put myself out of my misery, but I stay, watching the two of them, trying to untangle this mystery.

She didn’t say no, back when I asked if she was still my girl, but she also didn’t say yes.

Nick leans in, kissing her neck, fingers vanishing between her legs. Lavinia continues to ignore him, but I see the flush on her cheeks, the way she doesn’t fight back, the subtle rise and fall of her chest. I know her well enough now to understand that reading is an escape for her, something she uses to fade away into another world, life, thought. But right now, it’s not working.

Her eyes aren’t even tracking across the page.

She’s not even trying.

And Nick is in full pursuit, sucking the lobe of her ear, dragging his teeth down her jaw. He pulls his hand out from beneath her shirt, fingers slick, and slowly slides them between his lips, sucking the taste of her off. The action works, and she looks up for the first time. I wait for her to recoil, to be grossed out, but she tilts her head to the side, hair falling over her shoulder, and kisses him.

My cock, already pressing at the seam of my jeans, threatens to rip through.

This… this is what I don’t understand. What women want, what turns them on? Why didn’t that piss her off? Why does it work for him now, but not before? I’ve watched Remy eat her out. Hell, eaten her out. I’ve watched this woman manipulate the three of us into a hand job competition. And I’ve taken it too far, used her trust and broken it.

But I just don’t get her.

With her tongue in his mouth, Nick reaches out and deftly closes the book. He tosses it aside with one hand while dragging her into his lap with the other. He looks up at her, eyes clear, mouth red, and he’s excited in every sense of the word, tongue poking into the corner of his self-satisfied smirk. She lifts her shirt over her head, giving me a full view of her slim back, the skin pale from so many years in captivity, but she’s more sturdy now from our weeks of training.

His hands cup her tits, kneading them together. The arch of her back gives my brother all the access he needs to drop his face between her tits. He mouths them like a man deprived, hungry and desperate.

I wince, the pain in my pants is so intense that I know I need to be careful. I’m better at controlling myself now—she helped me with that—but I’ve still got a hair-trigger, and apparently watching my brother fuck my girl–

–is what will set it off.

Nick’s hands splay across her back, and she lifts up on her knees, bracing herself with a hand on his shoulder. The two of them fumble with their clothes, panting loud enough that even across the expanse of the room, I can hear the little hitches of her inhales, the gruffness of his exhales. But even as he pulls out his cock, my brother’s movements are sure, confident. I mean, I see the urgency in his eyes, the tension in his neck. He’s holding back, letting her set the pace. I guess he knows his Little Bird and how fucking easy it’ll be to scare her off.

But she’s not scared. Not when he yanks the crotch of her panties aside, or when he threads his fingers in her hair, dragging her mouth to his so that he’s kissing her right when she takes him in. There’s not a trace of visible worry or tension while she rides him. Nick is domineering, he always is, but this is different.

Why is it so different?

There’s the size obviously. But there’s other stuff. Patience. Communication. She falls open for him like a flower, not wound up so tightly that she could shatter.

And he talks to her.

I can’t hear all the words. Most are mumbled right into her mouth or muffled against her skin. But I do catch some. The low inflection of a drawn out, “Fuck,” the hissed rise of, “… tight,” the rumbled, “Ride me so good,” and eventually a string of expletives that indicate he’s about to come.

I look away before that happens, a crushing wave of jealousy rolling over me, and if it was just that one emotion, I could handle it. But add it to the ache in my balls and the guilt I have for hurting her, and it’s just…

It’s too goddamn much.

I don’t see them, but I hear it when they come, her first, my brother second, the room filled with nothing but their strained fricatives and panting breaths. I stand there for too long, hands clenched into fists, emotion welling in my chest. I hear them clean up, speaking softly, and a few minutes later my brother leaves the room.

I muster up every ounce of courage I have left, more than it took to walk into that club tonight and face Maddox, to stride into the room.

Lavinia is only just pulling the shirt over her head.

“Oh,” she says, stretching it over her thighs. Her cheeks are a bright, vivid pink. “I didn’t know you were back. H-how did it go?”

I’d called as I was leaving Underworld to give them an update–let them know I was alive and unmangled-so she already knows the gist. Still, I say, “Just waiting on the signal.”

“Oh, good,” she rushes out, looking painfully uncomfortable. “I worried maybe–oh, god!” In a flash, she’s against me, fingers pushing up my chin. “Sy, you’re bleeding!”

I shudder at the feel of her fingers on my skin, reaching up to gently pry her wrist away. “It’s fine, it’s just–”

“Your throat is cut,” she gasps, wide-eyed and… yeah. Definitely pissed off. “That son of a bitch! He said no violence, and–he totally lied!”

Snorting, I remind her, “So did I.” Before that flame in her eyes can evolve to something impulsive and destructive, I explain, “It’s just a scratch. In no universe is Maddox single-handedly overpowering me.”

Huffing, she grabs a handful of my shirt and orders, “Come on.” I let her drag me toward the bathroom. I’d let her drag me anywhere when she’s like this, all rumpled and sex-sated, irritated and bossy. She swipes a washcloth from a bundle above the sink and goes about wetting it. “Did you at least hit him a little?” she mutters.

“No.” My eyes dip to the backs of her thighs. Briefly, I wonder if my brother’s cum is trickling downward. “I cut him back, though.”

In the reflection of the mirror, she flashes me an impish smirk. “Good.” When she turns to me, I stand still, eyelids slouching lower as she blots gingerly at the cut. “I don’t think it’ll need stitches,” she sighs, her fingers soft on my skin. “Maybe there’s some bandaids in–”

“Can I ask you something?”

Her expression turns wary, but she nods. “Sure.”

The words tumble around my brain, so easy but so hard. Nick or Remy wouldn’t even have to ask, they’d just assume. “Fuck,” I mutter, running my hand through my hair, feeling like an idiot.

“Sy?”

My eyes snap to hers. “Shit. Right.” I swallow, my skin bursting into flames. “Dinner. Tomorrow night.”

Her head tilts. “Dinner?”

“I mean, we should go, right?”

She nods. “Yeah, I definitely need some real food.”

“Good,” I say, taking a step back. “Good.”

I leave before I can ruin it. Say something–do something–to make her change her mind. Before I fuck it up.