Dukes of Madness: Chapter 11

“Jesus, he’s heavy,” Story grunts, dropping one of his feet. I grunt, too, because she’s not wrong. Nick’s a solid wall of muscle, and when he’s limp like this, it’s roughly like trying to haul a very tattooed elephant across the floor. I wasn’t sure the taser would be enough to take him down, but Story assured me, through a haunted recollection, that her mother used it to knock out all three of her Lords last year. If the surge of electricity was enough to take down Killian Payne, she was sure it could take down anyone.

She was right.

“Just drag him,” I wheeze, not giving a shit when his head bangs against my shoe. We only have a few minutes before Nick’s conscious again, so we need to hurry up and get him in the cage.

Yeah, cage.

It sits in the center of Daniel Payne’s former garage, the size of a large dog crate. Three of the walls are solid metal, except for the front, which has bars welded into it. It looks sturdy and inescapable, especially with the thick chain and padlock hanging from the open door.

“So your stepdad had a dog?” I ask, voice strained as I kick the door open with my foot.

She grunts, helping me hoist him inside. “Nope.”

Pausing, I ask, “Do I want to know what he used this for?” I look around the room. Along one wall hangs well organized tools, most sharp, with metal teeth that look like they can cut through almost anything. They’re shiny and clean, but Daniel Payne never struck me as the type for manual labor.

Story puffs a lock of dark hair from her flushed cheek. “In most cases, it’s better not to ask. It’s the only way I survived living in this place.”

I can’t argue with that, so I focus on shoving Nick inside, his pretty, unconscious face smushed into the hard floor of the cage. He moans softly, brow wrinkling, but he doesn’t open his eyes. Not yet.

Story walks over to the workbench while I secure the padlock. A second lock clicks into place, this one electronic. I look over and see her holding a small black remote. She shows it to me. “The red button sets the locks. The green electrifies the bars.” She presses the green button, and a soft hum emits from the cage.

I can’t help but laugh, knowing full-well that it must sound completely fucking unhinged. “And I thought my dad was a psycho.”

Story gives me a deadpan look. “Lavinia, they’re all fucking psychos.” She glances back at the cage where the only movement is the twitch of Nick’s fingers. “Never forget that.”

I dust my hands off. “Well, thanks for helping me out. There’s no way I could have orchestrated this on my own. They’ve got eyes on me all the time.” It’s not quite the same as it was before, with Nick. Sy doesn’t watch me because he wants to own me. He does it because I’m a part of his world now, and that means something.

Something I haven’t quite figured out yet.

“They should,” she says, still winded. “You’re their Duchess and you guys have had a lot of targets on your back.” She looks at the cage, eyes hardening. “But you’re not the only one with a reason to get payback on this prick.”

Nick’s slurred curse cuts through the room. “Son of a—what the—Lavin—” Story and I watch as he tries to lever himself up, only to slump back to the floor of the cage. Have to hand it to her. That taser packed a hell of a punch. The more he struggles to gain coherence, the more my blood thrums with excitement. To see him there, locked in that box, hurting and confused…

It’s time people remember who I am.

Some might say revenge is best served cold, but those people aren’t Lucias. We’re vipers. We strike fast and hard. Nick Bruin is about to find out firsthand that his ‘Little Bird’ has fangs.

“You’re not squeamish, are you?” I ask, taking the remote from her. She shakes her head and I stride over to the cage, kicking it with the toe of my boot. The rubber sole keeps me from getting shocked, but Nick cracks an eye open at the sound, breaths coming faster. Underneath that slack, incapacitated glaze in his eyes is a flash of hot fury.

“Lavinia…” He takes a breath, releasing it in a growl. “What the fuck is this?” His hand reaches out for the bar, and I smirk.

Zaaaap!

“Motherfuck!” he screams, jerking away. Well, that woke him up. He gives a rapid series of blinks, eyes rising to mine. “What the fuck is happening?” He looks between me and Story, but instantly disregards her. “Lavinia, get me out of here.”

“Let you out? Like you let me out of the elevator?” I pretend to think about it, finger tapping my chin. “Nah.”

His hand reaches out, and it happens again.

Zaaap!

I throw my head back, barking a laugh. “God, you’re dumb.”

“Son of a bitch!” He tries to rise, but there isn’t enough room, and I love it. I love the way his legs are crushed awkwardly against his body. I love the way his chest is curled over his thighs, packed in there like a nice little psycho sardine.

It’s art.

Remy could probably appreciate it.

Tapping the remote against my hand, I explain. “I’m just giving you a taste of your own torture, Nick. Thought maybe you’d like to see what it’s like to be trapped in a cage.”

He stares at me, unblinking now, eerily still, and I see when it finally hits him—exactly what this is. “You can’t be fucking serious,” he breathes, fists balling against the floor. It’s obviously taking everything out of him not to grab the bars again. “I apologized!”

My boot meets the bars with a dull sound that’s dwarfed by my scream. “You fucking did not apologize!”

Some of the color is coming back to his face, turning the tips of his ears a bright magenta. But he doesn’t flinch. “Fine,” he grinds out, lips curling back to expose his teeth. “I apologize. I’m sorry I shoved your bitchy, ungrateful ass into the elevator and sent you home to daddy. But did you ever stop to think,” he adds, shifting to glare at me full-on, “if you’d told me exactly how bad he is, I wouldn’t have done it?”

I laugh—genuinely laugh. “Wow, you really are the biggest asshole that life has ever spat out, aren’t you?”

His smile is so sharp, I bet I could cut myself by slapping it off his face. “You know I’m right. If you’d let me in, none of this would have ever happened. But you just couldn’t do that.” Now he’s the one to laugh, low and bitter. “I had it wrong before. About why you stay. About why you keep finding yourself shuffled from hand to hand. You’re just too fucking proud to let anyone save you.” Something significant sparks in his eyes. “It’s not how you’re different from your father. It’s how you’re the same.”

Zaaap!

“Jesus Christ!” He shakes out his hands, expression tightening. “Lavinia, this isn’t funny!”

I glance over my shoulder, tossing Story a grin. “Well, it’s kind of funny.”

“You little bitch,” he says, directing his venom at Story. “Do your Lords know you’re doing this? That you’ve got an ally held hostage?”

“No,” she says, casually walking over. “And you’re goddamn lucky they don’t, because if they did, then I’d have to tell them why I agreed to this.” Her wide, innocent eyes narrow. “Trust me, that’s a little secret you don’t want me to tell.”

His eyes dart to mine, then back to her. “What did she tell you?”

Her arms cross over her chest, revealing the tattoo on her wrist. “The truth about what you did that night in the Hideaway’s basement. I know it all, Nick.” She walks over and crouches down, looking him right in the eye. “You’re the one who broke into that room. You raped her, recorded it, and then showed up later, pretending to be a big, bad hero. So yeah, I could tell the Lords. But then they’d kill you.” She looks up at me, face contemplative. “Doesn’t seem fair, though, does it? No one deserves to kill you more than Lavinia.”

“See?” I toss my hands in the air. “That’s what I’ve been saying!”

Nick has always been the strategically silent type, but there are few times I’ve seen him at a loss for words. Now is one of them. He stares at Story, who has him by the balls, and from the slack set of his mouth, he knows it.

“How dare you,” she says, eyes narrowed into slits. “My guys stood by you. They backed you up. They gave your sorry ass shelter when no one else in this town would have you, and this is how you repay them? By manipulating them to get what you want? By making them complicit in something you knew they wanted no part in?” Her face turns to stone, transforming her from the sweet Lady I’ve come to know into the fierce Queen this town will come to fear. “My Lords are not your fucking puppets.”

It’s obvious the Lords are protective of Story. That’s how it goes in the Royalty. But it’s my first time realizing that viciousness can go both ways, because the hardness in her eyes is unmistakable.

She’d kill for them.

Nick looks up at me, mouth twisted into a deranged smirk. “So that’s the plan, Little Bird? You leave me here to rot until the Lady calls her guard dogs and serves me up? How is this going to go?”

“I can’t believe Daniel wanted me to lose my virginity to you.” Story shakes her head, standing. My eyebrows hike up and she rolls her eyes. “Don’t ask. My part is done. I just need you,” she kicks the cage, getting Nick’s attention, “to know why I did it, and what’s going to happen if you decide to retaliate against me or the Lords.”

If looks could kill, she’d be a corpse, considering the way Nick is glaring at her.

She turns to me and leans in, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek before whispering in my ear, “This is between you and him. Make his pretty ass pay. Whatever that looks like in the end,” she pulls back to level me with a serious look, “I want you to know I’ll be behind you.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, voice too full of emotion to say everything I’d like to. There hasn’t been a lot of discussion on how this ends. Maybe Nick dies here. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe we both do.

Either way, this is the end of something.

She shrugs, bumping my fist. “It’s about time Royal women started sticking together.”

We both watch as she exits the garage and closes the door behind her. It’s just us now. Me, Nick, and an electrified cage.

“Your girlfriend’s gone,” Nick begins, trying to shift around in the cramped space. “You’ve roughed me up and made your point. Now, you can let me go.”

I cross my arms, looking my fill as the silence envelopes us. For a moment, I consider that he really is pretty. Even with his faded bruises and furious expression, Nick Bruin is ridiculously handsome. Strange to think I might have gone for someone like him in another life. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

Instantly, he answers, “You kicked me in the face.”

“Do you remember why?” I ask, watching him struggle to find a comfortable position. I know from experience one doesn’t exist. “You said Royal bitches were weak. Which I thought was pretty funny, because I’ve known a few Royal women, and all of them had to bear one kind of torment or another. I thought to myself… Royal men couldn’t handle half the shit we have to put up with,” I toss the remote in the air, grinning, “but it’d be really fun to watch them try.”

He finally goes still, nostrils expanding with a huff. “So, what? We spend the night in here?”

I arch an eyebrow, bending to pick up my bag. “We?”

A pause. “You’re leaving me here.”

“Nothing gets past you, Nicky.” I grab a bucket and a bottle of water, setting them both just outside the cage.

He swings an incredulous gaze to them. “That’s all you’re leaving me with?”

“It’s more than I got,” I reply, voice hard as nails.

The acceptance sets in slowly, all emotion seeping from his eyes. What’s left is an unfathomable shade of blue. “So help me god, Lavinia, if you hurt them…”

“Who? Remy and Sy” I laugh, the sound a touch too crisp. “I don’t want to hurt them. They’re dicks, but they’re easy dicks. This is about us, Nick. Or have I been gone so long that you’ve forgotten our deal?” I crouch down to say the words that have been swimming in my head for days. Weeks. Maybe even months. “You hurt me, I hurt you.”

“You can’t leave me here,” he shouts as I walk to the kitchen door. “I’m still your fucking Duke! You have to obey me!”

“Obey this,” I say, flipping him the middle finger.

I hear the crackle of electricity followed by another string of curses as I turn off the lights and shut the door, locking it behind me. My heart pounds, adrenaline pumping in my veins for doing something so drastic. But only Story knows I’m here. Nick’s right. He is my Duke and technically, I’m supposed to obey him. But he’s also supposed to protect me, and he didn’t.

And now he has to learn what it’s like to be someone’s bitch.

Mine.

Nick: Saul sent me on a pick up. Might take a few days.

Sy: You need backup?

Nick: Stay home. Taking a few pledges with me. Dropping the bird at the door.

Remy: Watch out for the peridot.

Nick: You got it brother.

No one greets me when I arrive home. No one locks me up. No one demands to know where I’ve been, what I’ve been doing. There’s music coming from Remy’s room, but it’s some weird, muted, melodic electronica that’s completely unlike the loud, frantic stuff he usually plays. Nothing is like it usually is.

But the strangest part of all is that I’m here.

I spent three hours driving around Forsyth in Nick’s SUV, no destination in mind. I could have taken it all the way to Mexico, and none of them would have stopped me. Instead, I’m here, hiding Nick’s keys in the cabinet above the refrigerator. I’d parked the SUV a few blocks down, deep inside an alley bisecting two rundown warehouses. My blood is still singing with the victory of it all; the knowledge that Nick is suffering, the awareness that I have access to a phone, a car, and two guns: Nick’s and the one Sy gave me.

I turn the pistol—mine—over in my hand, thinking that it feels right in my palm. The weight of it is perfect, and it’s fully loaded—Sy showed me himself. All of this, the weapons, the way out, is as close to freedom as I’ve ever had.

That’s how Sy finds me a few minutes later: waiting patiently and dutifully with my pistol on the counter, clip already removed. I exhale, releasing the tension I’ve been holding since I sent that text message from Nick’s phone. I spent an hour studying their exchanges, making sure I got the tone just right.

He pauses at the sight, giving me a slow nod. “I assume everything went okay.”

I move so he can lock it back up in the gun safe, not even peeking at the code. I don’t need to. I still have Nick’s gun, after all. “Yep, I’m all registered.”

He slides me a wary look. “And Nick?”

My grimace is only half-faked. “Insufferable as always, but seemed in a hurry to offload me.”

“He said he had a job.” Sy frowns and it makes my stomach flip anxiously. I’m really banking on some level of ambivalence here. Just in case, I slide up on the counter behind him, legs parted just so. “I hope Saul isn’t planning to—” His words die in his throat when he turns to me, eyes dropping to my thighs.

My feet sway casually. “He didn’t seem nervous,” I offer. “Just impatient.”

There’s a long beat where I can practically see Sy’s eyes dilating, zeroed in on the skin below my skirt. He doesn’t even try to play it off smoothly, looking away with a hard breath. “I need to run to campus for my afternoon lecture, but I need to have a fight with Remy first, so you should make yourself scarce for a bit.”

My legs stop swaying. “You’re going to fight with Remy? Why?”

Sy shoves a hand in his pocket, the tips of his ears glowing red as he not-so-discreetly adjusts his erection. “I’ve had a lot of trouble getting him to take his meds lately. Ever since we worked out that his doctor’s a fucking hack, he’s been…” Sy’s jaw locks. “… resistant.”

Now, I’m the one frowning. “Well, maybe he has a point.” Remy had been the one to explain the situation to me. It was in those days after I came back, when everything was fuzzy and disorienting. Remy wasn’t exactly cogent himself, pacing around Sy’s bedroom as he fed me information in energetic, ranting bursts. It’s just like that with Remy. Sometimes I’m less Duchess and more a captive audience.

But Sy shakes his head. “The doctor’s been bought—that’s pretty obvious. But I’ve done a lot of research, and the diagnosis and treatment is medically valid. He needs this shit to stay evened out. I can already tell he’s starting to cycle again. This reminds me. There’s something I want you to do.”

My stomach sinks. “What?” Aside from attending the fight a few days ago, neither he nor Remy have pulled their Duke cards on me.

He leans against the opposite counter, finally meeting my gaze. “You know that guy we saw at Felix’s place? Cash?” At my nod, he asks, “Is he the kind of guy you’d want to not see me kill?”

I freeze at the look in his eye. Nick’s killed people—possibly a lot of people. I’m not sure about Remy, but he has the disposition. Live in Forsyth long enough, you tend to get a feel for that kind of thing. But Sy seems to prefer violence in a competitive atmosphere. He just wants to win—dominate. He’s never struck me as the type to kill unless it was necessary.

Until now.

Holding his stare, I carefully explain, “I used to babysit him every now and then when he was a kid. He’s an obnoxious little shit, but he’s not like the Counts. In the increasingly long list of people I’d want to see dead in this town, Cash Money is one of the few who doesn’t rank.” It lingers bitterly in my throat that I’d have to ask him not to kill someone.

Luckily, he doesn’t make me. “Then tell him Remy’s off limits. I don’t like him having a free-for-all contact to North Side’s product. Remy isn’t a junkie.” Sy lowers his chin, pinning me with a dark look. “But under the right conditions, he could be. I’m not about to watch that happen. You get me?”

It all makes sense then.

Sy would kill to win. He’d kill to survive. And he’d kill to protect the people he cares about. It prickles at the back of my neck like something dangerous and inevitable.

Inwardly, I wonder if Nick is still conscious.

Outwardly, I give his brother a smile.

“I’ll track him down. Cash will listen to me.” Sliding off the counter, I add, “And don’t worry about Remy. I’ll get him to take his meds.”

Sy scoffs. “He won’t take them for me, but you think he’ll take them for you?”

“Yes.” I reach for the pill organizer that’s always sitting right by the fridge. “I have something you don’t.” Before he can ask, I flounce past him, flipping up my skirt to reveal my sheer panties.

A quick glance over my shoulder reveals that his lips are parted, that hand in his pocket adjusting his boner once again.

Smirking, I stop in front of Remy’s door, knocking twice. I hear Sy coming around to watch from a distance, feeling the heat of his stare on my back as I wait. When the door swings open, I take a quick inventory of what I’m working with. Remy’s eyes are hooded as he does the same thing, his gaze sweeping up and down my body as I assess his mood. His hair looks more mussed on one side than the other, as if he’s been in bed. He’s wearing a threadbare Led Zeppelin t-shirt that’s peppered with tiny holes around the collar, and a pair of jeans that probably cost eight-hundred-dollars.

His eyes pause on the pill organizer in my hand, a tendon in his throat tightening. “No.”

“You didn’t even let me speak.” I pout, reaching out to tug at the hem of his shirt. “If you take them, I’ll let you draw on me.”

“Not today.”

“Remy…” I flutter my eyelashes as my fingers dip beneath his shirt, toying with the hair below his belly button. “What if I wanted to get naked for you? Be good for you?”

I don’t catch the shift in his eyes soon enough to follow it. Suddenly, his fingers are wrapped around my throat, grip so tight that the flash of pain makes me gasp. “Don’t,” he hisses, eyes full of daggers. “Don’t you ever bring that fake shit to me. I might be crazy, but I’m not fucking stupid.”

I stare up at him, heart fluttering like a stampede, and I try to find the anger, the steel, the hatred that’s always gotten me through moments like these—moments with weak, bitter men who lash outward—but I can’t find it. I can’t see the heartless, empty Maniac who enjoys hurting and maiming. I can only see the Remy who stood on that Belfry, weeks ago, so fucking beautiful and broken.

I can only see myself.

The soft, hurt sound that emerges from my throat is more about that realization than the pain of his hold, but I watch it slam into Remy with all the force of a punch.

Instantly, he releases me.

There’s a stretch where I rub the raw skin, and he just… stares at me. He looks at me as if he’s just come out of a dream. He rests his forearm across his doorjamb and buries his face into it, groaning. “I’m not having a good day, Vinny.”

I don’t need to turn to know that Sy has, at some point, lurched forward from the kitchen entryway. I can feel the tension rolling off of him as he watches, waiting. To intervene? To rescue me again?

I give him a shake of my head. “You’re right, Remy. That was fake.” I watch Remy’s fist flex at the roughness in my voice. “So here’s something real. For every pill you take, from now until… whenever…” I lower my eyes to the pill organizer, a storm brewing in my gut. “I’ll tell you something about my sister.”

Remy jolts back, arm falling to his side. I know why he’s been so hovery and attentive lately. He thinks I have intel about what happened to Tate. I’d given him the picture, but I could tell it just raised more questions.

He holds my gaze as he reaches for the pill organizer, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting, but it’s not in the way he’d think. It’s not because he hurt me. It’s not even because I actually did want to undress for him, to feel his touch on me, to lose myself in an hour beneath his hunger for my skin.

It’s because Leticia isn’t even here, and somehow, she’s still outshining me.

A minute later, Sy watches from Remy’s open doorway as he takes all three pills, one after the other. “You good?” Sy could be asking Remy, or he could be asking me.

We both give him a nod, but I’m the one to clear my throat. “Go on, we’ve got this.”

The way Sy looks at me then makes my chest go tight. There’s this terrible, aching gratitude in his eyes, and it occurs to me why he and Remy are such good friends. Sy isn’t a faker. He thinks I’ve done something important here.

I want to tell him that it’s nothing. I’m used to bargaining with fucked up people. In some ways, it’s all I’ve ever known. It’s not a talent. It’s what being a Lucia—being a Royal of Forsyth—has shaped me to be.

When Sy is gone, Remy looks at me from the corner of his eye. I’m expecting him to ask about Leticia pretty much right off the bat, so when he says, “Get on the table,” I’m oddly relieved.

I hop up on his tattooing table, slowly unlacing my boots. We’re solid here, beneath the light he flicks on, waiting as I lay back.

He jerks his chin, “Shirt.” He doesn’t wait for me to remove it, running his fingers under the hem and lifting it over my head. A second later, I’m on my back and he’s got one marker between his teeth and another pressed into my skin. It lasts longer than I’m expecting, and I let myself get lost in it. The cool tip of the felt. The warmth of his fingertips. The way his forehead creases when he tips back, only to dive back in again.

On one of his passes over my collarbone, he mutters, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

My throat jumps with a swallow, and I know he sees it when his mouth tightens. “Why don’t you want to take your meds? Sy says they’re good. You know he wouldn’t mess with you.”

He shakes his head, a lock of platinum hair falling into his eyes. “It’s not about Sy.”

“Then what?”

Remy’s fingers go to my throat, fingertips trailing over something. Had he left a mark? He dips down to press his lips to the flesh, lingering long enough that I can smell the faint whiff of weed clinging to his hair. But when he leans back, he’s all business again. When we’re like this, I’m just a canvas to him. Compliant. Clinical. Clean. “Every fiscal quarter, I have to meet with my father to go over his ‘investment’ in my future. It’s tomorrow.”

“Oh.” I’ve noticed the strange vibe in this room ever since I got home. It’s not the mania I’m used to. This is something slower, simmering beneath the surface, but no less consuming. “Is that why you seem stressed?”

“Stressed?” He makes a derisive noise. “I’m not stressed. I’m just… searching.”

“For what?”

A jerk of his shoulder. “Rebellion. Futility. Anarchy.”

I watch as he ducks down to draw a line beside my breast, his tattooed knuckles grazing my stiff nipple. “What does that have to do with taking your meds?”

“If I go there all medicated and quiet,” he explains, tongue peeking out from behind his lips, “then he’ll think he’s winning.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s always about winning with you three, isn’t it?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “To the victor…”

“… go the spoils. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard all about it.”

“So about your sister…” he begins, sweeping a line down the inside of my arm.

“Don’t ask me what she was doing on the cliffs that night,” I warn, trying not to shiver. “I don’t know.”

Remy pauses and a faint flicker of surprise comes over his eyes. It’s probably the first time anyone’s accepted his memory at face value, without tossing out qualifiers like ‘if’. He recovers just as quickly, asking, “She ever fuck other chicks?”

I’ve been asking myself this ever since I realized what the picture was. Tate and Leticia. It’s been nagging at me for days. It’s unlikely they’d cross the boundaries between west and north for a mere acquaintance. “Honestly, I have no idea. If she really is… gay, bi, pan, whatever… she would have hidden it. And she definitely wouldn’t have told me. We fucking hate each other.”

His eyes flick up to mine. “Why?”

“Same as always, isn’t it?” I give him a bland smile. “To the victor…”

“… go the spoils.” He smirks, finishing a whorl over my elbow. “Even in North Side, huh? Tate would have gone for that. She and Nick always went wild over problematic pussy.” Smoothly, he adds, “Guess you know all about that. Tell me something else.”

“About Leticia?” I sigh, thinking back. If she was hiding it, she had good reason. Our father wouldn’t have accepted her being with another girl—not because he cared that she was attracted to women, and not even because the woman was a West Ender. But because it didn’t fit into his plan. Attraction or not, she was destined to marry Perez and keep the line going. Maybe Leticia wanted something for herself. Something that was all her own. If that’s the case, I can’t say I’d blame her. It’s just weird to think about, since Tate wasn’t just hers. She belonged to the boys, too.

Men that are now mine.

“I might have seen her kissing girls at parties once or twice, but I always figured it was performative. She likes putting on a show. Tricking people. Hoarding their secrets. You can’t really trust anything she shows you. Most of it’s probably fake.” Gradually, I realize, “You wouldn’t be able to stand her.”

“Maybe not.”

“That’s two,” I warn him. The thought of lying here all afternoon and talking about my sister makes me feel vaguely sick to my stomach. “I’d say you get one more, but you’re not asking the right questions, so I’ll give you something a little more specific.” He straightens for this one, capping the marker as he meets my gaze. “Mama B told me Leticia came into the gym before she went missing. Said she was looking for someone.”

Remy blinks. “Tate?”

I shrug, sitting up to inspect the intricate design. Twin stars, mirroring one another, their sparkles and whorls descending my arms. It always goes back to that with Remy, doesn’t it?

He combs his fingers tightly through his hair, tugging. “Fuck, that would be classic Tate. She and Nick, still causing trouble together, even after…” There’s a wistfulness in his eyes that fascinates me. It doesn’t last long. “That’s why my dad is being such a dick this year. Sy, he can handle. Nick, though…”

“Not a fan?” I guess, feeling my neck prickle at the mention of him. I’d checked my phone for the forecast earlier. It’s going to get pretty cold tonight.

Remy shakes his head, jaw tight. “He hated Tate, too. The first time they met, I thought he was going to disown me.”

I slip my shirt back on, feeling strangely disappointed that it’s over. “What was she like?”

“Tate?” He leans back against his workbench, spinning the marker between his dexterous fingers. “Well, she was West End down to her fucking marrow. A lot of people didn’t get that about her, because she didn’t like the gun running. But that’s how it really is around here. We fight with our fists—our bodies. Tate was into that.”

“Athletic?” I ask, thinking of Sy taking me for a run earlier that morning. Even injured and half-concussed, he was running circles around me.

Literally, he had to run circles around my struggling ass to keep up any hope of a workout.

He grins. “Big time. She could give Sy a run for his money when it came down to stamina. They used to train together back before we even called it ‘training’. It was just fucking around back then.”

Everyone talks about Tate like she was perfect in every way. Too good for Leticia, probably. “But your dad didn’t like her? Why?”

“For one, she was chaos personified.” His mouth tightens into a grim line. “I’m pretty sure my dad thought we were all fucking her. He chilled a bit once he found out she was a lesbian and there was no risk of me knocking her up or something, but he still didn’t approve. Tate’s family wasn’t exactly upwardly mobile, if you know what I mean.”

“If anyone knows what you mean, it’s me.” I slip back into my boots, tying the laces. “So he didn’t want you shacking up with your lessers.”

“No. Actually…” Remy gives me a long, considering look. “He’d want me to be with someone more like your sister.”

I look up, skeptical. “Even though she’s North Side?”

His head tilts. “Why do you talk about your sister like that?”

“Like what?”

There’s a pause—a hesitation. He pushes past it to say, “You talk about her in present tense.”

I don’t like the coldness that settles over me. “My sister fucking tormented me throughout most of our childhood,” I say, trying to explain it to myself as much as him. “But I don’t want to think of her being dead. There’s no body,” I point out. “No proof she’s not alive.”

I don’t understand the tension in his expression until he says, “I saw her fall from the cliff, Vinny.”

He thinks I’m doubting him.

“And you fell with her,” I say, hopping down from the table. “You lived. Maybe she did, too.”

He scratches his head, that divot returning to his forehead. “Right.” Shaking it off, he reaches for his sketchbook, smoothly picking up the discussion as he presses the marker to a page. “Anyway, my dad wouldn’t care about her being North Side. He isn’t loyal to any Kingdom. North, south, east, west. It’s all development potential to him.”

My head swims with it all. Tate’s chaos. Leticia’s social value. Across town, one of my Dukes is a prisoner, and I didn’t tell him this, but the electrical shock wasn’t Daniel’s idea. It wasn’t even my idea. It came from a textbook that Remy had read to me the day after I’d been rescued.

The more I think about it, the more I’m sure Story was right.

All dads are psychos.

The sound of paper ripping draws my gaze up, and Remy’s closing the notebook, extending a torn page to me.

I blink, reaching for it reluctantly. It’s saturated in black marker—still damp. “What’s this?” I ask, even though Sys words from before stomp through my brain.

“Solid black means he’s sorry about something.”

“I freaked out. Put the wrong color on you.” Remy glances at my neck, and then away again.

“Oh,” I tell him, handling the page carefully. “I forgive you.”

It should burn to give it so freely, but it doesn’t. Maybe that’s why Remy’s so scary: because he’s so fucking forgivable. We’re alike in ways that people like Sy and Nick wouldn’t understand, and times like these make me wish we weren’t. Because I understand the anger simmering under his skin, the tight, suffocating knowledge that your existence is owed to someone who doesn’t deserve any thanks for it.

“So… these meetings with your dad…” I start, feeling a malicious glint building in my eyes. “You ever bring a date before?”

Remy’s gaze creeps to mine.

Slowly, he smirks.

Sy spends the whole evening pacing.

He’s not really obvious about it because he paces between semi-legitimate tasks. He goes to wash a dish, and then crosses the living area to put up a sweater Remy had thrown over the chair days ago. He angrily shoos the kitten away from the spiral staircase only to follow him into the kitchen to shoo him away from the table. My awareness of him is just faint enough to notice these things as I lie on the couch, reading.

Sy picks up his shoes.

I turn a page.

He carries them to his room.

I turn a page.

He crosses in front of me to grab a beer bottle from the coffee table.

I turn a page.

“What,” he finally says, stopping in front of me, “are you even reading?” Wordlessly, I lift the book in front of my face, letting him read the title. I can practically hear his eyes rolling. “Stop reading my textbooks.”

I turn a page. “Nope.”

“Can’t you find anything better to read?”

“Probably.” I turn a page. “But I’m starting classes on Monday, and you’re basically pre-med like me, so maybe some of your psych bullshit will come in handy.”

From my periphery, I see his knuckles tapping against his thigh. “We should make it an early night.” I lower the book to see him, noting the tension in his shoulders. A touch too quickly, he adds, “We need to get up to run in the morning, for your conditioning. We should be well rested if we’re going to push your endurance.”

Pointedly, I let my eyes crawl down his body, unsurprised to find a bulge in his pants. “Right. My endurance.” Since I’m still wearing the skirt, I lift a knee, belly fluttering when he instantly drops his stare to my bare thigh.

“Lavinia,” he says, low and strained. There’s a thread of warning beneath the desperation, and I close the book.

“Fine. Let’s go to bed.”

I’ve been sleeping in Sy’s room for a while now, so I know all of his nightly routines. He usually goes around the tower turning off lights and locking up, spends for-fucking-ever brushing his teeth, takes twenty minutes to write in the journal he won’t let me read, and then fights with Archie for another twenty minutes.

Tonight, I follow as he beelines for the bedroom, shucks off his shirt, grabs Archie by the scruff of the neck, and sets him just outside his door before slamming it shut. He all but dives into bed, which would be funny except for that fiery gleam of anger in his eyes. He glares at the ceiling as I slip out of my skirt, removing my top and replacing it with the shirt he just removed.

He turns off the lamp before I even get a knee on the bed.

I blink rapidly, adjusting to the darkness as I slide into bed beside him. “Gee, Sy. Is there something you want?”

“Don’t,” he growls, so rigid that he barely jostles as I settle in. “You’re the one who made it do this. I was fine until the sun went down. Suddenly, I’m pitching tent in the middle of my fucking study hour.”

“Good,” I say, unapologetic. “You got through the day, right? That means it’s working.”

“What it means,” he replies, voice clipped, “is that it’s ruined my fucking night.”

I knock my fist into the pillow, fluffing it up. “Oh, boo hoo. Your ‘conditioning’ ends in an epic orgasm. My conditioning ends in shin splints. Cry me a fucking river.” Rolling my eyes, I add, “And also, stop talking about your dick like that.”

A pause. “Like what?”

“Like it’s a separate sentient being. It’s just a dick. Most guys have one.”

Shortly, he counters, “Most guys don’t have people constantly horrified by it.”

I hum. “You’ve obviously internalized everyone’s reaction to your dick, creating an unhealthy relationship with your own body, not to mention—”

“Stop reading my textbooks,” he snaps, and then his hand is on mine, yanking it over the distance between us.

Unceremoniously, he shoves my palm onto his hard cock.

“Hey!” I instantly snatch it back, reaching over to flick on the lamp. “If the point is to win at sex, then let me be crystal fucking clear! Only losers need to force someone to touch them.”

Even though something in his eyes flinches at the word—loser—he still glares back at me. “Well, you’re taking your sweet fucking time.” Nostrils flared, he pushes down the blanket, exposing the bulge beneath his shorts. “Get rid of it!”

I gape at him. “The deal wasn’t that I’d be your nightly handjob delivery system! If you want to be good at this, then you need to think of something other than your dick.”

He looks murderous, teeth gnashing. “Like what?”

“Like…” I gesture to him, momentarily at a loss for words. The most baffling thing about Sy is that he’s actually fucking hot. If he’d just play into it a little bit and not ruin it, he could have girls hand over fist. “First of all, bedroom eyes aren’t glaring daggers at the girl half naked in your bed.”

He glares harder. “What the fuck should I do, then?”

For a moment, I’m so caught up in the irony of the situation that I almost have to laugh. His brother would have been balls deep in me five minutes ago. Sy might just be the only man I’ve come across in the past two years who has no interest in what’s between my legs.

I know something he does like, though.

I grab the bottom of my shirt—his shirt—and pull it over my head, freeing my breasts. “Suck on my tits.”

Every hard line of his face goes slack for a second, like his brain is doing a factory reset. “What?”

“My tits. Suck on them.” I enunciate clearly. “At some point you’re going to have to put effort into making a woman feel good.”

He does this thing where he pushes his fingers into his eyes—oh yes, this is such a burden—but eventually levers himself up, fixing a dark-eyed gaze on my tits. His mouth parts as if he’s about to say something, but all that emerges is the rosy point of his tongue, licking out to wet his lips.

He touches me first, lifting a hand, pausing only for a blink before cupping me in his broad palm. Sy’s touched me before, of course. That day Remy ate me out, when Nick watched, Sy pressed me up against the wall and groped me. That one night in his bed, him rutting against my paralyzed form. The time in his parents’ basement, frenzied and full of anger. But all of those were clumsy attempts, just the wrong side of aggressive, full of a resentment that I didn’t fully understand at the time, and probably still don’t.

Tonight, though, he touches me… gently.

He holds the weight of my breast in a palm and sweeps his thumb up over my nipple. He watches his skin press into my skin, and there’s a curiosity in the movements, unsure but unhurried. Without thinking, I arch into the warmth, fingers tangling into my discarded shirt.

Sy’s eyes jump up to mine, but dart back to my nipple when he thumbs it again, bringing it to a stiff peak. His forehead puckers. “Does that mean—uh, are you—do you—”

“Yeah,” I breathe, feeling dangerously unfiltered. “It’s good.”

It’s not just the touch of his rough fingertips. These are a fighter’s hands. Hands that have been honed to hurt. Hands that know the grip of a gun, the hilt of a knife. They’re skilled in a lot of things, but not in this.

Here, he’s the undercard.

When he finally dips down to run his tongue around the circumference of my nipple, I shudder at the heat. It’s a tease, but not finessed enough to be intentional. Unthinkingly, my fingers knit their way into his soft, curly hair, and he falters, briefly, before taking my nipple into his mouth.

“Oh,” I gasp, pushing into it. “Shit. Yeah, just like that.”

He gives a soft rumble that I can feel vibrate all the way down to my bones. Switching to the other breast, he gains a little confidence, closing his mouth around it while his hand massages the other. The needy heat between my legs has been an issue ever since that night in the motel room. Remy’s been painstakingly stoking it, hotter and hotter, with every kiss, every tickle of his marker against my skin, every glimpse of him walking around here, shirtless, muscles shifting beneath ink. That has to be why these little sessions with Sy, which are artless and too rigid, have basically become the equivalent of putting my finger into a light socket.

The moan that bursts from my chests surprises me.

From the way he backs off to stare at me, mouth slack, it’s possibly surprised Sy even more. I can’t take the scrutiny, not when I’m like this, practically naked, vulnerable and ridiculously turned on.

“Don’t,” I warn, pushing him back with both hands. It’s barely any work at all to whip my panties off, tossing them blindly aside, and Sy’s face gets harder as he watches me do it.

“What are you—?”

“Just… just let me…” I straddle his hips and he remains frozen, silent as I hook my fingers into his boxer shorts, giving them a testing tug. “Like last time,” I explain, recalling that night of the Baron’s party.

His answer comes in the form of his silence as he allows me to free his cock, even though his chest expands with a hard inhale. I spend a long moment staring at it, trying to remember what makes this thing so unappealing. Right now, all I can see is a dick. A beautiful dick. A dick I can’t wait to feel against me. The thought of having it inside me seems impossible, but the thought of riding up against it?

Yes, please.

When I glance up at him, his pupils are blown wide. “I won’t be able to hold it.” The words are spoken with a strain that’s visible in his body, the tendons in his neck stark and rigid.

“Try,” I command.

And then I slide up, lowering myself onto his hard, hot flesh.

The second my pussy makes contact with him, he’s hissing, hands coming up to clamp around my hips. “Oh, fuck.”

I wince at how hard and big he feels rammed against my core. His length stretches across my pussy, and I can feel him everywhere—tip to tail. For a moment, it’s as if we’re breathing each other’s gasp, skin against skin, sweat building between us. We hang suspended as we absorb the sensation—the closeness.

When Sy looks up at me, his eyes are so half-lidded that he looks drunk, the space between his brows knitting together. “You’re so wet,” he whispers, the words filled with a strange awe. “Because of this?” He flexes his hips upward and I can’t stop the soft, needy cry that escapes.

The grin he gives me, edged with a smug wickedness, is the worst part about it.

It’s a winner’s smile.

“You like that, don’t you?” he says, taking over my movements. He glides me back and forth, my weight nothing in his strong arms. “You like riding my cock.”

I’d tell him no, or to fuck off, or to shut his pretty mouth, but I’m too close to it—that elusive release—to give a shit. I just want, and who the hell ever thought this man would be the one to give it to me?

Annoyed, I begin to rock into him. Hard. Taking care not to let the tip slip inside, I press my palms flat against his muscular chest and ride him. Maybe I should be gentle. Maybe I should guide Sy into it, show him that sex can be slow and selfless and respectful and fair.

Instead, I ride him like a goddamn horseback.

It’s greedy and impatient, and I don’t fucking care. I use him more than I coach him, throwing my head back as my hips undulate. He makes these small little grunting noises, so soft that they never even leave his throat, and they drive me forward, faster. There’s this ridge just under the head of his cock and every time my clit glides against it, fireworks erupt in my belly. I chase it doggedly, too horny to care what I must look like.

Sy’s fingers tighten on my hips, clamping hard enough to bruise. “Wait, wait, wait,” he says, the words a rushed jumble. I barely hear them, so close now that my thighs are trembling under the force of my bucks against him. “Dammit!” he shouts suddenly, his body seizing, hot cum exploding between us. “Fucking fuc—”

I place a hand over his mouth, not wanting him to ruin this for me. Sure, he came too soon, too fast, but his cock is still pulsing between my legs and his cum is perfectly sticky and warm. I ride him wet, rocking against him as he grows limp. I don’t care. He’s big enough that I don’t really need him to be into it. So I chase it, the want and heat and the feel of his cum, and when my body explodes, a surge from my core, pulsing through my nerves, clenching my muscles, it feels like victory.

To the victor…

I clamp my thighs around him and shudder, biting down on a cry.

I’m still catching my breath when he lifts me off his body and rises from the bed, tossing me a shirt, which I’m assuming I’m supposed to use to clean up. I wipe the cooling cum from between my legs and even in the faint light I see the tension in his shoulders.

“So,” I start, unsure of what’s happening. “I think we made some—”

“That was your fault,” he snaps. “The tits, climbing on me like that. You fucking wanted me to humiliate myself, didn’t you?”

“What?” My head is still a little foggy, but I realize he’s talking about ejaculating too soon. “No. Sy, that’s just part of the proc—”

“Is that what gets you off?” He whips around, dark anger clouding his face. “Humiliating me?”

“You’re being crazy.”

“No, you’re just a slut who gets off on demeaning men.”

“Hey!” I bark, bolting up. “Don’t you fucking dare call me a slut.”

His face twists into a flushed snarl. “Fine. You’re a whore who can’t keep her legs closed. You should be the one who’s embarrassed! Not me!” He reaches past me and grabs a pillow. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

He opens the door and Archie, who is waiting right outside, darts in before he slams it shut. The kitten hops up on the bed, purring when he reaches me.

“What the fuck was that?” I ask the kitten.

“Mew.”

“Exactly,” I say, tossing the dirty shirt across the room. “He’s a fucking lunatic.”