Dukes of Ruin: Chapter 7

Wait for an opportunity.

Play nice.

Do what you have to.

The mantra slams around my head, but it’s the opposite of my nature. I get through it by way of a healthy imagination. I think of what it’d be like to cut this fucker’s balls off. Messy, I’m guessing, but probably satisfying. It helps keep the urgency writhing beneath my skin at bay for just a little while longer.

The sound of the party fades as Maniac takes me back upstairs. I know his name is Remy, but all I sense when I look at him is the wild eyes and erratic energy. ‘Maniac’ is more apt. Dude might be lucid tonight, but he violated me during the fight before he even realized I was one of the stakes at play. I’m well aware of that little bit of crazy he carries just beneath the surface, because I’ve got a little of my own.

I’d caught a glimpse of Nick’s laptop this morning.

It’s September 10th.

That gives me two weeks.

Fourteen days.

“Where are we going?” I ask, allowing my nerves to show through. I’m not thrilled about being alone with this guy, but he must be better than Nick. Aside from the constant looming threat of being locked in that elevator again, there’s no getting one over on him—not easily. Nick was my handler for far too long. He watches me like a goddamn hawk.

Maniac doesn’t answer, just whistles some creepy little tune as he twirls that marker between his fingers. We cross through the living space, past the kitchen, and into what I assume is his room. The instant I step over the threshold, I’m taking a mental inventory.

This is nothing like the rest of the tower.

The main room is a mash-up of what looks like discarded furniture that’s been collected over the years. I understand it. No one wants to lug furniture up all those steps, and I know all too intimately that the elevator isn’t big enough for anything elaborate. Nick’s room is barren and cold, barely looking lived in.

But going into Remy’s room is like stepping from South Side to North Side.

This one has electronics. A huge TV on one wall, a complicated computer system against another. It’s a big room, but most of it is set up as a tidy, makeshift workspace. There’s a wide drafting table splitting the area into two halves, sketch pads haphazardly scattered over the surface, along with cups full of paintbrushes and cubbies with a hundred different markers and tubes of pigment. A big, complicated-looking chair sits on one side of the drafting table, but the bed that’s shoved against the wall on the other side, blankets rumpled, seems like an afterthought. Just like his designer jeans and shoes, this room reeks of money that’s been spent by someone who paid no thought to it. I’m a Lucia. I know the signals. The ear pods that lay discarded on the bed. A takeout coffee cup seeping old liquid onto the nice table. Remy doesn’t take care of his things.

All the better for me.

There’s a tall mirror propped against the wall behind the chair, but what really draws my eye are the designs pinned everywhere. Some are vivid with color, electric blues and shocking reds, but some are oppressively gray and chaotic with darkness. In the sea of them, I can spot certain threads. Religious imagery, horror, anatomy, abstract designs that would take me hours to make heads or tails out of. All of them, however, are painfully intricate. Bold. Evocative. Anarchic.

My eyes pause for a long time on a row of canvases in particular. All of them are half-finished paintings of the night sky. There’s nothing really unique about them, except the fact there are so many. They look like pieces of a thought, pushed together as if they could finish a puzzle that lacks edges.

In a frantic attempt to look at anything else, I turn and see him. Shirtless, worn jeans slung low on his hips, revealing the fine trail of hair tapering below his navel. He’s inked with art just as elaborate as the designs gracing his walls. The image of the weeping Virgin Mary on his bicep, heart impaled by swords, catches my attention only briefly. Remy’s not the bulging muscle type like Sy or even Nick. His body is that lean sort of perfection, fast and efficient, like a snake coiled to strike. Mostly, I see the half-healed slash I’d made, and it’s with a detached sort of curiosity that I finally make out the tattoo I’d ruined. The words ‘momento mori’ are inked in an arch over his belly button, and below each side is a pair of guns in a cloud of smoke that fades into two distinct skulls. When he twists to turn on the light over the table, the scarring wound I’d made pulls the skull on his left side into an awkwardly distorted image, as if I’d just crossed that sucker out.

Good.

I’ve seen his cock, felt his hot cum against my skin, but I’ve also made this fucker bleed. I itch to pick at it. To tell him I’d take more, if I had the time. To say that I’d cross out all of his mementos, one by one, if I didn’t have more important things to do.

I snap my jaw shut before I can.

Wait for an opportunity.

Play nice.

Do what you have to.

See, Rath? I can keep my mouth shut.

Prick.

“Take off your clothes.”

I snap my gaze back to him, the smooth rumble of his voice just as jarring as the words. “What?”

He doesn’t even look at me. “Strip. Bare.” He slides the marker into his back pocket and walks over to the chair, fiddling with a lever beneath that makes it recline into a bed. It’s then that I realize this isn’t a chair. It’s just a different kind of workbench. “I want to see what I’m working with.”

I take this order calmly. I’ve accepted that he’s going to fuck me. That’s just a sacrifice I’ll have to make. The more compliant I am, the less injured I’ll get, the more of his guard he’ll let down.

At least that’s the plan.

I peel off my clothes, freeing myself from the twisted straps of the top, and pushing down the shorts that are so far up my ass it takes me a minute to dislodge them. Basically was already naked anyway, in the slut clothes Nick had brought for me. The lace panties go next, and I toss them all into a careless pile on the floor at my feet. Modesty is a virtue I’ve never thought much of, which was useful at the Hideaway. The whores would have made me pay for the luxury.

Even still, I have to force my hands down to my sides instead of covering myself. Not that I need to. It takes him forever to even acknowledge or look at me, distracted by flipping frantically through the pages of a sketchbook. After a minute or three, he stops on one, giving the page three decisive taps. He sets the sketchbook down on the desk, smoothes the page with a careful palm, and finally turns, taking me in.

His green eyes pin me like a bug, but it’s not so much the staring that makes me want to squirm. It’s the way his shoulders go lax, chest contracting with a slow exhale. It’s the slackness of his mouth as his gaze rakes down my torso, over my tits, down my belly. It’s the way he thumbs thoughtfully at his lip, head tilted, like he’s trying to solve a long equation.

When he speaks, I’m certain he can see me flinch. “We can do this one of two ways.”

This. I still have no fucking clue what this is.

“Okay.”

“Depends on which one of you showed up today.” His dark gaze zeroes in on my knees as he picks up another marker, spinning it. A nervous tic? A restless fixation? “Are you the good girl I saw upstairs with Nick? Or are you the bad girl I’m gonna have to tie down?” From the way the corner of his mouth twitches, I’m not sure which one he prefers.

But I don’t waste the opportunity, flashing him an empty smirk. “I’ll be a good girl.” You motherfucker.

“We’ll see,” he says, giving the chair-bench a magnanimous pat.

It takes everything in me to comply—a bigger strength than I knew I possessed. I’m good at running away from problems, and I’m even better at kicking the ever-loving shit out of them. But this? Sliding my bare ass onto the cool vinyl, handing my body over to a maniac? My veins throb in resistance as I lay back, staring sightlessly into the ceiling.

Part of the vein-throbbing resistance may also be owed to my body, feeling as though it’s been put through a meat grinder. I never did get used to this part of punishment. The ache that lasts for days afterward. The impulse to stretch my muscles, over and over. The hollow sensation in the pit of my chest, like my guts have been rubbed to numbness.

And then he flicks on an overhead light. It’s so bright that it blinds me, putting every inch of my body on sterile, microscopic display. I squint against the glare, muscles going impossibly more rigid. This is starting to feel less like a possible tattoo and more like my kidneys are about to go missing.

“Not all flesh is the same,” he says, running the capped marker down the length of my thigh. “Some people have smooth skin. Others are bumpier. Keratin and such. I don’t mind it, but it’s not ideal. You bruise easily.” His face is a bare facsimile through the glare of the lamp, showing me nothing but the contemplative tilt of his head. “Is this all Nicky’s work?” I realize then that he’s tracing the bruises.

“Not all of them.”

He mutters over me, like he doesn’t even hear. “I sort of have a thing for freckles. Birthmarks. Scars.” He trails the marker over my knee. The skin there is rough and raised—a trophy from the chest my father used to lock me in. “Those little human imperfections. It’s like a galaxy of stars…” Something falls over his expression, eyes shuddering, and I get the impression he’s gone somewhere faraway. He quickly shakes it off. “Everyone’s skin is unique for the artist.”

“For your tattoos,” I stiffly clarify.

His eyes glaze over as he inspects my abdomen, trailing the marker around my belly button. “You’ve got a damn fine body, Lucia. Some people just see a flat surface to stick and poke, but I see the peaks and valleys. The curves. The angles.” The marker ascends, pressing into the soft skin below my breast. “I look at a body like yours and I see a living, breathing canvas. A potential masterpiece.”

My jaw tightens when he raises the marker, flicking it over my peaked nipple. “How many masterpieces have you created so far?”

The marker suddenly stops. “None.”

I don’t miss the tinge of disappointment in his tone, even though it makes no sense. He obviously inked himself, not to mention Nick. Probably half this frat has his designs covering their muscles.

Without explanation, he walks closer, startling me when he tucks a hand beneath the back of my neck, thumb digging into my jaw until I’m forced to arch my head back. He runs the marker up the center of my throat, right in the space where some targeted pressure could cut off my air supply. But somehow, nothing about it feels nearly as menacing as it should.

He’s almost… gentle as his eyes follow the path.

He’s mapping me, I realize. “I know what you’re thinking.” He speaks the words to my collarbones more than to me, looking absorbed in the drag of the marker. “You’ve got a storm of stars in your skin, and those bruises are really pretty. But I’m not going to tattoo you.”

I swallow, regretting it when his eyes instantly jump to the motion. “You’re not?”

He blinks, finally lifting that marker from my skin. “Sy’s got this whole idea.” He casually walks away, stopping at the middle of the bench. “I’m not really sure I agree with it, but I can relate. Something about holding onto certain parts of yourself.” I have no idea what any of that means, and when his gaze rises to mine, he must see it. “I never ink bitches with my art,” he explains.

I look away, letting the light blind me. “The tattoo on my back says otherwise.”

He gives a low, derisive chuckle. “That’s a tag—not art.” Suddenly, he grabs my hip, shoving me onto my side. My body clenches up, but to my relief, he doesn’t go for my exposed ass. He flicks the half-finished tattoo on my calf. “And neither is this. It doesn’t fit the area at all. It has zero imagination. No passion. It’s soulless. You pulled this shit out of a fucking binder and threw some money at a low-rent apprentice who just couldn’t wait to get you out of his chair. Shit’s embarrassing.”

I twist to insist, “It’s not done yet!”

He clutches my calf, fingers digging painfully into my skin. “This tattoo is fucking garbage.” His eyes flash with the same wild, chaotic anger I see on his walls. “It’s a whisper of a lie you didn’t even bother to breathe any life into. Add some color and shading, it won’t make a difference. This isn’t art or even a brand. It’s a performance. I can see it in your eyes, girl. You can’t put a snake on top of scales.”

“What are you even talking about?” I try to turn to my back, but he’s already pulling the cap off the marker with his teeth, holding my leg down.

“Stay quiet and still for ten minutes,” he says, face expressionless as he spits the cap onto the floor, “and I’ll think about letting you leave this bench with the same amount of bruises you came onto it with.”

A long, frustrated groan rips from my throat before I go limp.

Wait for an opportunity.

Play nice.

Do what you have to.

I look away when he puts the marker to my skin, the cool felt tip sketching against my flesh. Marker can be washed away. That’s what I remind myself as he bends over me, re-shaping my snake tattoo into whatever he thinks is more fitting. It could be worse. It could be the edge of a knife or the heat of a brand. That’s how Duchesses are usually marked—the Greek symbols of the DKS house signed into their flesh.

The most annoying thing is that he’s not even wrong. I’d gotten the outline done during my junior year of high school. Homecoming night. While the other girls in my class were getting into limos and sucking off their dates, I was walking the Avenue in search of something I didn’t quite understand yet. I just knew I wanted something permanent. Something I had complete control over. Something that hurt.

I walked into the first parlor I saw, flipped through their binders of cliché designs, and chose a serpent that didn’t immediately repulse me.

But when the woman—not a guy—asked me what colors I wanted, I locked up. Suddenly, complete control seemed like the worst thing ever. So I walked out with an incomplete design, nothing but the outline of a serpent winding up my calf, devoid of life. I spent the next year telling everyone I intended to finish it, but the truth is, I never did. It’s already a perfect depiction of what I am. An outline of a Lucia. The shape is there, but it has no substance or form. It’s exactly what my father always wanted.

Empty space.

Maniac spends a long time filling it. The longer he draws on my skin, the more the tension seems to bleed away—from him or me. It’s hard to tell. There’s just something about the motion, about the calm rhythm, that makes it hard to not relax. I fight it for a while, but the exhaustion from the last two days creeps up on me like a shadow, holding me just as still as he’d ordered me to be. I hadn’t slept in the elevator, even though I tried to. It’s always easier when I can. I remember that much from my time back home.

I tuck my hands beneath my cheek and lay there, blinking heavily as my eyes travel back and forth between the designs on the wall. He might be a fucking psychopath, but goddamn.

He’s really good.

It makes me take a furtive glance at him, watching wayward locks of platinum hair fall into his eyes as he tilts his head, wrist moving in elegant sweeps up my shin, my knee. It makes me wonder if brilliance requires a certain level of insanity. I think about the Lords and their King, so gifted on the football field that for Killian’s first three years at Forsyth, you couldn’t avoid seeing his face. Then there’s the Rath bastard, blemished musical prodigy. The Princes, The Barons—even the Counts have had some celebrity. I doubt there’s been a truly gifted male student in Forsyth who wasn’t part of the Royalty.

Then again, maybe the Kings just court the cream of the crop.

I watch as he draws, allowing my gaze to wander to his own tattoos. Sometimes he’ll swap out the marker for a finer point or a new color. This is a man who’s all hard angles and wild brutality, but here, he’s calm. Whatever frenetic energy usually surrounds him seems to be channeled into… this. The curl of his shoulder as he draws a long, swooping line up my thigh. The way his teeth sink gently into his lower lip, brow creasing in concentration as he chooses another marker. The darkness in his eyes remains, but the burn of them is gone. I think I’m so baffled by the transformation—so distracted by his fingertips on my skin—that I barely realize he’s tipping me onto my back again.

And the marker is going higher.

It’s been so long since I felt anything except anger and revulsion that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be touched without aggression or spite or painful displays of power. With soft fingertips. With care. With…passion. It might be meant for the design more than me, but turns out, my body doesn’t actually give a shit. It hits me as hard as a freight train and just as sudden—a white-hot bolt of want that settles like lava between my legs. I move my hand to cover my crotch, but he bats it away like an unruly fly.

It doesn’t get any better when he pries my knees apart, bringing his design up my inner thigh. The marker keeps climbing and climbing, and the closer it gets to my center, the more my muscles lock up, nipples stiffening.

Unexpectedly, he stops.

The marker lifts from my skin.

Breathing harder than I’d like, I ask, “Are you done?”

He moves closer, eyes rising. “Your pussy’s all red and irritated,” he mutters, stroking the newly waxed skin with his finger. “Nick?”

“No.” A tremor runs through my body and I try to twist away. If he keeps touching me like this, my pussy won’t be the only hot and irritated thing here. “They waxed it back at the whorehouse.”

His fingers chase me while his other hand hauls me back. Again, he runs a soft, cool finger into the overheated flesh, gaze locked on my mound. “They made you smooth for me—us, I mean.” My stomach flips, caught in the web between gentle touch and unwelcome invasion as his touch descends. It’s just the adrenaline crash of the elevator fucking with my nerves, making them flare to life against my will. The second he brushes against my clit, I react with a sharp quake, a full-on tremor that runs along the fault lines of my body.

He slowly lets me go, only to grab my thigh and return to marking me. I exhale, relieved he’s stopped. My body and mind are not on the same page. Out in the world, a guy like Remy would be my kryptonite. Not just his body, but his wild nature. It’s the volatility, like sitting too close to a flame. The feral guys. The unabashedly horny assholes. I always did have awful taste. But here, I need my wits about me. Even if I have to let him fuck me, enjoying it is not on the table. It’s a means to an end, an opportunity.

God, I wish he’d get it over with.

He picks up another marker, this one an inch thicker than the others. It has a wide tip that he uses to fill in spaces, and when he goes for a spot high on my inner thigh, I know he can feel the quiver in my muscles.

I know because I watch him go still again.

Slowly, his eyes climb to my pussy. It’s almost believable as an innocent shift of his wrist when the thick tip of the marker brushes against my clit. But I know better. I instantly try to snap my knees together, but it doesn’t stop him from pressing it between my outer lips, thrusting into the slit.

“I can smell it, you realize. Sweet, warm, wet pussy…” He wedges his free hand between my thighs, dragging in an obnoxious inhale. “Distracting and annoying. I already told Nicky I wouldn’t.” When he flicks his eyes to mine, he smirks. “What? Did you think I’d lie to my best friend? Your cunt’s not that good.” He breaks my gaze to watch the marker disappear into my slit. “Probably not that good.”

I curl my hands into tight fists, fighting against his hand with my thigh muscles. “It’s not.”

But he’s lost again. The same glaze that was in his eyes before has returned, lips parting as he pries my thighs apart. “But your body…” I know what’s coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier when the blunt end of the marker enters me. The more I squirm away, the deeper it goes. He watches it sink inside and says, “Bodies change when they’re fighting and fucking. Muscles contracting. Skin going tight.” He thrusts it deeper and I whip my head to the side, eyes clenched shut.

When I feel the pressure of his other hand on my clit, I beg through gritted teeth, “Don’t.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” He rubs two fingers into my clit as he fucks me with the marker. “You’re ours now. Ours to touch. Ours to look at.” He takes a deep, sharp breath, voice dropping a couple of octaves. “God, you’re fucking soaked. Don’t you want to come? That’s our job, you know. Keeping our Duchess satisfied. I’m not allowed to think of stars, but I can show you some.” I answer by trying to thrash away, but all I get for my efforts is his hard palm slamming into my upper chest. “It’s not too late to tie you down,” he warns, and even though his voice is full of that wild energy I haven’t been missing, his fingers are still rubbing a slow, decadent rhythm into my clit. “I want to see it and you’re going to show me.”

Wait for an opportunity.

Play nice.

Do what you have to.

I go lax, spreading my thighs for him.

He mutters a soft curse, and then, “That’s right. Good girls are nice, too.”

I fix my gaze to the drafting table, the glint of metal shining out at me from between the cubbies—scissors—and try to fade away, just like the elevator. I used to go to the river when I was a kid. Sometimes from the cliffs, it almost looks like an ocean. As if the other side of Forsyth is a world away and nothing could possibly touch you up there. That’s what I used to think about, back when my father put me in the chest. Beneath the blind panic and urgency, I’d wrestle myself into the memory like an astral projection. I try to go there now, imagining the misty wind against my cheeks, the cries of the birds above and below, the cracks of thunder in the distance.

“Can you see the stars, Vinny?” Remy fucks me with one hand and coaxes my clit to life with his other. He lets out these low, pleased sounds as my body clenches and shakes, but I don’t watch. I make myself an instrument for him. An object floating in a vast ocean, ebbing and flowing with the slow circles he’s pressing into me. I become nothing. Blank. Lifeless.

When I come, I bite my lip hard enough to taste salt.

Hours pass.

That’s how long it takes for the tower to grow still. The sounds of Nick and Sy returning upstairs and closing themselves in their rooms happened sometime after midnight. Remy fell asleep soon after dragging me over to his bed and telling me how unattractive he found girls who tossed and turned. I wait until long after his breath has evened out to ease upright, keeping my eyes on him the whole time.

I was still and compliant after he forced me to orgasm. Best to let him think he broke me, wore me down, fucked me up. That’s why it had to be him. Nick would know better.

Thirteen days now.

I stare at his hands—at the tattooed fingers that spell DUKE—and refuse to reconcile what they did to me. I’m surviving. I’m a survivor. And I’m done being a prisoner to these bastards.

Duchess.

There are a million reasons that is the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard. What kind of sick system puts men like these in power over anyone? Idiots, all of them. Flash them your cunt and lay still, and they think they’ve got you in the palm of their hands.

I place both feet on the floor, knowing I’ll have to forego my shoes. The strappy silver heels they gave me will get me killed before they can catch me. I slowly rise, again watching Maniac for any sign of movement. I forego the panties and step right into the shorts, and then I take his hoodie from the hook on the door, slipping my arms inside without daring to zip it up. I tiptoe to the drafting table, to the cups and cubbies with various and sundry art supplies. The small pair of steel scissors is still tucked between the markers and the brushes, and I ease it loose in small, hesitant increments, holding my breath as a marker rolls from beside it.

Once they’re free, I grip them tight and creep to the mirror behind the chair, crouching down. I sweep my hair from my neck and turn, struggling to make out the skin behind my ear. The scab helps. It’s not big. Whatever they used to put the tracker in was sophisticated. Medical grade.

I open the scissors and press the blade to the tender skin, inhaling a bolstering breath before slicing into the flesh. I watch the blood bubble to the surface and then trickle down my neck before trying to feel for the implant. All the while, my eyes keep jumping across the room, so alert to any movement that a falling lock of my own hair almost makes me slice my ear clean off.

Breathing as quietly as I can, I get my fingernail into the wound, digging, searching. It doesn’t take long to feel something foreign and hard. It’s bigger than I’m expecting, but it’s easy to move. Not attached. I pull the bottom of the hoodie up to my mouth and bite down on it before tugging the tracker free. The hole I made is too small, making me wince and growl as I force it through.

It makes a small, metallic sound when I drop it to the floor and I freeze, whipping around to watch Remy.

His foot twitches.

I wait a long moment before moving again, setting the scissors on the vinyl of the chair before rising to my feet. But he’s out cold. Fucker fell asleep faster than I expected. I guess holding someone down until they cream on your art supplies takes a lot out of a person.

Whatever it was, it’s not happening again, because I’m out of this fucking hellhole.

Once I get moving, it goes fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid. The plan is locked and loaded in my head. When I ease the door open, I’m relieved to find both of the other bedroom doors are closed. I tiptoe past them, veins zinging with adrenaline, and head for the kitchen. All I need to do is grab the SUV keys Sy stupidly leaves in an orange ceramic bowl.

Except when I get there, they’re not in the goddamn bowl. I stare into it, all ugly and orange and infuriatingly empty, and just… breathe.

Think. Breathe. Look.

Where else would he keep them?

I scan the room, ignoring the thundering beat of my heart as I zip around the kitchen, the couches, and bury my hand into the two coats by the door. This should have gone smoothly. I’d deleted the video from Nick’s laptop while he was taking a piss this morning. I played nice. I got away from him. I got through Maniac. I got the tracker out. Now the fucking keys aren’t—

I spot them. Over on the small table by the door. Victory, you shits.

Grabbing the keys, I exhale and head for the door, but I find myself freezing at the elevator. It’s between the entry to the staircase down and Nick’s bedroom, looming like a physical threat. I know from banging around in there last night that none of the inner buttons are functional, but the outer ones might be. It could take me to the bottom floor before Nick even had the chance to cover half the flights of stairs. It’d be the smartest move.

But I just can’t do it.

I dart my eyes to the rafters. The other side of the open passageway I’d seen in Nick’s room looms high enough to be dangerous for anyone who’d think to walk the beams. It’s dark, deserted, empty, but it reminds me that Nick is on the other side of the wall, sleeping.

I inch the door open quietly.

The metal steps to the party room are cold on my feet. This whole stone building is ten degrees cooler than it is outside, and my fucking booty shorts certainly don’t help matters. I blindly zip the hoodie as I descend the pitch dark stairwell. The only windows are small cut-outs along the shaft, none providing much light. I use my hands and feet to guide the way.

Oh, and my nose. God, the stench rolling from the party room is enough to let me know I’ve reached that floor. This is where I have to be careful. Neon bar lights give the room an eerie glow just bright enough to see the patented Duke cutsluts are curled up on the couches. A frat boy is sleeping on the bar. I push down any urge to make an example out of him on my way out the door. There’s a reason I didn’t bury those scissors into Remy’s throat upstairs. Revenge makes people sloppy, and that’s not my motivation right now. Only escape.

Tiptoeing through puddles of beer and other waste, I head into the main stairwell and begin the long jog down the gazillion flights. I go faster than I should, but I find the rhythm of the steps and traverse them blindly. Impatiently.

At the bottom, I test the door. It’s unlocked, at least from the inside, so I push it open. The first thing I do is take a gulp of sweet, crisp, freedom-laced air, but there’s no time to bask. I haul ass to the SUV parked by the curb and don’t bother pressing the key fob. I shove the key into the lock, open it manually, and close the heavy door as quietly as possible. Taking no time to celebrate, I adjust the seat so that my feet can reach the pedals and turn over the key, cranking the engine. The SUV roars to life and I’m panting in anticipation, mashing the brake and reaching to put it into drive.

Click.

I freeze, blood turning to ice.

There are certain sounds that are just unmistakable, and the cock of a gun’s hammer?

That’s number one.

I flick my eyes up at the rearview, heart lodged in my throat. “Nick, wait, just—”

The rest is cut off as a strong hand clamps around my neck, slamming me back into the seat. I smell his hot breath before I hear it, thick with the scent of beer and smoke. He jams the hard nose of his gun into the bloody flesh beneath my ear and seethes, “You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”

I struggle to speak, but his fingers dig into my throat, silencing me.

“You think I bought that little ‘play nice’ act you put on tonight? Right, because that’s our Lavinia. So docile and submissive. Do you really think I’m that easy?” He pauses, and I know he wants a response. I shake my head as much as I can, but his voice is no less irate when he continues, “I rescue you, and you spit in my face. I try to give you a nice, warm, safe place to sleep, and what do you do? Try to run away from it.” I make a small, urgent sound, but even though he loosens his grip, his nose jabs into my temple, voice acidic. “No one would treat you as good as me. Do you fucking hear me? If you’d stop being such a massive cunt for five minutes and let me, you’d see that. But you won’t!”

I swallow and say, “I’m sor—”

He slams me back into the seat again, snarling. “Don’t you fucking dare apologize. I know it’s not real.” He releases me with a growl, but the gun is still against my head. Calmly, he demands, “Give me the keys.”

A series of actions runs through my head. I left the scissors upstairs like a dumbass, but the keys are sharp enough. I could stab him right now. Gouge out his eyes, puncture his eardrums. I slowly pull them out of the ignition, but before I can make a move, his hand circles mine, taking them easily from me.

He slides the gun down the back of my head, using it to push aside my hair. I feel the dueling sensation of metal versus his warm lips on my neck. I recoil from both. “Where would you even go, Lav? You have nothing. No money. No clothes. No possessions.” I hear more than see him put the keys into his pocket. “I guess you could always go home to Daddy.”

I stiffen and he chuckles softly.

“That’s what I thought.”

I burst, “You don’t know how fucking easy you have it, do you? Running the streets, fighting, partying, fucking cutsluts!” I slam the heel of my palm into the steering wheel, screaming, “I don’t have time for this!” I immediately regret the outburst when he draws back. I brace myself for the hit. Maybe it’ll be his fist, but a bullet is just as likely.

Instead, he sniffs, the sounds of the gun being un-cocked loud enough to make me tremble. “And you have somewhere to be?”

I look into the rearview mirror, catching those cold blue eyes. “You might be a Bruin, but you didn’t grow up in this game. Not the same way I did.” I let my gaze wander to the streets of the West End, just as empty as the snake on my calf. “Even Killian wouldn’t get it. Being the son of a King is a lot easier than being a daughter. Not that you’d know either of those.”

“You’re right.” Nick holds my gaze in the mirror, face sharpened with shadow. “My father was a fool to give up the power.”

“Your father gave you options. Freedom.” My shoulders drop in defeat. “You don’t know what it’s like to be trapped.”

“Well, lucky for you, you don’t have to go back. I solved that for you.” Brows crushed together in annoyance, he asks, “When are you going to get it, Lavinia? I saved you.”

I give a cold, humorless laugh. “You can’t be stupid enough to really believe that, which tells me you’re deluded. I don’t know which one is worse.”

Lionel Lucia is ruthless and the deal he made with Daniel Payne isn’t what he or the Lords think it is. Giving me up that easy? Yeah fucking right. This is just a single move on a chessboard, pieces scattered across the squares. We’re all pawns. Me. Killian. Saul.

But none so much as Nick Bruin.

He thinks he’s saved me, but all he’s done is tighten the manacles around my wrist. I get out of the car by the barrel of a gun and feel that deep, inner numbness throbbing like a wound. “Nick.” I close my eyes, a blackness roiling within me at the request I’m about to make. “Please don’t put me back in that elevator.”

A quiet comes from behind me, and I feel more than see his stare—a heaviness on the back of my sore neck that’s accompanied by his own hand. “Where else can I possibly put you, Lavinia? I can’t lay awake watching you all night.”

Having known that’d be his answer all along, I peer up at the tower. If only life were like that broken clock, hands frozen, time stopped. But it’s not.

I’ve already lost enough of it, and soon, I’ll run out entirely.