Dukes of Ruin: Chapter 20

“Vinny,” Remy says, pushing his nose right into her cheek. “Be a good girl and get me a drink.”

We’re at a table of twenty DKS, most too absorbed with their food to notice this little exchange, but Sy and I make eye contact across the table. This is probably as close as Remy gets to asking nicely for anything, and Sy seems as curious as I do to see how she’ll respond.

She pauses, fork hovering an inch from her mouth, and slowly lowers it back to her plate. She’s been quiet and solemn the whole dinner—probably pissed about us not telling her all the criteria for her Duchess position. If I had to wager a guess, I’d say she’s under the impression we did it on purpose in an attempt to humiliate her. That’s probably easier to swallow than the truth, which is that none of us actually care about her public-facing role as Duchess. She’s here for me, not DKS. That’s why I want her looking like this, all hard and soft and sexy. Let everyone see her skin and know whose fingers get to touch it. All I want to do is peel those pants off and play with what’s underneath, but unfortunately, we have obligations. Sitting through this dinner is one of them.

Remy’s arm is curled around her hip, thumb tucked under the waist of the leather pants. From the placement and shift of the shiny leather, he’s rubbing small circles over the tattoo he’d put on her. It still chafes to know he did it. I can count the number of chicks he’s inked on one hand, and Lavinia somehow takes two of the spots. The brass Bruin was unavoidable, but the star?

What the fuck is that all about?

“Sure.” She swallows back her hesitation and untangles herself, taking care not to place her hand on me for balance as she squeezes through the chairs. “Lemonade or tea?”

He turns to give her that lopsided grin that girls around here always go crazy for. “Mix a little of both together?” When all she does is turn to the drinks table, he calls out, “Thanks, Vin!”

I watch her retreat, eyes tracing every counter of her ass in those pants. “What did you do to her, Remy?”

He stabs a few leaves of lettuce on his fork. “What do you mean, what did I do? She’s here to serve us, right?”

“I think what Nick is asking,” Sy says, leaning on his elbows, “is how did you get her to do that without scratching your eyes out first?”

I watch as she begins filling the cup. “To be fair, there’s still time for her to slip some arsenic into your drink. Or at the very least, spit in it.”

“We all know it wouldn’t stop me.” When Sy and I just stare at him, waiting, Remy shrugs. “You saw her talking to Mama before. I think this attitude adjustment is more about being on the receiving end of a lecture than anything else.” His lips curl and I have the fleeting thought that he looks better today than I’ve seen him in weeks—maybe even years. “Or it could be that I just ate her pussy that well.” His tongue flicks out, wagging obnoxiously.

“Jesus Christ,” Sy mutters, pushing his almost clear plate away. “I’m trying to eat.”

Remy reaches out to emphatically tap the table. “One day, brother, you’re going to learn that licking a woman’s pussy is the best meal a man can get.”

Sy responds by sliding his chair back and heading for the dessert table.

As I watch him go, I see someone enter the front door. “Shit,” I mutter, back straightening.

“What?” Remy asks.

I tilt my head toward the door. “Saul just walked in.”

His gaze follows mine, watching as Saul strides across the gym, his expensive shoes gleaming in the overhead lights. It’s been a few days since we’ve spoken. He’s giving us time to bask in our victory, to adjust to living in the belfry, but the Kings never rest for long. A new semester means new business. It’s always busy on the Royal front, and the crime trade around here doesn’t slow for regime changes.

It’s not unusual for a King to show up at a frat wide event, nor is it a surprise that he walks straight to us. I stand and drag Remy to his feet, appreciating the protocol. I don’t have any more respect for him than any other King, but Saul is our boss. I’ve never been a Duke before, but playing deference to a King?

I know that shit like the back of my hand.

“Pretty Nick Bruin,” he says, flashing me a grin. His hand thrusts out, and I catch the glint of his ring before shaking it. The worst thing about using my name to gain entry into the royalty is the fact I have to share a ring with him. “How’s the belfry treating you?”

“Good,” I say, matching my grip to his. Saul’s history is linked a little too closely to my own—my family’s relationship intertwined with his. “It’s an adjustment, but nothing I can’t handle.” Over his shoulder I see Lavinia turn away from the table, a cup in each hand. She pauses when she spots Saul, instantly turning back to the drink spread. “I like a good challenge.”

“Yes, you do,” he replies, gaze moving to my right. Saul never quite looks like he knows how to approach Remy, but he keeps trying, and it’s no wonder why. Remy is heir to the Maddox fortune, and that makes him more valuable than any other DKS, no matter how unbalanced and strange he might seem. “And, er, how about you, Remington?”

Remy’s not quite as into following protocol as I am, so only half his attention is on Saul. The other half is on the piece of garlic bread he just crammed into his mouth. “Fine,” he says, chewing with a thoughtful expression. “The tower’s soul hasn’t wasted me yet, so that’s a plus. A lot of people look up there and see decay, but it’s just a skin, and that,” he jabs the bread toward Saul, “is something I can work with.”

“That sounds… positive.” I don’t really like the way Saul smiles at him, the tilt of his mouth a touch too patronizing. Remy’s not a goddamn child. He doesn’t even sound crazy once you understand his language. He’s just saying the tower is better than people give it credit for. He’s saying he respects its history, which means he respects the institution. It’s a fucking compliment.

And Saul has the nerve to look all indulgent. “You’ve always been quite the character, kid. You just tell your daddy that the tower could use some work. The West End needs business from people like him.” I’m careful to keep the scowl off my face when Saul puts his back to him, speaking directly to me. “So, look, I need to take care of some business with Miss B, but you three come find me when you finish dessert. We need to talk.”

“Yes, sir,” I reply, locking gazes with Remy as Saul claps me on my back. The two of us watch as he heads over to where Mama’s standing, arms crossed, leaning against the office door. Everyone knows they go way back, but the way she looks at his approach is a mixture of exasperation and endurance, so who even knows what that history looks like. Saul runs his hand down her arm, leaning in to say something to her. When they step into the office, closing the door behind them, I finally let my glare free.

“You shouldn’t let people like him treat you like that,” I tell Remy. “He talked down to you, and then he basically shut you out. Fuck that shit.”

But Remy just gives me a blank look, shrugging. “People like him only know two ways to treat me.” Instinctively, I know which people he’s talking about. The Kings. His dad. Old, powerful shitheads who see Remy and wonder why he isn’t locked in a padded room. He looks at his slice of garlic bread a little too intensely, jaw going sharp. “Trust me, this is the better of the two.”

We’re interrupted by Sy, who lets out a loud whistle, getting everyone’s attention. He’s standing at the head of the room, watching as all eyes turn on him. “Tomorrow is the second Fury of the semester!”

There’s a sudden burst of cheers, so loud that Lavinia’s shoulders rise toward her ears as she shuffles over from the drink table. As soon as she hands the drink off to Remy, I grab her arm, hauling her into my side.

Remy nudges me with his elbow. “Isn’t that supposed to be you up there?” Dukes only have one leader—the King—but I’m a Bruin. I’m the blood legacy. Everyone’s expecting me to be the face of the belfry, but I’d rather be its fist.

I shrug.

It just feels right that it’s Sy up there, commanding the crowd with nothing but his quiet power and simmering intensity. If DKS is expecting flash, then they’re not going to get it. Not in the way they’re expecting.

Looking sour, he continues, “I know you’re all used to the Dukes hyping the suspense of which house we’re going up against on Fridays. Throwing out clues, making you guess, running bets. But we’re not those Dukes.” His eyes pass over the members, skittering over the cutsluts. “No frills, no fuss, no bullshit. Tomorrow night, we fight against the Beta Nu.”

I watch as the news rolls over the room, fists rising in the air as the guys cry out in approval. Jaiden Spann yells out, “Hell yeah! Fuck the Barons!” and everyone echoes, “Fuck the Barons!”

Sy doesn’t savor it, his voice slicing easily through the celebration. “It’s not about who we’re fighting. It never has been. It’s about showing Forsyth that the West End is still in the game. It’s about winning.” His dark eyes land on Remy’s. “I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of everyone else coming out on top. The Princes, the Barons,” his eyes land on me, “the Lords,” and then Lavinia, “the Counts. Every year, they steal our glory. This is the only hype talk you’re going to get, so listen the fuck up.”

He raises his chin, and for a second, it’s just like we’re kids again—Sy bossing all of us around, but being so competent at it that we never thought to push back very hard. “This year, we’re going to win the game. It might get ugly. It might get bloody. Some of you may go to jail or get permanently injured.” He shrugs. “But that’s a sacrifice we’re willing to make.”

There’s a swell of playful ‘boos’ that makes Sy’s lips twitch.

“It’s a new year with new leadership, and it’s time to prove you’re worthy of being part of the Bruin Family.” He holds up his fist and shouts, “To the victor go the spoils!”

“Wow,” Lavinia says, from next to me, “Your brother really gets into this, doesn’t he?”

Instinctively, I pull her close. “It’s in my blood, but he’s the one born for it,” I admit. “He wants this—needs it—more than me, anyway. Ambition is what keeps Sy’s robot parts chugging along. It’s one reason I came back.”

“How so?”

“He could’ve been a Duke without me, but there would have been a challenge over leadership. With me here, there’s no question. I’m the true legacy, but Sy can take the reins. Being King isn’t my goal. But Sy?” I send her a look.

Her forehead furrows and I’m sure she’s trying to figure out why a guy like me would walk away from power. I like power as much as the next guy, but I don’t like being locked into a system. I smooth her forehead out with my fingers and say, “We’ve got to meet with Saul before we head out. You can help the girls clean up, and we’ll meet you back out here in twenty.”

“Whatever you say, your highness.” She bows dramatically, voice dripping with sarcasm, but my cock twitches between my legs and I drag her back.

Dipping my mouth to her ear, I whisper, “Don’t forget I’m collecting on our negotiation—tonight.” I lick a hot, swift stripe along her neck, smirking when she hurls herself away from me, burning me with a scowl. In response, I pass her, giving her ass a sharp smack. “Stay frosty, Little Bird.”

Sy gives me a hard look as I walk up to him and Remy. “If looks could kill. You’d be a smoldering corpse right now.”

“Don’t worry. I plan to lock up all the weapons in my bedroom. Well…” I grab my cock. “Except for this one.”

I grasp the knob to the office door and turn, pushing it open. I hear the knocking first—the bang-bang-bang of the pencil holder on the desk—but then I get an eyeful of Saul’s pasty ass, pounding into Mama. Her skirt is pushed past her hips, knees bent around his waist.

“Oh, shit! My bad.” I back out quickly, pushing Sy out of the way so I can slam the door.

Remy frowns. “What’s up?”

“You know how there’s that rumor about Saul and Mama having a history?” I don’t bother hiding my grimace. “Well, it’s not a rumor anymore. He’s fucking railing her in there.” Short, breathy cries come from the office, confirming my statement. Sy shares my look of disgust, but Remy lets out a barking laugh.

A few moments later, the door opens.

Mama gives me a hard, admonishing look. “Next time, knock, Nicholas.” She smoothes down her skirt, and shit, what a total G. She isn’t even blushing.

“Miss B,” Saul calls, tucking in his shirt. “You’re always good to me, darlin’.”

“Yeah, well, I wish I could say the same about you.” She pats me on the cheek and walks back into the gym, waving over her shoulder. “Don’t take too long, boys. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sy says, nose wrinkling as we enter the office. Saul is now completely put back together, no sign of what just took place other than the toppled pencil cup on the desk. He moves behind it and settles into Mama’s chair, looking disgustingly relaxed.

Goddamn, I know it’s a sad day when an old fucker like Saul Cartwright is getting more action than me.

“It’s time to get the gears turning on business this year, boys,” he says, leaning back. “I’ve got a job for you.”

“What kind of job?” Sy asks.

“You get the filing done?”

“Drilled and welded, just like I was taught,” Remy replies, leaning indolently against the door. “It’s all packed up, ready to ride.”

Saul nods. “Good, then it’s time to drive it. It’s just a standard pickup and delivery. Simple, but important.”

“Sure,” I reply. “No problem.”

“I know it isn’t,” Saul responds, giving me a long look. “You did some deliveries for Daniel, didn’t you?”

Killian would get his panties in a twist if I were going around yapping about the Lords’ business, even if it wasn’t his, so I keep my answer vague. “Here and there.” The truth is that Daniel was big on the ladder system. Delivery work is a grunt’s job. Everyone had to do it at some point, even his own son. The thought of starting a new climb from the bottom rung lingers bitter in the back of my throat.

He nods and picks up a paperclip. “How’s the Lucia girl doing?”

The three of us share a quick look and there are too many undercurrents there to itemize. “She’s a pain in the ass.” Because his undercurrent is mostly hostility, Sy begins aggressively listing off, “Disruptive, defiant, depraved.”

Saul smirks. “Gets your dick hard, huh?”

Sy crosses his massive forearms over his chest. “No.”

“She’s not so bad.” Remy says this with a knitted brow, like this is something that’s just now dawning on him. “And really, when you think about it, stars are just big balls of fire. That’s what Vinny is. A pinpoint of light from far away, but get her close enough, and boom. Bitch goes supernova.” A slow smile creeps onto his face. “Never a dull moment in the belfry.”

I push my hands into my pockets, knowing I have to choose my words carefully. Saul taking interest in my woman would be a problem. “She’s adjusting. She’s out there right now cleaning up with the cutsluts.”

Saul laughs darkly. “You could have had any one of those girls. Mama B says she has a nice crop this year, all trained up right. Instead, you want the enemy. You’re as bad as the Lords, picking the only bitch they couldn’t have.” He shakes his head, and I just barely restrain myself from correcting him. The Lords have their Lady. But Saul gives me an exasperated look. “I knew nothing would come easy with you. The blood of a Bruin and the nature of a Payne? God fucking help us if the Count bitch has any influence on you.” He points to Sy. “Now your brother? He’s got the discipline of a Duke. That’s what I need.”

Unconcerned, I shrug. “I may not be easy, but I get the job done.”

The Bruin thing is getting to him. It’s as obvious as the cum stain beside his zipper. Saul’s had three years to mold my brother into the seasoned, dutiful fighter he is today. I guess I get it. Back then, Sy was the biggest threat to his crown. Now it’s me.

And he has no control.

He taps the paperclip on the desk. “I’m worried about you, Nick. You’re a good soldier, but you run hot.” At my unblinking stare, he explains, “I got a call from Lionel Lucia the other day. Seems like someone broke into his mansion. Well, ‘break-in’ may be a generous term for someone who waltzed right through the door with his own security code.”

There’s a lightness to his tone, one I know not to mistake for approval. I lift my chin, not bothering to lie. Saul needs to learn just how hot I run. “The Duchess wanted something from the house, and I got it for her.”

From my periphery, I can see Sy’s head slowly turn to stare at me. I haven’t told him I broke into the mansion. I knew he’d tell me not to do it, or worse, we’d fight about it, and those fights never help either of us.

Saul’s expression is stone. “Did it ever cross your mind it was a setup? An opportunity for the Lucias to take down a wet-behind-the-ears, cocky-as-fuck Royal?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Of course it did. But if that was the plan, they failed.”

He stares at me for a long moment. “Do you want to tell me what was so important to the girl that you risked getting captured, mauled, or worse?”

“I don’t know,” I answer, sounding purposefully bored with the discussion. “I didn’t look.”

“Jesus Christ,” Sy hisses, shoving my shoulder. “What the fuck, Nick? It could have been a weapon!”

“For fuck’s sake!” I shout, tired of them assuming I’m an idiot. “It wasn’t a weapon. It was an opportunity.” I look at Saul. “You let me in because I’m a Bruin, but everyone in this room knows my name means jack shit. I’m an asset because I’m quick on my feet and I can take care of myself. I know more about running between Kingdoms than anyone here, so don’t call me cocky for being good at what I do.”

Saul went rigid about halfway through that rant, and now he’s just sitting there, silent, eyes narrowed. He lets the tension in the room grow before speaking. “You have Royal blood, and you did a lot of dirty work for Daniel, but you didn’t grow up in this world, son. Your father abdicated his position. To me. I want you to take a few days to think about what that means.” He flattens his palms against the desk, standing, voice rising with each word. “This is a fragile ecosystem. There are rules and procedures, and in no goddamn way do you fuck with a King without approval!” He holds my eye, veins bulging. “Especially not Lucia! Do you understand?”

This argument has nowhere to go but nuclear. It’s why I concede, “Yes,” and I even shrug as I say it, like it’s no skin off my back.

“Good.” He gestures to the door. “I’ll text you the drop-off location tomorrow night, and then you can prove to me how well you actually follow orders.”

“Yes, sir,” Sy says, and the three of us leave the room.

We stand in the hallway for a suspended moment, stiff with the tension of the argument. I know Sy’s going to speak before he even turns to me, voice low and cutting. “You son of a bitch.”

I smirk. “I don’t think mom deserves that.”

“Seriously,” Remy says. He’s been quiet this whole time, but now he looks at me, and I don’t like what I see in his expression. It’s wary, distrustful. “What the hell was that? You broke into Lucia’s place?”

I push my hair back, grinding my fingertips into my scalp. “Give me a break. She wanted something. I needed leverage. You know how we work.” Ignoring Sy’s judgmental stare, I insist, “I was careful! It was barely a job—in and out. If I’d done something like that back in high school, you would have laughed your asses off and begged me for details.”

“That was before we ever had to question your loyalty,” Sy snaps.

It lands just as sharply as he means it to, making my expression shutter. “You’re questioning my loyalty?” I thumb the corner of my bitter smile, looking between them. “Where was your loyalty when you believed the police report about Tate?”

There’s a short pause, both of them staring at me, before Sy answers in a flat voice. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the two of you, actually buying that Tate killed herself!”

Sy looks at me like I’ve just suggested the moon is made of cheese. “She did kill herself. You saw the evidence, Nick. We all did!”

Despite the resentment settling heavy in my chest, I keep my voice even. “She was murdered.”

There’s a moment where Sy looks at me with such utter confusion that I almost think he’s close to getting it. But then it falls away, his shoulders easing, and what’s left behind is even worse.

“Nicky,” he begins in this infuriatingly patient tone. “Grief is complicated. I know you need someone to blame—something to fight. But Tate wasn’t—”

I surge forward. “Did you know she put down a deposit on an East End apartment two days before she died? She never moved a single thing in. She never got the chance.” When all they do is stare at me, I insist, “Who puts a deposit down on a new place if they aren’t intending to live?!”

Sy shakes his head, and I almost wish he’d get in my face again, because this quiet, solemn thing he’s doing? It’s void of anger. Empty of fight. “Nick, that’s not how it works. Suicide can be an act of impulse. It isn’t always planned. Tate had a sickness, and she didn’t want us to see it, but that doesn’t mean—”

I stab a finger into his chest. “She never would have used one of our guns.” To Remy, I stress, “Never.”

Tate abhorred the gun trade in the West End. While being a fist of Forsyth was fun to her, being its bullet was never her destiny. There were days we talked about it—becoming Dukes, running the firepower. Tate wasn’t interested, but she also wasn’t surprised. Part of me likes to believe she had faith that we’d find a way to do it better, bring some change to the system. But she hated it. Sometimes she refused to even get into a car if she knew we were packing. By contrast, the three of us never cared much. Hell, back in high school, I used to flaunt it. My very first gun, given to me by my Pops, was a prized possession.

And they think she used it to put a bullet in her head.

Tate never would have put that guilt on me.

Not intentionally.

It doesn’t matter that we had fundamental differences about it. Tate respected us—loved us like her own flesh and blood—and it didn’t matter that she had tits. She was our brother. In a lot of ways, she was the only thing that held us together, and it strained her. I fucking know it strained her. But she wouldn’t have checked out like that. She would have fought until her last breath.

I look at Remy, whose face has turned to ash, and I almost feel bad for putting this on him. Another lecture Sy is sure to give me—a reminder that Remy’s too fragile for something like this.

I’m just so fucking sick of the suspicion and snide remarks.

With a dead-eyed stare, Remy wonders, “Who would want to kill Tate?” and I know what he’s thinking. To us, she was so full of life.

“I don’t know.” It might be the worst part of this confession, admitting that I don’t have the answers. “But if I wanted to find out? If I wanted to be loyal?” I turn toward the gym, bumping Sy’s shoulder as I pass. “I’d probably start by infiltrating South Side.”

I lost my virginity when I was fourteen to a girl from Preston Prep in the backseat of her brand-new BMW. It was after a football game. Preston had some all-star quarterback, Emory something or the other, and we were getting slaughtered, so I went out to the parking lot to smoke a joint. This beautiful girl in a short red and black plaid skirt came up to me and took a hit. We got high, and I pretended to be cool, kissing her like I had a fucking clue. I’d never had a boner so hard before. When she asked me to the back of her car, I thought I’d come before she got my pants down, but she was good—experienced—and her cunt was deliciously warm. Or at least that’s my memory of it. It’s definitely the way I told the story to Sy and Remy when I got home.

But really, what I took away from that night was the smell of the car’s rich, buttery leather. That’s why, to this day, when I smell expensive leather, I think of pussy and get a little hard.

Lavinia isn’t wearing real leather. It’s some kind of pleather synthetic, but that doesn’t stop my dick from expanding as I watch her peel them off.

The first time I saw her, years ago, she wasn’t much to look at, panting down at the asphalt, all small and pitiful looking. I remember being disappointed, because this girl was supposed to be dangerous. She was the epitome of North Side. Spoiled, raised by its King, Royal down to her golden hair—supposedly a murderer. But there she was, this little slip of a thing, eyes wide and ringed with exhaustion, posture screaming defeat.

But I was wrong.

Minutes later, the sole of her combat boot slammed into my jaw. I wrestled her down into the leather of Daniel’s backseat, touched my tongue to a loose molar, and that was that. I was in love.

I’ve been hard for her every day since.

A part of me misses the motel days. Those nights, I’d unlock the door to her shitty room and step inside. Sure, she’d give me this pissy, snobby look like I was to blame for everything wrong in her life, but that second between the door swinging wide and my foot stepping over the threshold, I’d see it.

Her whole face would brighten.

Just a flash—blink and miss it. It’d be a stretch to say she was happy to see me instead of whatever food or other necessity I was lugging in for her, but it didn’t make a difference to me. Sometimes the sight of it would be the only thing that got me through. That’s something Sy and Remy wouldn’t understand—how fucking empty it could get in South Side. No one trusted me. No one liked me. Damn sure, no one was ever excited to see me.

No one but my Little Bird.

“That smile makes you look so fucking deranged,” she mutters, pushing the pants to her ankles. Getting out of those tight motherfuckers takes work and I’m happy to supervise.

Eyes locked on her creamy thighs, my grin widens. “I’d believe that if my name was Deranged Nick, but it’s not, so I know I’m as handsome as ever.” She rolls her eyes and sighs—oh yes, this is a burden—before pulling her shirt over her head.

God, her tits are spec-fucking-tacular. The kind of tits that are begging to be cupped in a palm, caressed by a tongue, and I take my own shirt off at the sight of them, thinking of how they’d feel against my bare chest. Unfortunately, she won’t hear about coming to bed naked—although I don’t fucking know why. She does it with Remy. Lets him feel all her flesh against his. Lets him bury his mouth between her thighs and get a taste of her cunt. But me? I have to keep coming up with shit to bribe her with.

Shit’s getting old.

I didn’t give her a chance to go back to her loft when we got home from family dinner. I just announced, “It’s bedtime,” and pointed to the door. I was prepared for a fight—looking forward to it, actually—but she just kicked her shoes off by the door and walked right in here.

Sy and Remy disappeared up to the belfry and I haven’t heard a word out of them since.

I guess it’s meant to be like this. Them on one side, my Little Bird and I on the other. Just like old times.

I watch as she works her arms into the shirt I left out for her—my compromise. It’s an old Friday Night Fury t-shirt my dad gave me in middle school. It’s soft and worn almost through. Her nipples press at the thin fabric and the hem grazes the bottom of her ass. My cock jumps eagerly. It’s been this way since she shoved her hand down my pants earlier, when my stupid brother cockblocked me.

When all she does is stand in the middle of my room, arms crossed, I nod to the empty side of the bed. “What are you waiting for? My brother isn’t going to interrupt this time. No one’s going to save you.”

She scowls, walking over to the side of the bed. “I don’t need saving.” She doesn’t get in, though. She pauses and looks around. “Why don’t you have anything of your own in here? Sy has books and frat stuff. And Remy… well, his room almost has too much of himself.”

I look at my bare walls. Other than the bed, the room came with a dresser and a desk, a ladder leading up to the catwalk toward the duct. My backpack and laptop are on the desk. My clothes are in the dresser and closet. “I don’t like extra shit. I have everything I need,” I say, giving the empty swath of bed a pointed look. “Or I’m about to.”

She finally relents, perching on the edge of the mattress. “It’s just kind of weird,” she says, fingers toying with the blanket. “I have more personal stuff in the loft than you have down here. I mean, I’m actually the one being held against my will, but you live like you’re in a prison cell. What’s that about?”

A flicker of annoyance runs through me. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

She shrugs. “I guess I’m curious.”

“Curious about me, or about why you can’t find something to manipulate me with?” I lunge for her waist and drag her the rest of the way on the bed.

“Paranoid.” She reclines stiffly next to me, hands folded against her stomach, refusing to be arranged.

I explain, “You’re not getting more about me than I want you to have.”

She turns her head, staring at me. “What are you talking about?”

I touch the soft curve of her jaw, mapping out the patches of skin I’d like to greet with my mouth. This one, right below her ear. That’s where I’d put my teeth. “Come on. You know this dance we’re doing, Little Bird. This tit-for-tat arrangement where we hold leverage over one another? It’s a Royal game. A King’s game.” My fingertips trail down her throat, skating over her chest. “I’m sure you learned plenty from your father, but I learned it from Daniel Payne, and I guarantee you he was better at it.” Her hand is soft when I reach it, knitting my fingers between her delicate knuckles. “You’re not going to see anything about me that I’m not ready to show you.”

She let me move her hand to my crotch, pushing her palm against my cock. She even has the good grace to not look like she wants to stab my eyes out. Her gaze follows her touch as she warily squeezes me through my jeans. I wonder what happened at family dinner to make her like this—quiet and thoughtful and testing—but mostly I just feel hot. Like fucking sweat springing up, skin burning, wanting nothing more than to rip that shirt off her body and press mine against all of that cool softness.

Breath deepening, I reach out to touch her chin, turning it toward me. “Kiss me.”

Her mouth thins into a tense line. “That’s not part of the deal.”

It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to fist my hand into her hair and take it for myself. I could—we both know it. But it wouldn’t be as good as it was last time, when she tipped her face up to me, inviting me inside.

So I clamp down on the instinct, and for my troubles, her fingers begin inching toward the buckle on my jeans.

I link my hands behind my head and wait.

Her movements are methodical, measured. The clink of the buckle as it slips away, the tines of the zipper spreading apart—all of these things are done with an exacting precision that electrifies my every nerve. The barest touch of her knuckle against my skin is enough to make my belly cave and my balls clench.

Lifting onto an elbow, she rolls onto her side, hooking her fingers into my waistband and shoving it down my hips. I savor the sight of it, the little aborted movement she makes when my cock gets trapped inside my pants, the way her mouth scrunches up when she has to push harder to free it.

My cock springs out of my pants—finally—lobbing with weight, and impatiently, I kick the legs of the pants off to get them out of my way. I fight the urge to grab her by the back of the neck and force those lips down on my cock, to flip her over and pound into her pussy. Because if I did, I’d miss the way her teeth trap her bottom lip as she looks at me, gaze fixed on my cock like a tangible heat. It’s not the first time they’ve been face to face—briefly. I wonder if she’s thinking about last Christmas—but it’s the first time she’s looked at it with something other than disgust.

She tilts her head like she’s assessing a particularly baffling task.

It makes my dick jerk, clear pre-cum seeping down the hood, and she flinches at the sight of it. But she also kicks into gear, reaching out to glide her thumb over the tip. A deep, bone rattling shudder runs through me, and my hips rise.

“Yeah, Little Bird. Touch me.”

She frowns but skims her fingers down my shaft, sending tremors across my nerves. Again, my hips fight to buck, but I breathe deep, happy to take the scenic route.

“Cocks are weird,” she blurts.

Her voice is muted by the blood pumping in my ears. “Huh?”

“Dicks, cocks, penises. They’re fucking weird.” She looks at me from under her eyelashes. “Your brother’s is a beast.”

I snort. “A demon that rides on his shoulder more than swings between his legs.” Her lips curve at that—the barest hint of a smile—and it’s almost as exhilarating as her fingers wrapping around my shaft. It’s why I ask again, voice low with strain. “Kiss me.”

The smile vanishes. “No.”

Rejection burns in my chest, but I push past it. “I bet you can’t find anything weird about my cock. I’ve never had any complaints.”

She studies it for a moment, actually running her palm down the shaft. A hum builds in my throat and my balls threaten to burst. “It’s got a slight curve.” She dips her head and raises an eyebrow. “And your balls are fucking huge.”

“That curve is what makes it feel so good inside,” I tell her, placing my hand over hers. I force her fingers to spread, to clamp around the shaft, then guide it up and back. “And my balls are legendary around these parts. It’s why no one fucking messes with me.”

The sight of her fingers wrapped around me is almost enough to finish this. One of the best things about Lavinia is how un-fussy she is. Her nails are tidy, not painted and sharp. Her hair always smells clean, not weighed down by noxious products. There’s no artifice to her. No mask. No bullshit. She’s beautiful without ever intending to be. I spent two years in South Side and Lavinia Lucia was the only real thing about it.

I force her hand up and down, building a rhythm as I watch her, that studious gaze locked on my dick. Her eyelashes fan against her cheeks with every slow blink, teeth raking over her lip as she takes over, moving her fist. I release her hand and touch her chin. “Kiss me, Little Bird.”

“We didn’t agree to that.”

“Every—” Her hand pushes at the tip and I grunt. “Everything is negotiable. You know that.”

Her movements take on a life of their own, wrist twisting on every upstroke, brushing my balls on every downstroke. She’s toying with me, eyes flicking to mine with an experimental squeeze. When I bite out a soft curse, her tongue peeks out to soothe the notches her teeth have made in her lip.

“It’s too much,” she says, seemingly unaware of what she’s doing to me. Is that possible? That she’s unaware? Doubtful. She’s the smartest Royal woman I’ve met. “There’s nothing you can give me that’d be worth it.”

“There has to be something.” I push up, running the tip of my nose along the line of her jaw. “Anything. More books? One of those digital readers? More shit from your house?” Her nails graze my balls and I hiss. Fuck, this is good—better than I expected. She’s hot, her tits pressing against my shirt, her hand moving in quick, firm motions. I should be happy with it, but I’m smelling her hair and panting into her neck, and I want more.

I want everything.

I want to dig my way into her cunt. I want to hold her down so tightly that she can’t even breathe. I want to hurt her, just to be the one who makes her feel something worth screaming for.

“Tell me what you want, Little Bird.” My mouth drags over her cheek, damp and stuttering. “Tell me and it’s yours. Just give me your mouth…”

She keeps her eyes down, staring at my dick. “Well, there’s one thing I want. Maybe…”

“Anything,” I shoot up, wincing at the ache in my balls. I grab her face with both of my hands while she keeps jerking me, my mouth hovering so close to hers that I can taste her breath. “Anything you want, I’ll do anything.”

She finally glances up, eyes heavy and bright. “I need you to steal something for me again.”

I nudge my lips against hers, eyes falling closed. “Deal. Whatever it is, I’ll get it for you.”

“You promise?” She whispers it against my waiting mouth, making me shudder.

I barely even recognize the sound of my own voice, tightened with strain and desperation. “Fuck, baby, whatever you want, just—”

Her mouth opens against mine.

My hands clamp against her head as my tongue plunges between her lips. She’s waiting for me, her tongue greeting mine with a slick, warm curl. The sound I make into her mouth is breathless and feral, and she doesn’t fight when I tilt my head, crushing her closer.

I always knew this would be the hard part with Lavinia. Pulling myself back once I got a taste. Not devouring her. Not ruining her. I struggle with it now, assaulting her mouth with frantic, bruising kisses. She follows me perfectly, mirroring my sucking retreat, only to let me back inside, her tongue meeting mine.

Eagerly.

Lavinia kisses just like I always hoped she would; impatient and a little bit mean. Her teeth nip into my lip, and then her tongue appears to push a bead of blood into my mouth. It pulls a ragged sound from my chest and she feeds it back to me, her hand jerking me relentlessly. My fingers knit into her hair and I know I’m probably pulling it too hard, but the whole universe narrows down to the tip of her tongue and the warmth of her palm, and when I yank her head to the side, sucking wild, frantic kisses into her neck, I begin babbling.

“So fucking good for me,” I’m saying, teeth scraping against her neck as the tickle builds behind my balls. “Can’t wait to fuck you again. It’s all I ever think about, Little Bird. Being inside you, watching you come for me.” Her rhythm escalates and I can feel my orgasm speeding toward me like a freight train. “Fuck,” I growl, pulling her mouth back to mine. I speak my next words on the crest of a gasp, slick against her tongue. “I love you.”

That’s how I come, kissing the refusal from her lips. I know she doesn’t want to hear it—doesn’t want to believe it—but I know deep in the pit of my wandering soul, this woman is mine.

Even if she never loves me back, I’m never letting her go.