Dukes of Ruin: Chapter 9

Thirteen days.

It’s almost midnight, and the clock above me is still as a stone. I spend a long time staring at it from my makeshift nest on the floor. The pile of blankets smells awful, like a dog rolled around on it, but I’m too stubborn to go to the couch downstairs. Instead, I pull my shirt to my nose, block out the smell, and track the slow creep of the moon through the cloudy glass. Strange to think those heavy iron hands used to move, ticking away above the streets, and now they’re just another part of this gigantic, looming, decrepit statue. But that’s Forsyth for you. Every bright thing gets snuffed out here. It’s Forsyth’s blessing and its curse.

Everything here goes still eventually.

I turn my back to it, shifting my gaze to the main room. It’s as dead as that clock, but I can still hear sounds from Remy’s room. An hour ago, they were startling, putting me on edge, dreading the thought of that door opening. Somehow, tucked up into my nest, I’ve lost my nervousness. It’s easier up here.

Easier than the elevator, certainly. I keep finding my eyes wandering to the shape of its door, as if the mere thought of it existing has carved an ominous hole in the world. My bones are tired from its walls. My muscles are sore from each surge against them. My lungs ache with the memory of being inside, desperate for a breath that wasn’t saturated with my own exhale.

Right now, I could run. Sure, Nick took all the keys and weapons away before herding me up into the dark loft, but I could still escape. Having nowhere else to go is better than the dark holes they keep putting me in. But then there’s potentially nine months of that elevator if I get caught, and the throb of my bruises makes me consider that perhaps Nick had a point. I’m not very good at escaping. I’m good at enduring. The question is, how far will that endurance get me?

I remember Nick in the ring on Friday night, taking Perez down so smoothly. All that raw strength and understated power. Deadly. That’s what he is. It’s not the polished, clean sort of violence the Counts favor, either. Nick’s not afraid to get dirty, to cut through flesh with a dull knife, to saw through bone. He’s more than just a murderer. He’s a murderer who understands the game.

And he thinks he loves me.

It’d be stupid to think I can harness it by taking him up on his offer, but I find myself wondering. What would it be like to have a soldier of my own? Someone to stand between me and the world. Someone who fights dirty. Someone who wants things I can never give him, because he’s also someone who’d put me in a box when he realizes it.

I should absolutely run.

I fall asleep, imagining the hands reaching toward the top of the clock, as if it were taking a long overdue stretch. A bear coming out of hibernation. A bird raising its wings.

Twelve days.

It’s the first thought that fills my head when I wake up. Twelve.

The second is that Nick is an annoyingly early riser.

I blink open my eyes to watch him puttering around the main room, pulling on his shoes, scrolling on his phone, lazily combing his fingers through his hair. Unlike yesterday, when he was shirtless and unoccupied enough to stare unabashedly at me from dusk until dawn, today he moves with an economical purpose.

“Are you going to my father’s house now?” I ask, blearily watching him shrug on his leather jacket. There’s a blanket tangled around my ankle when I go to stand and I shake it off. It’s a little chilly up here, but in truth, it’s not so shabby. Wide open spaces, no door to lock me inside, this big clock face standing between me and the world. Somehow, I managed to catch entire hours of sleep last night. “I want to come,” I rush out, trying to get down the spiral staircase without breaking my neck.

But Nick distractedly answers, “No.” I hate how he has this way of saying things, firm enough that it’s clear he’s made up his mind, but also indifferent, like he can’t be bothered to revisit it.

Stumbling to the bottom of the staircase, I insist, “I can help. I know the way in and out. It’ll be faster if you take me.” I spent yesterday going over all the particulars, even going so far as to sit at the table with him and draw him a map. But there’s no possible way the idiot heard me. He kept staring at my mouth and reaching over to toy with strands of my hair, smirking every time I jerked away.

He’s not taking this seriously.

“It’ll be a liability if I take you.” He checks his pocket for his wallet and car keys. “And that’s not where I’m going, anyway.”

“It’s not?” I try to keep the urgency out of my voice. It’s obvious they don’t know shit about the arrangement my father made with Daniel. I need to keep it that way, but I also need that box. Immediately.

Twelve days.

He hoists a black leather backpack over his shoulder, finally turning to me. “Don’t be surprised or anything, but it turns out the first requirement of being a Duke is a willing subjugation to academic excellence.” When I do nothing but stare blankly at him, he dryly explains, “I’ve got class.”

My eyes flick to the tattoo beside his eye. “They don’t have an issue with the fact you look more like a felon than a frat boy?”

He shrugs, throwing his arms out wide. “Whatever it takes to get another Bruin in the belfry, this fine establishment is ready to entertain just about anything.” On someone else, that might sound pompous and entitled, but Nick says it with this wry, bitter twist of his mouth.

Maybe I’m not the only one making compromises.

“So I just stay here all day?” I ask, tugging at the hem of Nick’s hoodie. He’d taken Remy’s from me last night and all but demanded I wear his instead. It doesn’t matter whose hoodie I wear, though. My bare legs are cold in this drafty place. “And what am I supposed to do while you’re off playing Dutiful Duke? Clean? Cook you dinner?” I hope the sarcasm in my voice is more audible than the worry, but my eyes flick nervously toward the elevator anyway.

I can’t spend a day in there.

I’ll die.

“You can hold off on the rat poison for another day, Little Bird.” He jerks his chin over my shoulder. “You’re spending the day with him.”

In a moment of utterly perfect timing, a door opens behind us.

Heat and apprehension swirl in my stomach. I’m not ready to spend any more time with Remy alone, not after what happened Saturday night. But, to my absolute non-relief, Remy isn’t standing behind me.

It’s Simon. Lurker.

Fuck.

Stone-faced, hateful, huge-dicked Sy.

Fucking fuck.

Having sex with these guys is something I know for a fact will happen. I didn’t need Nick’s lecture over breakfast yesterday to make that known. Being prissy little fuck-puppets is what Royal women do, and I’m a Duchess.

But having that thing inside of me wouldn’t just be sex. It’d be literal torture.

I turn to Nick, mouthing a panicked, “No way.”

Nick just steps forward, his solid wall of body dwarfing my own. “I can’t stay with you all the time, and you can’t be trusted on your own. This is how its gotta be. Unless…?” He follows my gaze to the elevator, eyebrow rising.

Fuck.

“No.” I try to make my voice firm and decisive, but the thread of fear still comes out, drawing his eyes to mine.

He reaches up to touch my chin. It’s gentle in a way I’m not expecting, because that’s how he is—a mystery grab-bag of hurt and tenderness that I’m never adequately prepared for. When he leans down to clear the distance between our mouths, I lean back. Way back. I lean back so far that Nick strains to catch me, eventually snapping upright to glare down his strong nose at me. “One day,” he says, tucking his thumb under the strap of his bag and crushing it in his fist, “you’re going to regret being such a bitch to me.”

In a mere moment, he’s already gone down the stairs, feet echoing off the steps.

I curl my hands nervously, turning to Simon. “Look—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“Put some fucking pants on and get ready. I have somewhere to be.” He must be an early riser like Nick, because he’s impeccably dressed, a large gym bag already clutched in one of his large hands.

I wrap my arms around my middle. “I don’t have any normal pants. Just the shit those cutsluts gave me.”

He shrugs. “You know what they say. If the slutty shoe fits.”

The comment grates, but fuck this guy. I’ve done enough compromising these last few days. I stride across the living space to the small corner where my loaned clothes are stacked on a chair, and get to shuffling through them.

“Seriously?” I mutter when I can’t find a single pair of normal jeans. The closest I can find is a pair of faux-leather, skintight leggings. I bend to slide my foot into the leg, and since I’ve got nothing but this hoodie and those ridiculous lace panties, I instantly feel the cool air against my exposed ass.

Behind me, Sy grows suddenly silent.

There isn’t a single shift of fabric, a whisper of a breath, or disturbance to the air. Tensely, I chance a glance behind me and find him standing there. Staring.

Not just staring. Sy is basically sodomizing me with his eerie blue eyes. The muscle in the back of his jaw ticks and he shifts his weight to one foot, gaze plastered to my ass. Fist clenching and unclenching. I think of making a comment, but instead, I yank the leggings up my calves, as if ignoring it will make it go away.

Until he mutters out a low, “Goddamn it,” and the next time I glance back, it’s to the sight of the bathroom door slamming shut.

I spend a moment blinking at it, slack-faced in confusion. But these walls, I’ve come to realize, are glorified cardboard. I’d be surprised to find an inch of insulation between the sheetrock. This is why, when I hear the muffled rhythm of grunts mingling with subtle fleshy sounds, it hits me.

My jaw drops in outrage.

I didn’t have brothers growing up, just my sister, but we were surrounded by my father’s foot soldiers. I’m never surprised when a guy is disgusting; they’re pigs. At the same time, hearing one jerk off in the other room, a guy who has made it clear he thinks I’m trash? I do the only thing I can: be happy he’s using his hand and not shoving that baton up my twat.

I finish pulling on the leggings, shimmying them onto my hips. I sniff my hair. Does it smell like a dog? There’s no way I’m going into the bathroom to check it out, so I wrangle it into something presentable. When Sy emerges from the bathroom, red-faced and drying his most likely cum-stained hands, I’m ready.

“You done?”

His eyebrows drop to a dark glower and he tosses the hand towel aside, snatching up his gym bag. “Well?” He gestures belligerently toward the door. “I don’t have all day.”

More of that outrage bubbles to the surface—he was the one jerking off like an animal—but I keep it to myself, pulling on the uncomfortable strappy shoes that were donated to me. “Let’s go then.”

His broad shoulders are all I see as we take the long trek down the stairs of the tower. Sy doesn’t talk. He doesn’t even glance back at me when I audibly struggle to keep up, palm pressed to the stone wall for support. He’s too fucking fast for a guy his size, but maybe that’s just a result of the hot, furious energy radiating off him. It’s a relief for more than one reason when we finally reach the bottom, my feet aching.

He pauses at the door leading outside, hand on the big brass knob. “Nick says you won’t run.”

“I won’t.” It hurts to say it, but it’s true. Before I can do anything, I need that box, and as much as I loathe Nick, he’s more likely to get it than I would be. If he fails, he fails. My father might even kill him. Too bad, so sad. Either way, I have to at least let it play out.

Sy gives me a long, dark look. “If you try, I won’t play nice like him when I catch you.”

I stare at him. He thinks the way Nick treats me is ‘nice’?

“We made an agreement. I won’t run.” I draw a dramatic X over my heart with my finger. “Cross my heart.”

His eyes narrow and it’s enough to let me know he’s not privy to the full negotiations Nick and I made. These are the little details I keep and file away. The Dukes are just like Remy’s unfinished gallery of star paintings. Parts of a whole that don’t quite fit.

Outside, he unlocks the SUV and I get in the passenger seat, dourly remembering being behind the wheel a couple of nights ago. Inside, I instinctively lean to the side, pressing against the door. Sy locks the doors, starts the engine, and exhales an irritated sigh. “Oh, knock it the fuck off. I’m not going to fuck you.”

“What?” I blurt. Then, before I can stop myself, “Why?

He answers nonchalantly, “I don’t fuck whores.”

“I’m not a who—’

“Do you have a pussy between your legs?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. Good thing. It’s lodged in my throat. “Then you’re a whore. All of you are.”

All of who? The girls from the Velvet Hideaway? Royal offspring? Counts? Or is he talking in the most basic sense? Girls. All women are whores.

Jesus Christ.

I know very little about the Bruin family dynamics other than how they all started. Simon and Nick share the same mom, and once upon a time, she was a Duchess. They have different dads, but both men were her Dukes. Nick’s father should have been King, but before they started popping out their little Duke freak-spawns, they exited the Royalty stage left and let Saul take the kingdom for himself. I know the story well enough. My father used to love to laugh about it over inter-kingdom meetings.

It does make me wonder exactly what Daddy Bruin thinks of Nick claiming his legacy.

The car jerks to a stop and we’re back in front of the gym. It looks different in the daylight. More gray. Less festive. Kind of sad and tired, like it’s still recovering from the weekend. That makes two of us.

Sy doesn’t speak to me on the way in, just grunts for me to follow. Inside, the gym is bustling with men working out. I glance over at him. “For the record, I’m not into exercise. Or dressed for it.”

His eyes rake over me. “I’m shocked.” He lifts his chin toward an office in the back. It has a wide window that overlooks the gym. “I’m here to train. You’re going to wait in there until I finish.”

“I’m just going to wait? By myself?”

“No, not by yourself.” He looks at me like I’m stupid. “You may have promised Nick not to run, but I don’t buy it. Lucky for me, the gym comes with a built-in babysitter.”

Before we get to the office, the door swings open and a woman steps out. Long dark tresses teased with enough hairspray to probably choke someone frame a heavy-looking set of cleavage. She’s in a black leather jacket and skin-tight pants, not that different from my own. High-heeled boots that could double for shit-kickers come up above her ankles and there’s a heavy flash of gold on both her fingers and earlobes. A pair of winged reading glasses hangs around her neck from a chain. She’s dressed like a cutslut who aged out of the institution and couldn’t accept it, and the crow’s feet around her eyes make her look older than the rest of her skin suggests.

She crosses her arms as we walk toward her, propping her side up against the doorjamb. “Ten minutes late,” she notes, jaw working a piece of gum between her molars.

Sy gestures limply to me. “We’re still adjusting.”

It’s truly hard not to mention that his jerk-off sesh in the bathroom is what held us up.

“I guess this is my babysitter?” I ask, eyeing the woman.

“This,” Sy says, with the only measure of respect I’ve heard come out of his voice so far, “is Mama B. I’d tell you to watch yourself, but to be honest, I’d love to see you try.”

I look her up and down, understanding. Mama B is more than a garden variety cutslut. The shrewd arch of her eyebrow at my scrutiny is a sort of warning, but she pushes her chest out, straightening her shoulders.

She doesn’t mind being measured up. “You done eyefucking me?” she asks, raising a hand to the open door. “Then come on in.”

Mama B is leader of the cutsluts.

I know not only because she’s been notorious in this capacity since as far back as Leticia or I could remember, but also because I’d heard the girls talking about her during the party on Saturday. It’s well known that she keeps the rowdy DKS fangirls in line, but I’m surprised by what I see when I follow her inside.

If her having the only actual office in the building is any indication, she must actually run this joint. From the neatly labeled folders, baskets, and bins, I assume she governs the matches, maybe even pays the bills and coaches. Mama B is more than a glorified cutslut. She’s management.

She’s also, I gather from the state of her office, incredibly organized. Everything is perfectly in place. Her desk is spotless, other than tidy paperwork and a flat calendar jotted with neat handwriting. File cabinets with little labels line the back wall. Framed photographs of different girls all huddled around Mama with bright smiles and scant clothing. One girl shows up more than once, and the resemblance is striking. A daughter? I also spot a few guys, sometimes mid-fight, sweat glistening off their bodies. It’s another piece of the Duke’s puzzle, one I wasn’t aware of. Counts would never put a woman in a position of power. Leticia was as close as it gets. The only thing that doesn’t fit—or maybe disturbingly does—are the obnoxious inspirational quotes dotting the walls in loopy, glittery script.

You can’t climb the ladder of success with your hands in your pocket!

Believe you can, and you’re halfway there!

Victory is always possible for the person who refuses to stop fighting!

“You want something to drink?” she asks, slipping on her glasses.

“No, thank you,” I say, not prepared to ingest anything these people give me.

Her lips form a thin line, giving me the impression I’ve caused offense. She shrugs and sits behind the desk, picking up a pen. She clicks the end with her thumb and starts sorting through an organized stack of papers.

I spy a magazine on the end table. Muscle Monthly. A hulking, tanned, veiny couple clings to one another on the front, overly white teeth bared like fangs. I creep my fingers over and snag it. I’ve settled on an article about the benefits of protein shakes when she says, “You look a lot like her.”

I look up warily, searching her worn face, and try to remember if I’ve heard anything about beef. I learned long ago that Forsyth is a field of landmines, but keeping all the rivalries and hostilities tabulated in my mind is enough to give me a migraine.

Clearing my throat, I reply, “People say that. That I favor my mom over my dad.” I guess it’s not a surprise she knew my mother. She was the Countess, of course, and this woman, Mama B, probably attended Forsyth at around the same time.

My mom died when she was thirty. Leticia and I were still toddlers, so we never really knew her. All anyone ever talks about is her death. A handful of pain pills and a bottle of gin, and that’s all she wrote. I think there must have been a time when I resented her for leaving me alone with my father and all his cruelty. But that’s long gone. I don’t even know what kind of person my mother was. Maybe she was a Leticia, cold and ruthless, and would have made my life even worse. Maybe she was a good person who found herself trapped in a shitty situation, in which case, I can’t say I blame her for taking the express route out. Either way, there are too many terrible people currently living to waste my resentment on the dead.

I pretend I’m not unnerved by this woman knowing more about me than I do about her. “Guess I’ve got that going for me.”

“I don’t mean your mother.” Her head tilts, jaw working that piece of gum. “Although I see that, too. I’m talking about your sister.”

My blood freezes. “My sister?”

“Yeah.” She narrows her eyes. “Same nose. Shape of the mouth. Chin, hair, complexion. Not your eyes, though. Those are like your father’s.”

No shit. I hastily redirect the conversation. “When did you see my sister? I didn’t know she ever came down to the West End.”

Twelve days, my mind echoes.

“Oh, it was a while ago.” She scribbles something on the paper. “Two years, maybe more. I don’t know if she was even at Forsyth yet. It was only once. She came in looking for someone and then left.”

“Looking for who? One of these guys? Simon? Remy?” I don’t even dare say Nick.

Humming, she spins the chair around and pulls out a drawer from the file cabinet, long, pointed nails flipping through the tabs. “Can’t remember.”

Mama B doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who’d forget a pretty girl intruding on cutslut turf, but I’ve gone this far without letting on my interest in Tisha’s whereabouts to these people. I’m not letting it slip now. That doesn’t stop my mind from spinning and a thousand other questions forming. Why was she down here? Was she alone? Who the fuck was she looking for that would send her to Duke’s territory?

Just another missing piece in the Leticia Lucia puzzle.

“I admit, it was surprising to see the Count’s daughter waltzing through our doors.” She lowers her chin, looking over her winged glasses at me. “But not as unexpected as Killian Payne trotting you out the other night.” Looking back to the ancient computer monitor, she adds. “I definitely didn’t see the Duchess thing coming.”

There’s judgment in her tone that sets me on edge. The lie comes easily. “That makes two of us.”

“Just doesn’t seem like you’ve got that certain Duke-branded flair.” Her narrow shoulders lift. “No offense.”

I give her a tight grin. “Yeah, because being a cum dumpster takes a lot of raw talent.” Her eyes flash at me, and I coolly add, “No offense.”

She clearly has something cutting to respond with, but a quiet tap on the door interrupts us. A doe-eyed redhead sweeps in, looking like something out of a skincare commercial. The strappy top she’s wearing screams ‘cutslut’, but the jeans, sensible shoes, and overall soft demeanor makes me think otherwise. I recognize her as the girl from the photos around the office.

Mama’s face lights up. “Hey, baby, you headed to class?”

“Yeah, organic chem starts in an hour. Trying to get a jumpstart on a lab assignment.” She hands her a slip of paper. “Just wanted to drop off this receipt before I left.”

“Thank you.” Mama’s eyes flick to me, the brightness in them dimming. “Verity, this is the new Duchess. Lavinia, my daughter, Verity.”

Verity turns to look at me, but the spark of shock in her expression is short-lived. She quickly drops her gaze, shoulders curling inward. “Uh—hello.” She reaches up to tuck her red hair behind an ear, looking awkward. “I, um, sent you some shoes and lotion, actually.”

“Oh, thanks,” I reply, voice caustically sunny. “It’s been a lot of fun climbing sixteen flights of stairs in these bad boys.” My heels make an energetic tap against the floor. “A lot of people want to kill me, but you…” I bring my hands together in a slow clap. “You’re inspirational. Seriously, mad respect.”

Mama B’s face contorts with her scowl, but Verity visibly cringes. “Yeah, sorry about that. I just had them lying around, so I thought—”

I cut in, “You thought the bitch who stole Duchess right out from under you would be miserable in them.” Nodding, I concede, “Well-played.”

She cringes even harder at the realization I know. I perfectly remember the discussion between the Dukes the night they won me.

What happened to Verity? She was the obvious pick.

I can see what Remy meant before, about her being too breakable. She obviously hadn’t put much thought about coming face-to-face with me. Her face blooms a bright scarlet and her hands start wringing. Single child, I’m guessing, and I bet she hasn’t gotten away with a lie a day in her life. This is like punching a hamster. Not even enjoyable. Rolling my eyes, I put her out of her misery. “Look, don’t sweat it. I would have done worse.”

She exhales tightly. “I might have some old flip-flops in my trunk?”

I wave this away, fanning the magazine open once again. “Oh, Verity, don’t give up now. Don’t you want to see how long I last?”

She answers with a grimaced smile, giving her mom a little finger wave before leaving the office, a dejected curve to her shoulders.

Mama B isn’t amused. “My Verity is a good girl.”

“I know.” The grunting sounds of intense working-out float in through the door she’d left open. “Too good for them, probably. I did her a favor.” I stand and look out the window that overlooks the ring. Sy is in the middle of it, shirtless and in a pair of shorts. He’s not boxing—not in the traditional sense. His style is more MMA, but less dirty than Nick’s. Arcing kicks and violent knee jabs with perfect posture. His back is rippled with hard muscle, skin coated in a thin layer of sweat. His opponent seems more of a partner than a foe, giving him pointers along the way. Something about him is familiar, but I can’t quite place it. In any case, it becomes obvious very quickly that Sy is a powerful fighter.

“He’s good,” I say as much to myself as anyone.

“Nick might have the Bruin blood, but Sy is the real fighter in the family.” The perfume and the clink of jewelry signals Mama’s no longer in her seat but standing next to me, also watching. “It’s not a game to him. It’s a mission. The boy fights like the axis of the earth hinges on him winning.”

“You’d think with all that exercise, he’d be a little less of a…” She raises her eyebrow and I finish, “…asshole.”

She lets out a puff of laughter. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told my daughter when she was being groomed for those shoes you’re wearing.” She looks at me, gum smacking. “Every powerful man has demons. The things they do to gain it leave a mark on their soul.”

“They leave marks in other places, too.” I touch the tattoo on my shoulder, face darkening. “Some visible. Some not.”

Mama whips around, grabbing the hand on my shoulder blade. Her sharp nails dig into the soft skin on my wrist. “That mark may have been painful, Duchess, but it’s also a gift. You’re protected. Coveted. Claimed.” She says it like it’s a good thing, and when I look in her eye, I see that she means it. It’s like what Nick keeps saying; I should be grateful. She lets me go, nodding. “Around here, girls your and Verity’s age are one of two things: Spoken for, or spoken of. You didn’t do my little girl any favors.”

The truth is that until Leticia went missing, no one cared about what I was doing, who I belonged to, or what I wanted.

Now, I’m just like she said. Spoken of. Vulnerable. Suddenly, monsters are coming at me left and right, chomping for their pound of flesh.

A grunt from out on the floor draws my attention. Chest heaving, Sy wipes his brow with the back of his hand and spits blood on the floor. But he goes back in for another round, exactly how Mama B had described it. Like a man on a mission.

But that’s the thing about powerful men and their demons.

They can be slayed.

I have twelve days to figure out how.