Dukes of Ruin: Chapter 11

The drive back to the tower is spent in a tense, bleak silence. Sweat beads up on my forehead. I can feel it settling into my lower back. Sy never so much as glanced at me, sitting stiffly behind the wheel. He drives like a robot, barely moving, eerily efficient. For no tangible reason, I get the sense he’s avoiding the urge to look over at me. Maybe it’s the subtle twitch below his eye or the way his fingers keep tightening around the steering wheel, knuckles going white.

The small, desperate sound he made when he came is still thumping around in my head.

“Roll down the window.” It’s a desperate demand that shatters the silence like a grenade. I frantically flip the up-down button, but nothing happens—locked. I force myself to face him. “Roll down the goddamn window before I puke your cum all over the dash.”

Whirrrrr

The blast of air is humid but still welcome. I breathe in and out, trying to keep the nausea at bay. As much as I’d like to hurl spunk all over Sy’s spotless SUV, I don’t really want to taste it all over again.

It’s not like I’ve never sucked a cock before. It’s not even like I’ve never been forced to taste another guy’s jizz, because before that night at the Hideaway, Nick had cornered me. Once—last Christmas. Daniel had given me to him as a ‘bonus’. No touching—those were the rules—but Nick didn’t have to touch me to leave his mark. He made me watch as he jacked off over my face, covering my mouth in his cum. It was the only time, but it was enough that Daniel made a new rule; Nick could never be alone with me again. Nick just enjoyed it too much, I guess. He took it and turned it into something that didn’t exist by deciding I was his.

Must run in the family.

I can still sense Sy in the hinge of my jaw, the strained invasion of a too-big, uninvited obtrusion. At least Nick hadn’t forced his cock inside. At least he hadn’t made me feel the shape of him on my tongue, swollen and perverse. Nick might be hung, but Sy’s is grotesque.

“Oh god.” Another wave of nausea rolls over me, and I stick my head out the window like a dog.

“Give me a break,” he mutters. “You sucked dick for three whole seconds and you barely swallowed anything. Fucking drama queen. I should’ve just let Bruce have you.”

“Yeah, maybe you should have,” I bite back. “At least he’s not a mutant.”

The car screeches to a stop, flinging my head into the window’s gutter. Before I can recover, a hand grips around my throat and drags me back in.

“One day, bitches like you are going to realize that a dick like mine is too good for your rancid, used-up cunts.” Lip curling, he adds, “Not the other way around.” He gives me a shove, face set into a tight scowl. “And here I thought living at a whorehouse for a year would teach you a thing or two about handling a real man. Guess I’m wrong.”

“A real man?!” I bark out a wheeze of a laugh. “You’re a freak and a goddamn rapist.”

His fingers tighten around my throat, nostrils flaring. “I gave you a choice. Don’t whine to me because you can’t handle the consequences of your own decisions.”

I swear to god, these men have been living in their own alternate universe. I knew the Royals were bad. I knew their ideas were antiquated and fucked up, but the bitter rage rolling off this one is more than I can handle.

We stare at one another for a beat, his fingers squeezing against my throat, and I get the distinct impression that he’d love nothing better than to crush my windpipe and be done with me for good. I fight to swallow, to breathe, and I think he may just kill me here and now. If I was a suicidal bitch, I would spit in his face.

But the time for that is done.

I grab his hand, wedging my fingers between our skin, and grind out, “You’ll have to answer to your brother if you kill me.”

His jaw clenches, and then he abruptly releases me. Again, I grapple for air, slowly taking it in as he shifts the car into gear. “You have no idea,” his fingers constrict around the steering wheel, “no fucking idea how much of a rapist I’m not.” He flicks two belligerent, icy eyes at me. “Lords like to conquer their pussy. Barons like it all solemn and sacrificial, because it makes them feel like it’s worth something. Princes? To them, pussy is a tool that gives their sorry asses some purpose. And Counts… well, you know what Counts think of theirs.” He slides me a menacing look. “But Dukes are better. We don’t take our pussy, we win it. To the victor go the spoils.” There’s a tense beat of silence before he goes on, “I could have ripped my way into so much pussy these last three years. Pussy that’s attached to someone who wouldn’t sit in my passenger seat whining about it afterward. But I haven’t. Not once. And do you want to know why?”

Unthinkingly, I lob back, “You love yourself too much to cheat on your own right hand?”

Head shaking, he coldly answers, “Because none of you are worth fighting for. You’re all fake. Every piece of ass in this town is just looking for an angle to get something—you most of all.”

Bristling, I ask, “What the hell is that supposed to mean? I never asked to be—”

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing to my brother?” He glances at me, even though it’s clear he doesn’t want my answer. “This little agreement you have? Look at everything you are. Lucia’s daughter, the Kings’ asset, murder suspect, Countess in the making. Nick might be too busy chasing your skirt to see it, but I’m not.” His smile is bitter and grim. “You’re just a Daniel with tits.”

I blink, staring unseeingly through the windshield as we zip past a slow station wagon.

A Daniel with tits.

Doesn’t sound too bad, really. “You talk a lot of shit about being above the game for someone who just forced his donkey dick into my mouth.”

“That,” he bites out, “was a mistake.”

I give a disbelieving laugh. “A mistake? Did you trip and bust your nut down my throat? Because that’s not how I remember it.” Staring out my window, I watch the world whip by. “You’re just a Nick without any of the finesse.”

He doesn’t answer for a long time. We pass the turnoff for the Avenue and start heading toward campus, passing a fender bender, cutting through the warehouses of the West End. “It won’t happen again,” he eventually says, voice low and hard. The funny thing is, he actually sounds like he believes it.

I don’t have that luxury.

When we get back, loud bass thrums from behind Remy’s closed door. Sy goes straight to the kitchen and fills up a glass of water. Then he walks to Remy’s door and pounds on it. I watch from the kitchen archway, taking off my shoes as he waits, impatient, shifting from foot to foot until he beats his fist on the door again. A moment later, the music decreases slightly, and the door opens a small crack. The shock of platinum hair appears first, then Remy’s sharp cheekbones.

“I’m busy.”

“Not too busy for this.” Sy gives him the glass of water and then holds out a palm. I can’t see what he’s holding, but Remy frowns down at it. Firmly, Sy adds, “You promised.”

“Fine.” Remy takes whatever it is—something small—and pops it in his mouth. Oh. Medicine. Right. Remy takes the glass of water next, throwing it back. His throat bobs with three hard swallows before handing the glass back to Sy. “I need to get back to work.” He shuts the door, leaving Sy standing there with a hung expression.

Instantly, the music is back to the same thrum as before, reverberating obnoxiously through the thin walls. Continuing to ignore me completely, Sy drops the glass off at the kitchen before disappearing into his own bedroom.

I stand there, waiting to be told what to do, where to go, but Nick… isn’t here. He still hasn’t returned from class or whatever he’s up to, and for the first time in months, I’m semi-alone, unrestrained, in a room bigger than a shoebox. Naturally, my first instinct is to bolt. See how far I can get. There’s a reason Nick calls me his ‘Little Bird.’ That urge to fly away is imprinted in me, as imbued into my flesh as the unfinished serpent on my leg.

But Nick was right.

It may be time for me to adjust my plan. To use the Dukes. To be his new Daniel. To embrace what being a Lucia is. I’ve lived through my father’s wrath, Daniel’s imprisonment, that awful night at the brothel, and now Sy.

They won’t break me.

Twelve days.

The first thing I do is grab a handful of clean clothes from the cutslut pile and lock myself in the bathroom. I strip, catching a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. I’m too skinny and the bruises from those two nights in the elevator haven’t faded yet. I washed off Remy’s marker ink last night, but even though I barely had his design on me for more than fifteen hours, it somehow feels strange to look down and see the original, shitty art that had made him so outraged. I don’t… miss it, necessarily. His artwork is good, but Dahmer levels of disturbing. The dragon was detailed and elaborate—undeniably beautiful—but the pointed tail stabbing at my cunt?

It just makes me remember the orgasm he gave me in his room.

I’m starting to get it now.

To Royal men, sex is a weapon just as much as an indulgence, and these three are no different. Sy might think the Dukes are better or above it, but he’s kidding himself. In the end, it’s all about power and ownership. It’ll only feel good when they want it to. The problem is, they know how to wield it.

I mean, other than Sy, who probably couldn’t find a clit with a compass and a map.

Nick and Remy, though? I have to remember that they touch to hurt, even when it feels good.

I step under the sputtering spray of the shower and start scrubbing the afternoon from my flesh. The semen and sweat, the dirt and deceit. Facing the nozzle, I let the hot water blast on my face, burning away the strained sense memory of Sy forcing his way inside. I don’t move until it runs cold, then step out, freezing at the sight of the sink.

There are four toothbrushes.

I tilt my head, staring at the little cup holding them all. It’s an odd, jarring display of unification, as if someone has stripped the Dukes and me down to the bare essentials and shoved us together on the back of this sink.

If only Leticia could see me now. We fought over everything. From as early as I can remember, she was glaring at me, trying to put me in my place. In some fundamental, inexplicable way, there just wasn’t space for both of us. My whole childhood was spent in a struggle to extend my arms—to spread myself out—but my sister was always there to shove them back to my sides. She’d get really into it, too. Every time I thought I’d found a footing, she’d find some creative way to push me back down. Lying to our father about something I’d done, planting evidence in my bedroom, even going so far as to strike her own cheek just to blame me. That’s the thing about Leticia. She didn’t mind getting hurt if it meant bringing me down a peg. I suppose we’ve always had that in common.

When I’m dressed in my hand-me-down panties, a black tank, and a pair of cut-off shorts, I head back into the main room and go up to the loft. In the light of day, not only does it smell like a dog lives up there, it looks like it, too. The dirty blanket I slept on is twisted on the floor, and a gnawed shell of a tennis ball is abandoned in the corner. It’s dusty, drafty, and mostly bare, but strangely, I find it doesn’t matter. It has an open, lofty feel. Wide open, with no tight walls or locks, and a clear, vast view of the living area, including the front door. The glass in the clock is not transparent—clouded with dirt and weather residue—but it provides a nice amount of light. I’d be perfect for reading. I rest my elbows on the railing and take a deep breath, surveying the area.

If it didn’t mean being a slave to three rapey pieces of shit, this might actually be my dream home.

I head back down the spiral staircase, and just as I hit the bottom, Remy’s door flies open. The same loud, bass-thumping music spills into the common area as he steps out, freezing at the sight of me. His wild eyes are underscored with dark bruises beneath them, cheeks pale and gaunt. He looks more like a strung-out Avenue junkie than a Royal. Face blank, his gaze drops to my leg, fixing there for a long stretch of cold silence.

I clear my throat. “Do you know if there’s a broom?”

He jerks at the sound of my voice, eyes flying up to mine. “A broom?”

Right. I doubt he’s ever swept a floor in his whole life. “Cleaning supplies,” I elaborate, nodding upward. “So I can straighten up around here.”

The corner of his mouth curls. “What are you, Cinderella?”

I shrug. “If you think I’m bad, you should see my fairy godmother.” Especially after what happened with Sy, Mrs. Crane’s words from Friday are still fresh in my mind.

“You may have to spread your legs for them, suck their dicks, cook their food, and wash their clothes. So what?”

Remy gives me a couple of slow blinks before turning toward the kitchen. I follow wordlessly, watching the broad line of his shoulders shifting beneath the fabric of a faded and worn band t-shirt as he stops in front of a door, gesturing limply to its antique knob.

I wait until he’s turned toward the fridge, reaching in to grab a sports drink, before opening the closet—well, a pantry, I discover. Small. Cramped. Enclosed. Swallowing hard, I ease my head inside, fingers clutching the jamb as I inspect the contents. There are canned goods, bags, containers of rice, and sure enough, tucked to the side is a collection of supplies. I spy a bottle of disinfectant, a pair of rubber gloves, and sponges.

“Nick and Sy’s mom brought those over.” I whirl around, surprised to find Remy so close, and instantly fling myself away from the space. Remy doesn’t miss how tense I’ve become, eyes taking in my posture. “Can’t wait to see what she says about you.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he’s already halfway to his room, guzzling down the red drink, slamming his door behind him.

My breath gusts out in a loud, relieved exhale.

I turn back to the pantry, fidgety at the thought of walking inside, but distracted by the little collection of supplies. So Nick and Simon have a mother who cares enough to bring them these things. Does she care about them holding a woman captive for their own sexual pleasure and abuse? Probably not. She was Duchess back in her day. She’s likely one more woman I’ll have to suffer a lecture about being lucky from.

I gather everything I can hold in my arms, carrying it all up to the loft. I spend the rest of the afternoon and evening scrubbing it down from top to bottom, getting into every nook and crevice. I toss the dog blanket and the old toys into the trash. I know they want to treat me like an animal, but there’s a line I won’t cross.

It takes me a while, but slowly it comes together. I find a few extra blankets and pillows in a different closet and arrange them in a pallet on the floor. I carry the cutslut clothes up to the loft and arrange them neatly. A dresser would be nice, or even a mattress or a chair. Any of those would also imply that I’m staying.

Twelve days.

It’s late when I finish. Neither Simon nor Remy have left their rooms. Nick hasn’t returned, and that does make me apprehensive. Class was obviously over hours ago, which means maybe he went to collect the box from my father. It also means that maybe he got caught.

I’m not sure which one makes me more excited. Getting the box or him getting caught. Both have their positives. I settle in my bed—ignoring the hard, worn wood a few layers below, and take a deep breath. Soon enough, we’ll know which turns out to be true. Whichever it is, my father is always the one holding all the cards.