Dukes of Ruin: Chapter 13

I can’t even remember the last time I had a good, real, deep sleep. Not at the Hideaway, regardless of the nice bed. Not in the old Crane roach motel. Certainly not those three days and nights my father had a hold of me after Leticia disappeared. If I’m being honest, not even before that, back when the tension was building between us, three grown vipers trapped in a dark hole, always coiled to strike. In those tired, hectic high school days, it was almost like gravity was watching, laughing at the way we slithered around one another in anticipation of our own fangs. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. That’s always been our curse.

Tonight, I’m curled up on the hard floor, the clean blanket pulled up to my chin. When I hear footsteps on the metal spiral staircase, I don’t flinch. I heard him come through the door, could smell the scent of the city clinging to him, ozone and car exhaust caressing the back of my throat.

Even though he was my lifeline for the past two years, this may be the first time I’m truly relieved to see Nick. If he’s here, then it means one of two things: He succeeded, or he failed. Either of those will mean a new path lies ahead. It’s progress—an ‘after.’

Eleven days.

It’s just after midnight. His footsteps reach the loft, a dark silhouette against the cloudy clock face and the glow of the city beyond it. He remains still for a long moment, head tilted. I can’t see his eyes, but I can feel them on me like a weight. “You didn’t tell me about the dog.”

The deep timbre of his voice pierces the silence, vibrating through my bones. “Ah, Amos.” It’s not that I forgot about Amos. Father loves that dog more than he’s ever loved me. I give an innocent, “Oops,” and sit up. If he thinks I’m making anything easy on him… well, he’s dumber than he is pretty. “Did you get it?”

There’s a backpack hanging loose in his fingertips. I’ve seen it before. He carries it everywhere. I’ve learned there can be anything inside. Guns, knives, tampons, candy. What I need now is for it to have the box from my bedroom.

When he doesn’t answer, I impatiently grab for it, but he jerks it back, out of my reach. “You cleaned up the loft.”

“Yeah,” I say, looking around the tidy space. It’d taken the better part of the afternoon and evening to scrub and disinfect the floors, but the worst part was the blanket. I’d washed it under the bathtub spigot and left it to dry over the clock cables overhead, so it’s still a touch damp. Better than asking Sy or Remy to show me to a washing machine, and it definitely needed one. I peer up at him, mouth slanted wryly. “You failed to mention a dog to me, too.”

I can hear the smirk in his voice more than I can see it. “Fair point.” He finally lifts the backpack, casually tugging the zipper open. “I almost didn’t find it,” he says, pulling out the box. Even in the low light, I can tell it’s the one. I’m half expecting him to yank it away before my fingers touch the wood, but he lets me take it.

I inspect it carefully. The elastic band system is still in place. “You didn’t open it.”

If he hears my soft, surprised tone, then he ignores it, reaching into the backpack again. This time, he pulls out a small bundle of clothes and a book, setting them on the floor beside my nest. I recognize the novel as the one I was reading the night Leticia disappeared. Dead souls. Apt title.

He straightens, slinging the strap of the bag over a shoulder. “You sleeping here tonight?” At my nod, he exhales, sharp, edged with the same impatience I’d felt before. “That makes two days.” He looks at the bundle of blankets. “Can’t be comfortable.”

“Yeah, well…” I look around the nest I’ve made. It’s hard and uncomfortable and cold, but it’s as close to being mine as anything will ever get around here. I see that now. “I had a long, shitty day. This is better than the alternative.”

His eyes narrow. “What happened?”

I clutch the box and book to my chest. “Your brother happened. Ask him about it.”

There’s a stretch of tense silence before I hear the shift-shuffle of him crouching down. “He fuck you?”

The words are spoken in this low, flippant tone that makes my stomach drop, but the second I look at him, I see it. The clenched jaw, the possessive territorial heat in his eyes. That expression’s never been comforting before, but if it keeps Simon from pulling a stunt like he did today…

Well, maybe there’s some use to Nick’s obsessive streak.

“No,” I answer, watching some of the lethal fire fade from his eyes. I make sure it doesn’t go too far. “He was going to share me, actually. Some of his fellow gym rats wanted to give your new Duchess a spin. He traded my pussy for a wristwatch.”

It’s not fire that sparks in his eyes, though. It’s a complete, unfathomable, bottomless pit of darkness. “He traded you,” he repeats in a blank voice.

“For a watch,” I remind him. His eyes slide from mine to Sy’s bedroom door below, and it doesn’t matter that he’s crouched down, looking for all the world like we’re having a calm, civil conversation. For a moment, I get the sense he plans to do something excessively violent. Interesting. Sighing, I put him out of his misery. “But he reneged. Threw them all out of the locker room and decided to use my mouth instead.”

His eyes instantly fall to my lips, brows crouching low. “You sucked his dick?”

I balk at the anger in his voice. “It was either that or get ripped apart by his three pals. Which would you have preferred I choose?”

His mouth presses into a tight line when he rises to his feet again, staring down at me. “This counts as one of your nights.”

“I know.”

His eyes dart to the book. “I want something for that.”

“For what?” I look down at it, confused. “A half-read book? Seriously?”

“I didn’t have to bring it,” he snaps, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. “But I did, so now you owe me.”

I see then how it’s going to be. One negotiation after the other. It’s exhausting, but it means he’s willing to play, and that’s something I can use.

Plus, I really want the book…

Shoulders falling, I wonder, “What do you want?”

His gaze drops to my mouth again. I’m so sure he’s going to order me to suck him off that it takes me a second to process his answer.

“Kiss me.”

I blink up at him, everything thrown off-kilter. “Kiss you?”

“A real kiss,” he clarifies, a hardness settling over his features. “No fighting, no bitching, no turning away.”

It’s such a small thing in comparison to what Nick’s done to me. What Remy has done to me. What Sy’s done to me. A kiss. Simple. I should be grateful it’s not worse. But a feeling of dread builds in my stomach. A week ago, my answer would have come easily—-probably in the form of my knee jabbing into his balls. Now, I’m sitting here thinking that it’s not so bad. That it’s not eight hours in the elevator. That I should be relieved this is all he wants.

I should be grateful?

What the fuck?

It’s not the thought of a kiss that makes my blood run cold; it’s the new certainty of what I’m willing to do to avoid the next worse thing. What Nick wants is something I can’t give to him. He’s a monster. A killer. A man who can lock me in a box and walk away. I don’t care if he’s suddenly decided to play college boy, he’s dangerous. Lethal.

I can’t forget that.

Wordlessly, I rise to my feet in front of him, lifting my chin just as much in defiance as agreement. His forehead creases skeptically as he searches my eyes. I’m sure he expected a fight, but I’m too damn tired to give him one. I won’t be grateful. I won’t be supplicant. But I’ll do what I need to, if it means getting what I need.

He steps forward, shoulders tensing as he lifts his hand to my face. His fingertips are gentle as they press into my jaw, tilting my face up. If I thought the worst part of this would be having my mouth violated for a second time today, then I’m wrong.

So fucking wrong.

The worst part is easily the way he looks at me. I’ve spent my life being second, third, fourth best. Never special to anyone, never worth a second glance. Leticia was prettier and smarter. It was easy being invisible next to her.

But the way Nick looks at me pierces right through whatever sad armor I’ve wrapped around myself since the first night I met him in that parking lot. He looks at me like he wants me, and maybe it’s in all the twisted, perverse ways that a girl should never feel good about, but goddamn it.

It’s really hard to remember why.

It doesn’t get any easier when he tips down, touching his lips to mine. His eyes are a blurry pair of hooded darkness, and I’m not expecting it. The way he pecks at my bottom lip, coaxing it open. The subtle gust of his sigh when his tongue peeks out, warm and wet, slipping into the crease. I don’t expect the way his fingers nestle into the curve of my waist, folding me into his body as he kisses me.

I don’t expect it to be so… tender.

His jaw is strong, but for once, not forceful. He licks inside like he’s savoring it, slick and unhurried as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. His tongue feels rough and soft, all at once, and it’s the sound he makes more than anything that sends my mind spinning—his long, self-indulgent groan shooting straight to the most vulnerable part of me. My breath hitches shamefully, but I’m too caught up in the solid breadth of his body against mine—stubble rubbing against my chin—to think much of it.

And then he wraps around me, forearm pressing into the small of my back, and hauls me up against him.

He’s rock-fucking-hard.

Suddenly, I’m flooded with the memory of that night in Hideaway. That sloppy, rough kiss he’d given me through his ski mask. The burn of him forcing his way inside. The harshness of his breaths into my ear as he fucked me, hard and unforgiving.

I get my hands against his chest and shove with all my strength, jerking away the second the connection is broken. My back crashes into the loft’s metal railing, and I lift the bottom of my shirt, wiping my tingling lips with trembling hands.

He doesn’t get to do that. To be sweet. Sexy. He’s a monster, I repeat to myself. A monster.

He’s breathing hard, head still tipped down as he looks at me through his lashes. My stomach plummets as I realize this will mean a punishment. My father used to do it by the hour. Back talk was an hour—two if I cursed. Hitting my sister? Two hours in the chest. Breaking curfew—three hours. Spilling something on the carpet, breaking the swing, scratching the slide—four hours. Anything over five hours was the result of something more serious. A call from my principal, a bad report card, the neighbor ratting on me for sneaking out. Those were dependent on his mood at the time, but the longest times were always reserved for an injury to the Lucia reputation.

When Leticia went missing, it was days.

Now I have a new warden, and my heart lodges itself into my throat as I tell myself this is good. It’ll give me an idea of the scale. What is a rejected kiss worth? Three hours? That’s a metric to go by. It’ll give me a standard, something to measure up my future infractions to.

But instead of dragging me down the spiral staircase, Nick just stares at me, a slow smirk quirking his lips. “Enjoy the book, Little Bird.” Lifting the backpack over his shoulder, he starts for the stairs. I wait, heart thumping wildly against my ribcage, until I hear his bedroom door close. It’s only then that I move, collapsing in a breathless, relieved heap.

Still trembling, I bring my things to the pile of blankets on the floor.

I remove the elastic bands, slowly taking them off, one by one, and set the box in my lap. I flip the little gold latch and lift the lid. The scent of Cuban cigars wafts toward my nose. The smell is both calming and repulsive. It immediately conjures up my father—every moment of our lives together. Leather and wood. The salt of tears. Scotch and barbed words. I fight back the anger and nausea it brings, because of course, this is the box she would choose to hold her secrets.

The box isn’t mine.

It’s Leticia’s.

After she went missing, I searched every inch of her room. It was only when I got down on my hands and knees that I remembered the floorboard hiding place. We’d discovered them when we were little. I hadn’t used mine in ages, but when I lifted the board, I discovered the box—elastic bands in place. Inside were objects and pictures. I didn’t understand their relevance to my sister, but that wasn’t a surprise. We hadn’t been close in ages—if we ever were.

One of the items is a photo. In the foreground of the picture are two striped, sock-covered feet, toes leaning toward one another. Beyond the feet—one ankle showing half of a blurry tattoo—is a view of water. Maybe a lake. Maybe even the river. The water is crystal clear, and the trees on the opposing bank are shades of yellow, orange, and red. It was taken in the fall from a high vantage point, perhaps an overlook. Aside from that, there’s a white ribbon stained brown with blood, a crinkled pharmacy receipt with the numbers ‘4009’ scribbled on the back, a random single bullet, a dried wildflower, and a smooth granite rock.

Those objects are all still in the box—including the one I added myself. I remove the envelope. It’s crinkled from the few times I’ve read it. The word ‘Daddy’ is written in Leticia’s immaculate cursive across the center.

I remove the paper from inside. It’s a sheet of off-white stationery with the name ‘Lucia’ embossed at the top. The handwriting is unmistakably my sister’s.

Daddy,

This isn’t the way I wanted to do this; however, you’ve given me no choice. But when have you ever given me a choice in what I do with my life? I’ve found the one thing you can’t control and I’m finally ready to do it.

I’m not the person you want me to be. I can’t marry Perez. I can’t marry any of the Royal soldiers. I know you see this as a betrayal, an assault on your title, but it’s not. For once in your life, I wish you could understand there are some things that aren’t about you. This is one of them.

This is the last you’ll hear from me. Consider me dead. You’ll never find me or my body. You taught me how to do that. If only you could have accepted me for who I am, and not just as an extension of yourself.

Leticia

Each time I read the letter, even now, I search for clues or something I’ve missed. Leticia left the letter the day she vanished. I’m the one who found it on Father’s desk, the envelope crisp and clean. It was a week before her twenty-first birthday. I hadn’t seen Leticia in a full day, but that wasn’t unusual. If we went days without speaking to one another, I counted it as a blessing. Everything had become impossible. The pressure from Father. The impending wedding. I knew she was sneaking in and out of the house, but I didn’t know why.

When I found the letter, I took it. Sliding it into my back pocket. I should have given it to my father when she came up missing, but he was so angry and suspicious. Maybe there was a part of me that enjoyed it—just a little bit—the way my father instantly turned on me, assuming I’d done something to her. It was, in his own way, almost flattering. He thought I was conniving and vindictive enough to harm my own flesh and blood. There’s really no higher compliment from Lionel Lucia.

But having the letter made me look even more suspicious. It also was the only clue. She’d vanished without a trace. No one could find her. Not the Counts, not the police… no one. No witnesses, no sightings, no body. She’d simply disappeared.

Just like she said she would.

My father didn’t need to know that. He needed to think she was out there somewhere. Alive. Waiting to be found. Available to be married to Perez. Because if she isn’t, there’s only one person who can take her place.

Me.

Eleven days.

“Son of a…” I wince, my side aching from a night on the hard floor. I roll on my back and grunt again, shifting only to remove the hardback book wedged between my shoulders. I lie like that for a long moment, staring up at the broken clock, trying to work out the kinks.

It’s the smell of bacon that finally gets me vertical.

“Morning sunshine,” Nick says as I stumble down the spiral stairs, still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. This time, Sy is working the stove and his brother sits at the table, plate in front of him. Nick raises an eyebrow. “You look like shit.”

“You would too if you’d slept on the floor all night.”

“Your choice, Little Bird.” He looks me in the eye as he sinks his teeth into a ripe berry. There’s a gun sitting next to his elbow, and when I zero in on it, he picks it up with inked fingers, lifting the back of his shirt to tuck it away. “There are three available beds just waiting for you to grace one of them with your sexy body.”

I ignore him and rub my face. “Is there any coffee? Or do I have to eat someone’s ass for the pleasure of caffeine?”

“Not my kink,” Nick answers, looking nonplussed.

Sy grunts, barely managing to jerk his head in the direction of the coffeepot. The motion is small, but it is enough for me to see something that wasn’t there the day before.

A bruise on his jaw.

Was that from the gym? I try to remember as I pour myself a cup. I know he and Bruce were sparring kind of intensely, but I don’t remember any swelling when he forced himself on me in the locker room.

Nick lifts his fork, which is when I notice his fresh, red, raw knuckles. I look between them as I take my seat, trying to read whether or not it was done on my account, but Nick stops me. “What are you doing?” he asks, fingers clamped around my wrist.

I blink at my coffee, then at him. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks a lot like you aren’t holding up your end of the bargain,” he answers, giving his lap a pointed glance.

My jaw goes slack. “Here? Now?”

There’s a hardness in his stare that makes my belly swoop nervously. “I’m here, aren’t I? Enjoying some downtime. Sit.” He gives his thigh a pat, but though his words are polite, the flint in his eyes is anything but.

Limply, I set my coffee on the table and turn to him, lowering myself to perch on his knee in stilted, reluctant increments. His arm hooks around my waist, yanking me into the hard warmth of his body.

“Sy, how about a plate for our Duchess?”

I expect Sy to throw the plate at me after he fills the dish with eggs, bacon, and fruit—partly because of the sharp glare he sends me, but also just because he clearly just hates me. I won’t say there’s no aggression when he drops it on the table in front of me—right beside Nick’s—but he keeps it in check. Brothers. I don’t understand how they work, but I do happen to know a thing or two about sibling rivalry. Shit gets complicated.

“I’d ask you how you slept, but that’s been discussed,” Nick says, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Anything you want to share about the package I delivered to you last night?”

“No.” I shove a forkful of eggs in my mouth, forcing down a happy groan. Damn, they’re good. The Master Bater is an excellent cook.

“I see.” He takes a sip of coffee, and slowly, his other hand creeping up my sweater, rough calluses skating over my ribs. “Aren’t you hot in this?”

A shiver threatens to roll up my spine, but I clench down against it, going stiff. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting me actual clothes?”

He hums just as his fingertips reach the underside of my breast, tickling the skin there. “I keep my word. Although… I do like seeing you in my sweater. What do you think, Sy?” Even though he’s talking to his brother, he says the words right against my ear.

Sy answers, “I think if you want to feel up your whore, you should find somewhere else to do it.”

Nick’s chest bobs with a silent laugh, and my eyes fall closed in dread, because if there’s one thing I know about sibling rivalry—

Yep.

There it is.

Nick cups my breast in his wide palm, squeezing, making sure Sy notices. To me, he adds, “Well, everyone has things to do today. You can stay here, Little Bird.”

My eyes whip toward him, widening. “Locked up?”

“Obviously.” He keeps his gaze fixed on mine, which is why he sees me looking toward the elevator. He gives a subtle shake of his head, thumbing my nipple. “Just up here.”

“Oh.” I stare diligently at my plate, trying to ignore the way he’s fondling me. “What am I supposed to do all day?”

“Meditate? Masturbate?” He gives his now empty plate the same pointed glance he’d given his lap. “Clean?”

I narrow my eyes at the sink full of dishes. “At least Auggy gave me books to read.”

Nick shoves his other hand up my sweater, and I wince as it latches onto my other tit. “You mean that trash you always had sitting beside your bed? Your horny books?”

“Romance novels,” I correct, ignoring the nasty look Sy shoots at me. When Nick squeezes my breasts together, I’m quick to add, “And I’ll read anything. It doesn’t matter. That just happened to be what she brought me. I wasn’t—I mean, I’m not…”

“Horny?” he whispers into my ear, making me squirm. Nick nods up toward the loft. “I just gave you a book last night.”

“I finished it.”

He scoffs, skating his knuckles along the sides of my breasts. “You didn’t read half of Dead Souls in one night.”

A derisive snort comes from Sy’s direction, making my mouth purse. “You’re right. I didn’t read half of Dead Souls in one night. I read it all.”

Nick pauses, finally pulling his hands free from my sweater. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m a fast reader,” I explain, pinching a piece of bacon in my fingers. “So if you plan to keep me from going completely insane with boredom, you’re going to have to do better than a single Gogol novel.”

I feel his shrug against my back. “What do I look like? A fucking library?”

“I can’t just sit here all day. That can’t be the job of a…” I clench my jaw, forcing out, “Duchess.”

A quick glance reveals the corner of his lip curving upward at the word. “You’re right. Most Duchesses would be escorting us to class, sucking us off in the parking lot, and taking a fat load as her lunch. But most Duchesses are also students and trustworthy. You’re neither.” He grabs me by the hips, hitching me up against his obscene erection before pushing me off his lap. “I have class.”

Relieved, I scurry to the empty seat next to him, tucking into my food before another ridiculous demand comes out of his mouth. Between bites, I notice Sy exiting the kitchen, only to cross over to Remy’s door. He bangs on it with three demanding raps. A moment later, Remy emerges, looking no better than the day before. If anything, he looks even more strung out, his hair limp and hanging about a gaunt, colorless face.

“What?” he snaps. Or, at least, it seems like he tries to snap. The word ends up falling flat, landing between them like a deflated balloon.

“Come eat breakfast.” Sy puts his hand on Remy’s shoulder, a gesture that might seem friendly and casual to most, but I can see Sy’s bicep flex as he pulls him forward, away from the bedroom.

Maybe Remy could fight him if he didn’t look like a walking corpse—and probably feel like one, too. Instead, he walks out, shirtless, wearing the same jeans he had on the last time I saw him. Ink stains his fingertips and there’s a long, dark smear of charcoal slashing across his defined pecs. Sy leads him back to the kitchen and puts a full plate of food at the spot Nick just vacated—next to me. He adds a glass of juice and drops three pills next to it.

“Come on, you know the drill.” Sy shoots Remy an expectant look until he finally perches on the stool.

There’s something about the way he’s moving, limp but mechanical, that makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle. It’s like being in the presence of something artificial. Too precise and economical. That, plus the tattoos, sallow features, and pale green eyes, sends a shadow of a shiver down my spine. Lifting his hand, Remy’s long, stained fingers slide the pills around the tabletop, shifting the little shapes in a circular motion.

Sy gives him a hard look, leaning down to speak close to his ear—probably hoping that Nick and I won’t hear. We do. “Don’t think I don’t realize what’s going on here. You’ve been in that room for days, barely eating, barely sleeping. We both know where this road leads, Remy. Take your meds, or I’ll have to call your dad.”

Nick looks between them, frozen.

Remy’s green eyes shift to Sy, and then to the pills. Wordlessly, he scoops them up and crams them into his mouth, swallowing hard. “Satisfied?”

“No,” Sy answers firmly. “Show me.”

Sighing, Remy lifts his chin and then opens his mouth, sticking out his tongue. “Christ, it’s like being back in Saint Mary’s,” he mutters, shoulders curling inward, hunched over his plate.

“Thank you,” Sy replies, turning his back to us. “You’re on filing duty this morning, and then your first class is at eleven. I need you ready in twenty.”

I glance over at Remy just in time to see him discreetly spit the pills onto this plate, hiding them beneath a pile of scrambled eggs. I get this crazy urge, like I’m twelve all of a sudden and Leticia is beside me, breaking the rules, and I could turn to my father and tattle, watch her get punished.

Only the punishment never came.

Not for her.

Never for her.

I swallow the urge down with a sip of coffee. What do I care if this guy doesn’t give a shit about his health? And betraying Simon? Well, that’s just a cherry on top of this fucked-up sundae. No, I keep my mouth shut. I learned that lesson a long time ago. Plus, I have to figure a day of filing papers is punishment enough for someone with Remy’s energy,

I watch from my periphery as Nick gathers his things. Wallet, keys, book bag. I notice he doesn’t take his gun out, meaning he either drives to campus with it, or stashes it downstairs. The second he stops beside me, tattooed fingers tapping an even rhythm against the chipped wood, I know what he’s going to ask. It still makes the tips of my ears explode in a flash of heat when he says, “Suppose it’s too much to hope for a kiss goodbye?”

God, that fucking kiss.

Even five hours spent with my nose buried in Dead Souls wasn’t enough of an escape from it.

I answer by cramming a forkful of eggs into my mouth, chewing aggressively.

He hums, reaching out to run his fingers through my hair. “I could bring you back more books. Something…thicker. Hornier?”

I squirm away from him, making my hip bump Remy’s. “Forget it. Even a good book wouldn’t be worth having your mouth on me again.”

Nick goes still beside me, hand still caught in my hair. The next thing I know, my head is being yanked back and my gaze is locking with sharp, blue eyes. “Do you really think this attitude is helping you any?” he asks in an acidic tone, knuckling hard against my scalp. “Don’t push me, Lavinia. I have other ways of keeping you put for the day.” He never mentions the elevator—doesn’t even look at it—but I hear him loud and clear.

Every time I reject him, I’m playing with fire.

My neck protests the angle until he releases me. That dark shadow in his eyes doesn’t dissipate at the low, pained sound I make. “Clean the fucking kitchen,” he mutters, turning on his heel and marching out.

A second later, the door to the stairwell slams shut behind him.

After a few minutes of him pretending to do more than pushing his food around the pills, Remy slides off his stool and dumps his food and meds down the disposal, saying, “I’m going to get ready.” When he turns, he gives me this hooded, warning look, like he knows I’ve just seen everything. “Imagine a snake without its forked tongue,” is what he says, muscles shifting beneath his bare shoulders as he walks away and shuts his bedroom door behind him.

Captive and alone, again.

Eleven days.

Suddenly, my breakfast doesn’t seem so appealing anymore. Ignoring the guys’ stacked plates. I rinse mine off and put it in the dishwasher, removing any trace that I’ve been here. Being their cleaning lady isn’t part of our negotiation. If Nick wants me to scrub their filth, he’s going to have to pony up something a lot more compelling than a hair pull. I grew up with a sister, for fuck’s sake.

I shut the dishwasher door and face the main room, taking a few deep breaths. All of this is better than closed, cramped spaces, I try to remind myself, but occasionally it still feels the same. Locked doors, limited air, high walls.

This whole tower is one big elevator shaft, isn’t it?

But on the positive side, it’s the first time I’ve been truly left alone in the tower. No one here to threaten me, glare at me, or grope me. It’s a different kind of freedom, and for the first time since waking up, I allow myself to really breathe, exhaling the tension.

And then I do what any rational person would in my situation. I snoop.

It’s obvious the guys haven’t been here long enough to make much of a mess, but the tower isn’t bare. The furniture is nice but well worn; I assume provided by the fraternity. I know there are budgets, legal fees, property management. They’re as much a business asset as anything. One wall is comprised entirely of composite photos, rows and rows of each pledge class dating back to the very beginning. I skim over the faces of hundreds of men; the scourge of the West End, the fists of Forsyth. At the top of each class is a trio of leadership—the Dukes for that year—and I idly find myself wondering what they did to earn their spots in this tower. I know the Royals rotate out their leadership, with positions won during a series of contests and games that are meant to seem like fun, garden-variety delinquency on the surface, but often end up with someone shedding blood. No one knows that better than me, still remembering the blood swirling down the drain as I washed all traces of them from my cunt that night, weeks ago.

That’s when I see it. There are small oval photos right underneath each year’s trio. It’s not another man, but a young woman.

Their Duchess.

I go from composite to composite, looking at the smiling girl in each photo. I search their eyes, looking for any sign that they filled this tower with their own misery, the dark shadows that reflect back at me when I look in the mirror. I try to find her, the one who didn’t want it, the one who fought, the one who felt hopeless.

If she’s in any of those photos, then she hid it better than I ever could.

Maybe Nick’s right. Maybe these women did find it to be an honor to be the Duchess and serve the Dukes. Maybe they spent their summers hoping, praying, to one day be in this very tower, hopping from bed to bed, escorting them to classes. Maybe each and every one of them wanted nothing more than to be a good little bitch for the fists of Forsyth.

Too bad I’m not other women.

I turn away and focus on the adjacent wall. There’s a long stretch of shelves and cabinets that I haven’t had the chance to explore. The shelves are mostly frat memorabilia—stuff that’s too nice or sentimental to keep downstairs in the ruckus room. None of it looks like it has much financial value; it’s just a collection of trophies, bear statues, and Forsyth swag.

I crouch and swing open a set of double doors. Inside is a filing cabinet, and without thinking twice, I pull it open to reveal rows and rows of files. A little rush runs through me at the sight of just… so much information. A lot have ‘Class of…’, and a quick flip through those reveals lists of every pledge class. I spend a few minutes looking at the names, wondering when these three pledged. Freshman year for Simon Perilini. I don’t know Remy’s last name… or his first. The closest I can find is a Remington Maddox, sophomore year, but that can’t be right. The Maddoxes are their own kind of royalty, filthy rich and powerful enough that I can’t see one of them slumming it in the West End as a fist of Forsyth.

Nicholas Bruin isn’t in here anywhere.

Gotta love that nepotism.

I thumb past the rosters and on to files dedicated to the tower itself. I see one that’s messily labeled ‘Clock’ and pause, glancing over at the enormous, motionless clock face. I bet it was amazing, back in its day, ticking away. Was it loud? Did the cables above my loft rattle? When did it stop? The curiosity doesn’t surprise me—Father always did say it was my worst quality—but the intensity of it does.

Pulling it out, I open the cover and fold my legs beneath me, settling in to read it. It’s an entire chronological history of the clock: maintenance, repairs, receipts for parts, historical register paperwork. Apparently, about a decade back, there was an attempt to apply for a restoration grant, but there’s no indication it was ever approved. Looking back farther—the paper getting thinner, more wrinkled, ink fading—there were attempts ten years before that, and ten years before that. Whatever this tower meant to Forsyth, the local government obviously seems content to let it rot. Of course, with Barons mostly holding the keys to anything political in this town, they’re probably the hands that need greasing. Knowing the rivalries around here, I’m betting Dukes would sooner let the building crumble.

The most recent repair receipts involving the clock itself are almost fifty years old, the work orders tattered and barely-readable. Buried under everything else is a manual. Introduction to Horology: The Art of Making Clocks and Watches.

My belly swoops in excitement.

I take a paranoid glance over my shoulder before removing the manual, shoving the file back in its spot, and closing the cabinet.

This should definitely keep me busy for a while.