Dukes of Ruin: Chapter 19

The gym has a different vibe than I’m used to when we step through the doors. It still has the overwhelming scent of sweat and testosterone, but it’s mingled with the thick, garlicky aroma of Italian food. I’ve never seen the DKS frat gathered all at once, and certainly not like this—clean, well dressed, and good-natured. Even the cutsluts seem to have tamed it down a bit for the event.

Which royally fucking sucks for me because I look like a hooker sent to fulfill a thirteen-year-old’s dreams.

“Why did you tell me to dress so slutty?!” I hiss, punching my fist into Nick’s side. His arm is looped around my shoulders, wrist loose, hand grazing my breast with every step we take.

“I like it when you dress slutty,” he says, looking down at me—or rather at my tits. The top I’m wearing had gotten Remy’s approval, low cut and pushed high. The wire from the bra stabs into my ribcage like a skewer.

I scan the room, face falling. “Everyone else is dressed all…nice.”

‘Nice’ isn’t exactly the right word. I was raised in the North Side where any gathering ranking higher than a random grocery store run-in necessitates a show of the nicest finery and frippery one can dig from their four-hundred square-foot closet. These people aren’t dressed ‘nicely’ for Count standards.

But they certainly are for the Dukes’.

The cutsluts are all wearing cute little dresses—the kind girls their ages would wear to Sunday school in the East End. Besides the top, I’m wearing a tight pair of burgundy pleather pants with diamonds cut down the side—hip to ankle—showing off plenty of skin. The cutsluts are also hard at work carrying huge pans of food and placing them on tables arranged on the back wall. The area typically used for floor seats has been transformed into a dining hall with long tables and chairs filling the space. Frat boys are gathered in clusters around them, all obviously eager to eat. Every eye in the room swings toward us as we enter, and I know they’re not just looking at me.

The four of us are a spectacle.

Remy alone looks like some kind of glam-rock god, not even raising the sunglasses that are hiding his weed-glazed eyes.

Nick is… well, pretty is an understatement. But it’s the effortless, fundamental kind of pretty that means he doesn’t even have to show an effort.

And Sy? He’s obviously dressed for the event, looking casually superior in a dark gray V-neck sweater with a white-collared shirt underneath. I’ve gleaned enough of their history to understand that these are his people. He called it a family dinner and now I see why.

But I’m not family.

Duchess or not, I’m an interloper at best, and an enemy at worst.

“You look perfect,” Remy says, resting his hand on my ass, his thumb tucked under the waistband on the side of the star. I stiffen, never sure if he’s going to push things or not, but he just gives my ass a firm squeeze. “Our sexy little snake.”

I spare a glance at Sy, who kept quiet the entire car ride over. I suspect he has a few choice comments about my outfit, but his attention is pointedly focused across the room as he waves to Mama B.

“Boys,” she says, waving them over. She gives them each a quick hug and a kiss, bracelets clinking with every move. She very intentionally ignores me. “Nice of you to finally show up. We’ve got a lot of hungry young men here, and they can’t eat until you do.”

“Sorry, Mama,” Sy says, pulling back. Her lipstick imprint remains on his cheek. “Took us a few minutes to get out of the tower.”

“Better late than never.” She licks her thumb and wipes off the lipstick mark, fussing over him like the mama bear she is. “First family dinner as head of the house. How’s that feel?” Mama brushes Nick’s hair off his forehead, beaming at him.

“Like a long time coming,” Nick says, surveying the room. A wistfulness falls over his features, a flicker of something uncharacteristically hesitant. “I guess this is what it’s all about.”

Remy is next to greet her, darting around me to swoop her into an aggressive hug. “Mama Bad Bitch! Those cubs running you ragged?”

She gives a boisterous laugh. “If they didn’t, I’d get worried. Can’t remember a time I didn’t have all you cretins underfoot, driving me to drinking.”

There’s a strange affection here, much too physical for my tastes. In North Side, the Counts show deference by bringing in revenue, and they show respect by not getting wasted until business has concluded. Here, there are hugs and back pats, kisses and playful tackling.

It makes me tuck my limbs in close.

Mama gives Remy’s stomach a lighthearted jab. “Where’s your muscle mass gone, boy?” Her eyes flick over to me and then back up to him. “You eating enough? You look like you’ve spent the last two days in a South Side alley. You aren’t getting into that viper junk, are you?”

Inwardly, I balk at the look she cuts me.

“Nah, not me,” he says, finally lifting his sunglasses. They push his hair away from his face as he tucks them up on his head. “Just had a few rough days. Went off my meds for a minute.” This makes her lips purse tight, and there’s a current of tension so palpable that I can practically see it running between the five of us. Remy easily casts it off. “Please tell me you made your world-famous garlic bread. My dick’s been hard for a loaf since I woke up.”

She works her mouth into a bright smile, giving his cheek a fond pat. “I saved two loaves in the back just for you. Verity will get you all settled.”

“Sweet.” He kisses her on the cheek and walks off toward a group of guys, bumping fists and slapping hands along the way. The celebrity of Royalty has never been lost on me, but it’s still odd to see it bestowed on the same guy who babbles nonsensically and slices his arms up.

Mama turns to Sy, eyes dark. “Should I be worried? Is he stable?”

Sy shifts his feet, dropping his gaze. “Maybe? I don’t know. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes.” I know Sy’s more worried than he’s letting on. I saw the books he checked out of the University Library. I might not have told him about Remy almost jumping from the belfry, but I get the impression Sy can sense that things are worse than they seem. “But I’m thinking it was just the transition, you know? All the changes.”

She nods. “You’re probably right.” The boys start toward the long tables, Nick pulling me along. But before we can pass Mama, I feel the sharp prick of her nails digging into the back of my arm. “Hold it.” I stop and Nick looks over, catching Mama’s sweet grin. “I need a word with your Duchess, if that’s okay?”

Nick gives her a long, measuring look, and I think for a moment he may refuse. He’d be well within his rights. Inside the tower I might have bargaining power, but out here? There are appearances to keep.

He reluctantly slides his arm from my shoulder, relenting. “I’ll save you a seat, Little Bird.”

Mama and I watch as he departs, the confidence in his saunter to the group. A cutslut immediately intercepts him for a hug, stretching up to throw her arms around his neck. The sight of his hands landing on her hips has my mouth pursing in annoyance.

I deliberately turn away, facing Mama. “Look, I’m sorry about the outfit. The guys wanted me to get dressed, and they… well…” I cup my boobs, “asked me to show a little tit. I didn’t realize dinner had a special dress code.”

Mama’s eyes flick over me, narrowing as she crosses her arms. “I don’t give a shit what you wear. Come to dinner in a potato sack for all I care. The problem is that you were supposed to be here two hours ago. You’re the fucking hostess of this thing.”

“Me?” I stare at her in astonishment, head snapping back. “I’m not the hostess. You’re the hostess! They called it family dinner and you’re the Mama.”

Her face tightens to stone. “I know you spent your life as a spoiled little North Side brat, but you’re not in your Daddy’s kingdom anymore. Don’t stroll in here like a goddamn queen. You haven’t earned that title—not yet.” She snorts. “You’ve barely earned the title of Duchess. And I doubt you ever will if Lionel has anything to say about it.” I blink and she nods. “Yeah, I know all about your daddy and you sister and how totally fucked you are.” She arranges the bracelets on her wrist, revealing an old, faded bear’s paw. “My roots run deep with the Royals, Duchess, so here’s a bit of advice. If you want a shot at staying in that belfry, you better step up your game.”

I give a low, incredulous laugh. “First of all, I don’t want to be in the belfry. And second, it would help if someone gave me a fucking heads up that I’m supposed to do something other than suck cock, clean dishes, and talk maniacs off of ledges.” I jerk my head over at the Dukes, who are currently hovering over one of the tables, surrounded by their brothers and cutsluts. “You think those three can take a break from their libidos and power trips long enough to give their trophy bitch a primer on house duties?”

“Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t play that game with me. You’re a smart girl, Lavinia. I think you can figure out how to manage this life.” She turns her gaze to the cutsluts, jaw hardening. “Dozens of these girls have spent years in training to serve DKS, and a few for the Dukes specifically. If you’re so lost that you require direction, then maybe you should consider lowering yourself to ask one of them.”

I open my mouth to say something snide back, but her fingers clamp around my chin. She gives it a tight, threatening squeeze. “Verity’s in the kitchen. She can tell you everything you need to do. And while you’re taking advantage of that, you might want to reflect on why she can tell you everything you need to, and show some goddamn grace.” She drops her hand, which is good, because I’m one second from removing it myself. “If that’s something you’re capable of, that is.”

This ancient bitch thinks she knows me—my history—but she’s wrong. Only one person knows what it was like to grow up under my father’s thumb, and she’s gone. It’s not like Dukes are ruled so harshly. As if being under Saul Cartwright’s thumb ever accomplished anything worth crying about.

I walk away before I do or say something I’ll regret and head toward the kitchen door at the back of the gym. I feel the eyes of everyone on me as I cross the room. The only ones not particularly interested in me are the Dukes. The three of them fit in easily here. Nick is engaged in telling some kind of animated story, and Remy has his arm slung over the back of a chair, a trio of girls surrounding him. Even Simon looks relaxed, beer in hand as he tutors a pledge on his fighting stance. I guess they have me where they want me.

Serving them.

I wouldn’t put it past any of them to have planned it this way, setting me up to be scolded by Mama like an unruly child. The thought bristles inside of me like a storm, and when I step into the kitchen, I’m fuming hotter than the heat of the room.

What kind of gym has a goddamn kitchen, anyway?!

The girl I met the other day, Verity, is removing a pan from the oven, while another cutslut picks up a large salad bowl and moves toward the door I’m blocking.

“‘Scuse me,” she mutters, giving me such a wide berth that I have to wonder if she thinks stigma is contagious.

“Yeah, sure,” I mutter back, not bothering to step out of her way. The crouch of her brow as she inches around me is the closest thing I’ll probably get to satisfaction today. To Verity, I say, “Your mom sent me in. Is there something I can do to help?”

Although it’s a million degrees in here and she’s juggling a dozen tasks, other than a quick assessment of my outfit, Verity is unfazed. “Yeah, the bread needs to go out, along with this bowl of sauce. The salad dressing is in the refrigerator—oh, and the parmesan cheese.”

I open the refrigerator and grab the items she listed, cradling them in my arms and hands. Carrying them out, my eyes are drawn to the table where the guys are sitting. It’s fucking ridiculous that someone like Mama can accuse me of arrogance when the Dukes are sitting at the head of the most prominent table, clearly distinguished from the rest of them.

Except, of course, for the cutslut sitting in front of Remy, like an appetizer.

She’s on the table with her legs spread, making room for him to lean in and press his marker to her throat. Her head is tilted to the side, and even though she’s grinning at another girl a few seats away, her teeth are digging notches into her bottom lip.

He’s drawing a design down her throat, dipping low to her sternum.

I stop mid-step and stare at them without really knowing why at first. Something indefinable twists in my gut. The feeling is too hot to be called disappointment, but too unhappy to be called irritation. I just know that he’s pitching forward, those green eyes fixed on this bitch’s skin, and it makes me think ‘no’.

Verity passes in front of my line of vision, nodding at the crowd. “We need to get this on the table or there’s going to be a riot soon.”

I blink, snapping out of it, and follow her over to where the food is already stacking up. It looks to be buffet style; the spread arranged in a calculated order. I intuit it quickly, placing the dressing by the salad at the beginning of the intended circuit, and the cheese over by the meatballs.

Verity pulls the aluminum foil off a dish of pasta and looks over at the table. “You don’t have to worry about Haley. She’s not poaching your man.”

My back straightens and I busy myself with taking off the dressing caps. “I’m not worried about some random cutslut.”

“Haley’s not just a cutslut,” Verity says, a bit of sharpness in her voice. “She’s a ring girl.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What’s a ring girl?”

“A ring girl is a fighter’s biggest cheerleader.” She carries serving utensils to all of the dishes. “She helps him warm up before a match, wraps his wrists if he needs it, fetches water, snacks—whatever they need, really. She’ll promote him on social media and have his back on campus. She’s a total hypewoman.”

“Haley does this for all of DKS?” There are at least forty guys in the frat, all fighters of one level or the other.

“Haley, specifically?” She shakes her head. “No, she just works with Sy and Remy. I mean, those two are joined at the hip, so it makes sense that they’d share a ring girl. She knows what they need.”

Why?

Why does that sentence make me rankle?

“She knows what they need.”

Part of it is ingrained within me—this aversion to failure. I’m the Duchess. I should know what they need. But another part of it is an odd sense of indignation, as if being on the receiving end of everything that’s miserable about being Duchess should make me privy to the praise of it.

If I’m theirs, then why the fuck aren’t they mine?

“What about Nick?” I sprinkle some cheese on a dish of lasagna—something to keep my hands busy. “Doesn’t he have a girl?”

She gives me a strange look. “He wasn’t here last year, or the year before that. You didn’t know?”

I hold back a scoff. “Trust me, no one was more aware of that than me.” Nick wasn’t here because he was busy being down in South Side, keeping me captive.

Nodding, her confused expression doesn’t leave. “Well, Nick doesn’t have a ring girl. He doesn’t need a ring girl.” There’s a beat of silence, as if she’s waiting for something to dawn on me. “He has a Duchess.”

Oh.

So Nick is mine.

Fucking figures.

I glance over at the table. Haley has her head tipped back now, feet swinging leisurely as Remy draws something intricate enough that his brows are furrowed in concentration. Feeling that same hot, inner twist, I shake the container of cheese and the shredded pieces fly all over the place. “Shit.”

“It’s fine.” Verity collects it all in a napkin and wipes it into her hand, glancing at the frown I’m too slow to hide. “Are you okay?”

“I just…” I don’t know how to word this or why I even care. “It seems like the Duchess would do that stuff for all of them. Why do Sy and Remy even have a ring girl?”

She laughs and tosses the napkin and cheese into the trash. “Ah, you don’t know a lot about DKS, do you? I mean, you know about the Royal stuff, obviously, but not about our frat or the West End.” It isn’t said in a snotty sort of way, but it still makes my teeth gnash. “The West End doesn’t have a lot of resources,” she patiently explains. “The gym is great, don’t get me wrong. We have a lot of trainers around here, and sometimes Saul can spare someone from the Athletic Department, but for the most part?” She tilts her head toward the frat. “The fighters are responsible for their own team. That’s why the Duchess is always pre-med. It gives the Dukes a better medic than we’re used to.”

I give her a wry look. “So, what, they’re using Haley because I’m not training to become a podiatrist or whatever?”

Verity averts her gaze, an awkwardness settling across her features. “It isn’t actually my business, but if I had to guess? They probably just don’t think it’s something you’d want to do. Or maybe it’s a trust thing. They’ve had Haley for a long time, and you’re…”

“The enemy,” I mutter, straightening the salt and dressings. Everything seems ready. “Look, is there a manual for all this somewhere? Because I’m going to need one to know when I’m supposed to be somewhere early, or when I’m supposed to just sit still and look like a whore.” Jaw tightening, I add, “Or when I’m not supposed to look like a whore. Is there like a dress code chart or something? Showing up looking like a hooker at a church picnic isn’t my jam.”

She grins. “You look fine.”

“Not according to your mother.”

She sighs, throwing a look in Mama’s direction. “Hey, I’m sure the Dukes think you look spectacular.” Well, at least two of them. Beaming, she adds, “And they’re the only ones who matter.”

“Yikes.” I grimace. “You girls don’t just drink the Kool-Aid, you chug it.

Rolling her eyes, she starts back to the kitchen. That’s the cool thing about Verity compared to these other people. She seems able to take a few lighthearted barbs. That must be why something niggles at the back of my brain. Straightening my spine, I follow her in, finding her standing in front of an open drawer, sorting through a huge container of flatware.

I lean against the counter, watching. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

She hands me a bundle of forks that I need both hands to grasp. “You’ve known the guys for a while, right? Longer than just them being in DKS?”

She nods. “Yeah, my Mama knows their parents from back in the day.”

“Right.” A few forks slip and I squeeze my hands tighter. “Do you know who Tate is?”

She freezes. It’s almost indiscernible, but I catch it. “Tate who? The guy’s Tate?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” I readjust the bundle, watching Verity carefully. “She just… Remy mentioned her. It seemed like they’re close.”

“Boy, it’s been a while since I’ve heard that name.” She grabs her own handful of utensils, but again hesitates, this time looking up at me. “I know you want to understand how to be the best Duchess. Sometimes that means not picking at old wounds.”

“I’m not trying to pick at any wounds here, I’m just…” Huffing, I glance at the door, thinking of him out there, using another canvas, and wondering why that’s rubbing my insides so numb. “Remy had this really scary episode the other day. It just seems like the more I know about him, the better I can navigate his issues. This Tate girl seems important to him.” Important enough that he’s risking everything to change history. “Just tell me, Verity.”

She holds my gaze for a suspended moment, searching my eyes. Whatever she sees there makes her sigh. “Tate Cross used to run with them when they were kids. They were all crazy inseparable, like… best friends. Everyone figured if they pledged, she’d end up being their Duchess, but the truth is, Tate wasn’t Duchess material.” She tosses me a significant look, grinning. “Tate wasn’t guy material, if you catch my drift.”

I process what she says, realizing. “So she wasn’t like…a girlfriend.”

“No more than Remy is.” Verity laughs, but her smile is short-lived. “She died a few years back. Suicide.” Her eyes move to the door, a sadness etched into her features. “It really messed them up. I think… I think maybe they blame themselves. Or maybe they blame each other. Either way, after Tate died, Remy was never the same. Nick ran off to South Side and joined up with the Lords. Sy dedicated himself to the fight.” She meets my gaze, voice lowering. “Don’t tell my mom, but a small part of me might be a bit relieved I didn’t get picked for Duchess. They’re amazing, but I doubt they’d ever let another girl in. In a way…” Her head tilts as she assesses me. “In a way, I guess it had to be someone like you. Someone who isn’t a friend.” She pulls back a little, eyes widening, “I mean… I don’t mean… that’s not to say they hate you, or—”

“Chill out,” I say, halting her. “I get it. Or, at least, it doesn’t bother me. My shitlist is as long as my forearm, and they might not be at the top, but they’re pretty fucking close.”

She nods, smoothly accepting this. “Plus,” she adds, throwing me a wink. “Now that I don’t have to be pre-med, I can drop my organic chem class. Silver linings. That’s my thing.”