Dukes of Madness: Chapter 19

I’ve seen myself as a lot of things. Son, brother, friend, traitor, spy, soldier, fighter and Duke. The one identity that doesn’t hang right on my shoulders is student. It’s particularly noticeable sitting at a table in the student center with dozens of other Forsyth students.

Part of it is because I used to roam the campus under false pretenses, pretending to be a part of the community to gain access for Daniel. I’d spy on his son, negotiate with the other frats, trade in sex, drugs, weapons, or whatever product I was commanded to push. But carrying a backpack, sitting in class, copying notes and cramming for tests…

I feel like an imposter.

Not because I can’t do the work. I can, and do. Academics aren’t really a problem for me. They’re just boring, so fucking tedious that it’s a psychic pain to sit still. I’d rather spend my time using my hands. Punching, stabbing, finger on the trigger of a gun, spreading my Little Bird’s thighs and smelling her sweet, hot, heat.

Jesus, I think, watching Lavinia stand in line to get a coffee across the open space, I really miss getting pussy.

“Bro.”

It’d feel so good to just get in there, feel the tight clench of her cunt, and show her that Remy’s got nothing on how I can make her fee—

“Nick!”

I snap my eyes away from her, over to Sy, who barely contains his eye roll.

Our gaze meets over the pile of food on the table. “Stop obsessing.”

“I’m not obsessing,” I say, going back to my burrito. “And that’s pretty rich, by the way, coming from the dude who’s spent the last two days sulking about losing his handjob partner.”

“I’m not sulking,” he says, back going rigid. His eyes dart over to where she’s moved up in line, leaning toward the barista as she gives her order. Sy slouches in his chair. “And she’s not my ‘handjob partner’.” He scowls and pushes his salad away, fiddling with the wrapped cookie that came with it. “She is pretty pissed at me, though.”

“When did you start caring if people are pissed at you?” I ask, mostly because I’m fishing for information about why Lavinia is mad at him.

Sy raises his glower to me. “It’s just a comment. I didn’t say I gave a fuck if anyone is—’

Remy snorts, his fork stabbing into some deconstructed wrap he got at the sushi place. “He started caring when she stopped going into his room at night and wrangling that monster in his pants.”

I know she’s been going into his room at night, and I know she’s been giving him handjobs on the regular. I know there’s some kind of arrangement I can’t quite put my finger on. I see it all from my spot in the rafters. But I also am aware she slept up in the loft the last two nights—alone.

She’s definitely mad at him.

“I’m not the one icing her out for trying to keep you safe,” Sy bites back.

“She lied.” He frowns down at a piece of raw meat, and then brings it to his nose to smell it. “Brassy orange, no shame. I don’t do that shit.”

Sy slides him an impatient look. “For Christ’s sake, Rem, that’s the problem. You think someone trying to help you is being shady, but it’s normal. Normal people do whatever it takes to protect the person they care about. You make it so the people who give a shit about you have to lie to you.”

“It was for your own good, son,” Remy mocks, scoffing. “Heard that bullshit before. No thanks.”

Sy huffs. “You can’t let your trauma stand in the way of forming meaningful connections.”

Remy’s cheek lifts with a grimace. “Did you get that from a psych book or one of your culty self-help podcasts?”

Sy’s face screws up, and he slams his fist on the table. “Those podcasts are not culty—’

“Both of you, shut the fuck up!” My snap is loud enough to get the attention of the tables around us. I glare at the kid next to me until he grabs his food and scurries off. That’s the other annoying thing about being a student here. There’s no real hiding what I am. Even if I wanted to blend in, I couldn’t—not with all my tattoos. I refocus on my brothers. “Sy, all you do is piss people off. Everyone at this table knows you put all this energy into lecturing us on our issues to avoid facing up to your own. You’re into Lavinia and you can’t handle it, so you’re sabotaging it like a fucking headcase, buy a clue.”

I flick my eyes over to where the barista hands her something that looks less like a coffee and more like a milkshake. “And Remy, seriously? You think you’re the only one allowed to have trust issues? She grew up with a father whose mental manipulations rival Thanos, and he’s a goddamn supervillain. If her biggest flaw is trying to keep some low-level junkie from selling you viper crap, then boo-fucking-hoo.” I glare at them, raising the burrito. “I’ve put her in your hands, so stop fucking her up. I mean, goddamn. At least she doesn’t want to flay either of you alive, because I know for a fact that’s what she’s dreaming of at night when it comes to me.”

I bite down hard on my burrito.

“She’ll come around, Nicky,” Remy says, looking too flippant. “She hasn’t pointed a gun at you in days.”

I mutter, “Doubt it,” and Sy points his fork at me.

“I think he’s right. She pulled that stunt with Remy the other night, when you were losing. She let him do that.”

“Yeah, sure, she ‘let’ him.” I’m not mad at Remy for fucking her up on that balcony. He knew what I needed to get my head back in the ring and take out that LDZ punk. But I saw Remy drag her up there and bend her over that railing—saw the pinch of her brow, the panic in her eyes—and I know for certain that wasn’t her idea. She may not have fought him off, but he had her out-sized.

“No, seriously,” Sy replies, voice lowered since she’s on the way over. “I’ve been working with her on some self-defense moves. She could have slipped him if she wanted.”

I’m not mad about it, and okay, maybe I’ve jacked off one or six times remembering the way they looked, but that doesn’t mean I liked watching Remy pound into her as she gasped and took it. I give him a hard look. “If that’s true, it just means she wanted his dick.”

“Probably,” Remy says, kicking the extra chair out with his foot as Lavinia walks up, “but she wanted you to win more.”

I want to tell them what she told me in the locker room before the fight. That my winning wasn’t about her or me, it was about our house. Our territory. Our people. I want to tell them how good of a Duchess she’s becoming—better than I ever expected of her—but I don’t.

Greedily, I keep it all for myself.

All of our eyes shift to Lavinia as she walks up, looking the perfect co-ed in her ripped up jeans and cropped shirt. It reveals a hint of her belly and under the table, my dick twitches, wanting a taste of that smooth, soft flesh. She’s looking particularly pretty today. I’ve already seen the pledges eying her around campus and it’s a legit fucking inner battle to not claim her here, to show everyone this sharp-eyed, forked-tongued girl is mine.

“What?” she says, eyeing each of us, like she knows we were talking about her.

See? This is why this whole scene is weird. The student center, the eating around other people, the backpacks and homework. The normalcy. Not one of the four of us is normal—not individually, and definitely not together.

No one else makes a move to say anything, so I clear my throat. “How, um, was your first class?”

She stares at me for a long beat and then sits in the chair across from mine. “Fine, I guess. I’ve already read all the textbooks, so even though I feel pretty behind everyone else, I think I have a better grasp. Plus, the professor gave me some resources to use so I can catch up.” Despite the fact she probably is behind—horrifically, and I would know—there’s a light in her eyes that I haven’t really seen before. She tucks her hair behind her hair, shooting Remy a quick, hopeful glance. He’s been getting those all morning, but he’s been a brick fucking wall. “Maybe Remy can take me to the Art History building later? My advisor said I should take it next semester for my Humanities requirement.”

She’s excited.

For school.

I throw Remy a look.

Make it right, fuckface.

He pointedly takes his marker from behind his ear, silent as he kicks back, fanning open a sketchbook to a half-inked drawing of a naked girl. Although the face isn’t defined enough to make out, the tits are clearly too small to be Lavinia, who’s pretty good about hiding her disappointment behind annoyance, pursing her lips as she scans the room.

I pipe in, “I can take you. Maybe I’ll take it next semester, too.”

She shrugs, fucking her straw in and out of her drink. “Whatever.”

Geez, darling, don’t do backflips or anything.

Over her shoulder, I see the dark shadow of my Baron contact, Will Reynaud, walk through the room. Barons always seem to have this fucked up vibe, like they suck in the light around them, disappearing into the crowd. I watched them for a time, back when I was working for Daniel, trying to figure out how to make myself as still as them—as invisible.

Will doesn’t look at me once as he approaches, seeming like just another student on his way to get a shitty burger, and it really is impressive that I don’t even feel the slip of paper he throws into my lap as he strides on by.

I sweep a burrito crumb from my lap, smoothly grasping the paper in my hand.

One flick of my eyes reveals a name.

Carter Hodge.

Message received.

Sy stands then, his chair creaking against the floor as he snatches up the gory remains of his salad. “I need to turn in a paper before one,” he explains, a scowl still etched on his face. I worry at first he’s seen the exchange between me and the Baron, only then he slides an ornery look in Lavinia’s direction, and I realize she’s giving him the Remy treatment.

So help me, all of these bitches need a culty self-help podcast.

He picks up his bag and wordlessly—so fast and subtle that he could be a Baron—slides the cookie in front of Lavinia before stomping away.

She stares at it for a long moment, eyes narrowed. I almost expect her to offer it to Remy, turning this into the endless circle of pitiful cookie-giving, only she puts her palm over it and swipes it toward her torso protectively.

I’m the next to stand. “I’ve gotta be somewhere. You good?”

Both of them nod without looking at each other.

It tugs at my gut like a stab wound that Lavinia likes Remy more than me. That she wants him to fuck her. That if things were just a little different, she’d probably crawl into his bed tonight and give him all the things I’ve tried so fucking hard to get from her. But if I could, I’d stay and try to help them smooth it over. It’s a fucked up place to be, watching the girl I love fall for the men I love, the conflict of wanting them to have what they want warring with my own instinct to take her away and keep her for myself.

But maybe this is how it has to be. Maybe I can’t have her. Not alone. Not without Remy making her into art, or Sy making her into a fighter.

Maybe not at all.

The point is, I’d stay to do something if I had the time.

But I have a job.

I get the text at ten.

Sy is just starting to make his neurotic ‘going to bed’ noises, and just like every night lately, that routine includes walking by Lavinia every ten minutes. She’s lazed out on the couch, engrossed in some book her professor wrote a decade ago. She reads like a goddamn computer, eyes scanning the pages fast enough that it makes me wonder if she’s even absorbing it. But I know she is.

A lot of people assume because she’s a Royal woman—and a King’s daughter, at that—she isn’t smart, but they’d be wrong. Even with two years in captivity, she found ways to keep her mind limber, inhaling anything with words. But even though she’d ask for food, sweets, beverages, she never asked for books. It took me a long time to figure out why, considering she obviously wanted them.

It was the show of weakness. Letting us get a glimpse into her brain, even something as small as the knowledge that she’s intellectually voracious, was never on the table for her.

I watch as Sy does another pass to the bathroom, and sometimes I wonder how we’re related. He’s annoyingly obvious, shooting her these little glances as he walks by.

Lavinia turns another page.

Not tonight, brother.

“I have a craving,” is what I say, stuffing my phone into my pocket. I’m on the other couch, facing her, slumped down into the cushions as I stare at her. Sometimes, I’ve found, if I’m quiet and subtle about it, she’ll let me watch her. Since speaking has bulldozed over that unspoken rule, Lavinia’s eyes flick up, flashing in annoyance. “For a brownie sundae.”

Her eye twitches.

Jackpot.

Standing up, I stretch, not missing the way her eyes slide to the inch of exposed abs I grace her with. That’s right, baby. Hate me or not, I’m still pretty. I go to the kitchen first to gather what I need from the safe, and then I walk back out to ask, “Wanna ride with?”

She looks like she’s about to say no, which means I’m going to need to find a way to signal that shit is going down. Only then my hapless, horny brother walks by and she’s shooting up from the couch, putting her book away.

“Let’s go.”

Sy pauses, his thick eyebrows scrunching. “You’re going somewhere?”

“Ice cream,” I explain, lacing up my boots. “You want something?”

It’s after ten. Sy would sooner lop his own ear off than consume a carb after ten. As expected, his nostrils flare wide. “It’s after ten!”

I shrug. “Your loss.”

“But,” he argues, getting that hardness in his eyes that signals he’s holding back a fit, “it’s after ten. We all have class tomorrow. You can’t just—”

Well, this shit needs to be shut down. “I slept when I got home. I’ll be up all night, anyway. Just go to bed. We’ll be quiet when we come in.”

Lavinia returns with her shoes, stomping into them as she shoots Sy a low-key murderous look. “Is that okay with you, Duke?”

Sy has this thing where his muscles ripple whenever he wants to hit something. It’s an awful tell, which is something I’ve tried to get him to stop a hundred times, but here he is, rippling all menacingly at her. “Do what you fucking want,” he hisses, storming away.

The sound of his door slamming makes her jump, and even though she glares in his direction, I can see the anxiety lining the corners of her mouth.

“You shouldn’t do that,” I tell her, shrugging into my jacket. “If you keep pushing him, he’s just going to keep pushing back. Sy doesn’t lose.”

She strangles her feet with her shoelaces as she ties them. “He can be such a prick sometimes.”

“Yeah, sometimes. Most of the time. But sometimes he can be…” ‘Nice’ isn’t exactly the word I’m looking for, only maybe it is. He saved her. He nursed her back to health. Sure, his lizard brain wants to fuck the spark of life from her eyes, but he does better at holding it back than most men would.

Better than I did.

“I know,” she says, mouth scrunching pensively. “I just wish…” She trails off, but I know what she’s thinking.

“You wish, for once, the guy who’s into you wasn’t a little bit psycho?” At her pointed look, I smirk. “Newsflash, Little Bird. We’re all a little bit psycho. The difference between us and the rest of the world is we don’t hide it from you.”

She broods silently over this as we descend the staircase to the bottom of the tower. Lavinia obviously only said yes to this little outing as a way to put some space between her and Sy at bedtime, but now that we’re alone, I turn, stopping her.

“Don’t freak out, but there are two Barons waiting at my car.”

She freezes halfway down a step, eyes flying to mine. “Does that mean…?”

I nod, pulling a gun from my waistband—the one Sy had given to her. “We’re going to see their King.”

She takes the gun with wide eyes. “Their King?!” She finally drops to the next step, face lined with worry. “Nick, an audience with the Barons’ King isn’t something you do at ten-o-clock all willy-fucking-nilly!”

“I know.” I turn and keep descending. “I’ve had it planned all day.”

We get down two more flights before her fist slams into my back. “Thanks for telling me!”

“You’re welcome.” At her aggressive silence behind me, I cave. “This way, you wouldn’t have had to lie about where we’re going. Remy and Sy will forgive me. They’re used to my stunts. But if they knew you’d been bullshitting them all day to do this…”

They’d forgive me, but her?

I’m not so sure.

She seems to consider this as we get to the bottom of the tower, and by the time I turn to her, she’s chewing on her lip, sliding me these slow, confused glances. “Oh,” is all she says.

Again, I say, “You’re welcome,” and shove the door open.

The West End is the best at night. It has all these empty little nooks and crannies for hiding. Alleys. Empty warehouses. Abandoned buildings. I think other people look at this place and see a derelict shadow of its former self, but I see refuge, every corner a foxhole.

And two Barons are waiting within one.

They’re hidden in the shadows, but I can feel them before the black toes of their boots step out of the darkness. Girls around here want to belong to the Princes more than any other house—the dumb illusion of them worshipping their Princess driving that particular rep—but they get wettest for the Barons.

They’re both in black from head-to-toe, something Daniel would have beat out of his soldiers. Too obvious, too campy. But the Barons wear it naturally, their hair dark, their tattoos all well-hidden behind sleeves, bangs, and douchey turtlenecks. Always one sort of mask or another with these ones.

“Bruin,” greets one of them.

I nod, making sure Lavinia is close enough to touch. “Will.”

“Your phones,” he says, holding out a palm.

Lavinia shoots me a dark look, and after a moment of consideration, I nod. We pull out our phones and place them in his hands. He passes them off to the other Baron—Liam—before holding out his hand again. “Guns.”

Saw that coming.

I reach behind me to pull my pistol from my waistband, removing the clip before placing it in his outstretched palm. If we’d come unarmed, it would have looked fishy. Before Lavinia can act, I smoothly snatch the gun from against the small of her back, doing the same. “Want my jock next?”

“Maybe.” Will doesn’t smile. “Check the car,” he says to Liam, who uses his phone camera to begin checking the undercarriage.

Throughout all of this, Lavinia and I stand side-by-side, waiting patiently. I’m not stupid enough to try sneaking a weapon or GPS tag in the car, so it doesn’t bother me when Liam begins searching the interior, but I can see the anxiety building in my Little Bird, her hands wringing against her midriff.

“What now?” she asks when Liam gives Will a nod, the car coming up clean.

Will gestures to the SUV. “Now you put your hands on that window there so we can frisk you.”

Stiffening, I immediately reach out to grab her wrist, pulling her behind me. “Either of you put your hands on her, I won’t need a gun to take you out.”

His eyes darken. “I’m taking you to see my King, Bruin,” Will reminds me. “You think we’re just going to trust that you’re not packing another piece on you?”

I extend my arms. “Frisk me all you want. No one’s laying a fucking finger on her.”

Will shrugs. “Then the deal is off.”

“Wait!” Lavinia ducks around me, flinching when I wrench her back. “Your Baroness—Regina, right? She can search me.” She peers up at me, eyebrows raised. “That’s fair to everyone.”

Will and Liam exchange a look before the latter begins tapping at his phone. A moment later, it dings. “She’s going to meet us there,” Liam tells Will.

They swing their gazes on me.

Flexing my fists, I relent, turning to press my palms to the glass. Will is the one to search me, patting his hands down my sides, my hips, my thighs, my—

I arch an eyebrow. “So you do want my jock. Gonna buy me dinner first, champ?”

Will doesn’t laugh. “Stand still,” he says, crouching to check my ankles, stuffing two fingers into each side of my boots. “You have what we asked for?”

I stare into the glass, staring back at the reflection of my blank face. “It’s in the passenger seat. Ask Liam.”

Liam jerks his chin in answer and Will backs off. “Bring it, and follow us,” he says, tossing me the keys he’d pulled from my pocket.

I put Lavinia into the car first, placing the box on her lap. “Hold on to that.”

“What is it?” she asks when I get in beside her, cranking the engine. “Guns or something?”

My mouth flattens as I pull out behind the Baron’s sleek, black Lexus. “Or something.”

Leaving West End never feels quite right, but it’s even worse when we begin heading north, following the sinister red glow of their taillights. The car is quiet, no music, no air or heat, just Lavinia, silent and still at my side.

“Just follow my cues,” I say, glancing at her. “I know you like firing off at the mouth, but—”

“I know what it means to insult a King,” she cuts in, an edge of bitterness to the way she looks at me. “I can play it cool when I need to.”

But it’s not long before she begins cracking.

“Where are we going?” she asks for the third time. She’s gnawing away at a fingernail beside me in the passenger seat, her gray eyes scanning every bit of road. “Are we even in Forsyth anymore?”

“Maybe,” I answer. “They aren’t really the territorial types.” The Dukes have the west, the Lords have the south, the Princes have the east, and the Counts have the north.

But the Barons are everywhere and nowhere.

It’s a forty-minute drive before the dark car in front of us slows, turning onto a back road that’s so darkly lit, you’d think the fucker vanished into thin air. I take the turn carefully, slightly annoyed. I wasn’t prepared to be so far from home.

“This is crazy, right?” Lavinia has this thing where she babbles when she’s nervous. “I mean, they take you and me out, that’s a victory over three houses. The Dukes, the Counts, the Lords…”

I glance at her, slightly impressed. “You’re thinking like a real Duchess now, Little Bird.”

She ignores me, going on, “No one knows where we are, and this is really far from West End, so even if we needed help, we couldn’t call for it, because we don’t have our phone and we wouldn’t know where to tell them to go.”

“Chill,” I snap, trying to see through the dark path in the trees. “If the guys need to find you, they can.”

“How?”

I give her a long look, my eyes flicking down to her neck. “Same way they found you when Lionel took you.”

She freezes, hand coming up to touch the small scar on her neck. “The tracker,” she breathes, eyes widening. “I forgot that was even there.” She looks disturbed by the realization that she could so easily forget I’d put the tracker under her skin.

I look back toward the road. “Aside from that night, I doubt Remy and Sy have even tried to use it,” I say, conversationally. “You’re lucky.”

“They could have tracked me,” she realizes, the color leaving her face. “When I had you in the cage at Daniel’s, if they’d taken one look…”

“Like I said,” I swing the SUV into a clearing, jerking to a stop behind the sedan, “lucky.”

There’s another car waiting—the third Baron and their girl, I’m guessing. Still, I wait for all four of them to climb out of their cars before killing the engine, opening my door. Lavinia follows my cues, sticking close as we approach.

Their Baroness is even more reserved than Lavinia, carefully avoiding looking my way as she gestures to her. “Duchess. If I may?”

My skin feels stretched too tight as I take the box from her hands, watching the Baroness in her long, black gown, lead Lavinia to the hood of the Lexus, waiting patiently as she gets into position. Jesus, what a fucking position it is, too. Hands on the hood, legs spread, bent at the waist, perfect for grabbing those hips and slamming my hard, twitching cock into—

I glance at the Barons and notice they’re all staring, heavy-eyed as they look on appreciatively.

I snap my fingers to get their attention. “Hey! Forsyth’s Halloween enthusiasts can keep their eyes forward or lose them.” All three turn to me, unimpressed, but apparently willing to humor the basic fucking tenants of Royal decorum.

“She’s clean,” the Baroness says, giving Lavinia a soft smile.

The third Baron, Billy, waits with the Baroness as Liam and Will lead us to an ancient, moss-covered building. The marble mausoleum probably looked shiny and bright at some point, but now it’s faded and dirty, covered in vines that drag against our heads as we duck into the door.

Inside, it smells like earth and pine. Pitch black, Lavinia grabs my arm as the door closes behind us. With the flick of a lighter, a flame appears, dimly illuminating the space to reveal another door—heavy, wrought iron, creaking loudly as Will drags it open.

We enter into a stone-lined corridor that leads underground. The stairwell is cold and damp, but this part of the tomb is warmly lit, candles lining the walls that lead to a passageway that looks well-worn. Beside me, Lavinia gives a little shiver, and I look over to see her arms crossed tightly over her chest, jaw clenched.

Wordlessly, I sling my arm around her shoulders, folding her into my side.

She lets me because she’s cold, her stomach still partially bare with the cropped top she’d chosen for her first day of school. She’s small but solid against me, and every time she shivers, I give her arm a little rub.

The chamber we empty out into is the height of hilarity.

The ceiling is tall, adorned with an intricate, gilded chandelier. There are no real modern conveniences here, the room bare with dark corners, stone floors bearing ornate rugs that are worn thin and probably mildewed.

This isn’t where the Barons live.

Which means we’re in their crypt.

In the middle of the room is a large, round table. It’s a heavy-looking antique that was probably here before they vaulted this hole up into the mausoleum it is today. The chandelier lights the center of the table more than anything else, and there are only two chairs.

One of them is occupied by a masked figure.

The King.

I expected the mask—a thick bronze design of a mouthless devil’s face that’s been passed down for generations—but I’m not expecting to see him at the table, extending a hand in invitation. My hackles raise, because Lavinia was right. This is big. Too big, I’m realizing. This isn’t a short and sweet chat. It’s the King of the Barons on his throne, one gloved hand resting on a skull beside him as casually as a gear shift, as he invites me to make a deal.

Goddamnit.

I step forward, but the King tuts, raising a finger to Lavinia. “Don’t insult me, boy. I know who really wanted this meeting,” he says, voice aged and deep.

Will and Liam walk around us to flank their King, one on either side, and I relent unhappily, following Lavinia to what’s meant to be her seat. I loom behind her, hands on the back of the chair, hovering close enough to pull her back, if necessary.

Noticing her nervous look at the skull, the King speaks. “This is Roland. The very first Baron. And you are?”

She swallows. “I’m Lavinia. Lavinia Lucia.”

“And Nicholas Bruin. The fist of Forsyth.” The King gives the skull a small caress. “But that’s not true, is it? You’re not our fist, you’re our bullet.” His head tilts, ever so slightly. “How is the gun trade in West End?”

Blandly, I answer, “It’s fine,” and lean over Lavinia to place the box on the table, sliding it over the distance.

The King gives it a thoughtful look before opening it; long, spindly, gloved fingers twitching before he reaches in to pull out the contents.

Lavinia jerks back, back hitting the chair. “Oh my fucking—” she twists to peer up at me, hissing, “I’ve had that in my lap for the last fucking hour?!”

I palm the top of her head, turning her back around. “You can find the rest of him at the coordinates I’ll give you once we leave here safely.”

The King inspects the severed hand, which I’d chosen on account of the small diamond tattoo gracing its middle finger. “How did you kill him?” he asks.

“He’s dead. Does it matter?” When the King just looks up, waiting, I bite back a sigh. “Bullet. Execution style.”

The King makes a small humming sound, placing the hand back into the box. “Well, I suppose it’ll do.” He curls a finger at Liam, beckoning him over. “Take this to the Baroness. Show your sinister sister what happens when she lets another man’s hands wander into her wicked garden.”

I guess I should have known it’d be a punishment for the Baroness. A statement. It makes sense. Still, I watch with Lavinia as Liam walks the hand away, and I feel a knowledge, an awareness, stir to life inside of me.

This won’t win the Baroness’ love.

It’ll only win her fear.

Lavinia twists to look at me. “Who…?”

I shrug. “I don’t ask questions.”

The King leans back in his seat, watching our exchange. “That’s what I like about you, Nicholas. Good or bad, death is all the same to you. That’s hard to find in a killer these days.”

I cut to the chase. “I’m here for information.”

The King shakes his head. “No, you aren’t. She is.”

There’s a stretch of silence where Lavinia realizes this is her shot. I watch as she sits up straight, hands wringing in her lap. “My sister, Leticia…” she begins. “Sir, did your Barons ever collect her body?”

I tighten my fingers around the back of her chair, annoyed that I can’t see his expression. The place where the mouth should be is smooth and sunken, covering anything identifiable, only two dark holes where his eyes bore back at us. “Whether we did or didn’t, you think that’s something we’d tell you freely?” He touches the skull beside him, thumb sweepingly lovingly against it. “Our whole house is built upon the altar of secrecy. If we start telling people what’s buried in our crypts, then it’s not much of a secret, is it?”

Lavinia tries, “I was hoping—”

“That you’d be an exception to a century-long rule.” The King scoffs, looking obnoxiously regal in his throne. “You really are your father’s daughter, aren’t you?”

“We paid your price,” I remind him.

“The price for an audience with me,” he responds, shrugging back. “If all it took was a dead body to plunder our drawers, Forsyth would turn into a river of corpses”

“So what do you want?” Her voice is hard and curt, patience wearing thin. “If there’s another price, I’ll pay it.”

The candlelight flickers, reflections dancing in the aged bronze of his mask. I’m not sure what I’m expecting when he reaches into the pocket of his fine black blazer, but I know before I see it that it’s nothing good.

He extends his hand to reveal a silver revolver.

I have Lavinia behind me with one strong yank; the chair stuttering against the stone floor.

But the King raises a hand, popping the cylinder open to showcase its lack of bullets. He slants to the side to meet Lavinia’s gaze behind me, voice wry. “Bit dramatic, this one.”

“You have no idea.” The words are light, but her voice is just as tight as my muscles feel. The chair is right behind me now, my legs pressed against her knees, and when I feel her hands on my hips, moving me to her side, I go against every instinct to follow.

“What the hell is that for?” I ask.

“This gun once belonged to a Duke. He tried to sell us on their benefits. Easier, he said. Faster.” The King inspects it, turning it so that the candlelight catches its angles. “But the Barons have never liked guns. Shooting someone is so impersonal, don’t you think? Just raise the barrel and pull the trigger, and that’s the end. Assuming you’re a good shot.” He raises his gaze to me. “I assume you are.”

My teeth grind. “I am.”

Sounding bored, the King declares, “It’s just that there’s no romance to killing someone with a gun.”

I spread my arms. “What can I say? Necrophilia just isn’t my thing.”

Using a gloved finger, he gives the cylinder of the revolver a spin. “See, it’s my philosophy that you should have to get your hands dirty to take a life. You should have to feel their last breath. You should be forced to appreciate the weight of their soul leaving. If you can’t look death in the eye and shake her hand, then you don’t deserve the honor. It’s about understanding the gravity of a kill. It’s about respect.” The King dips his chin, peering at me through the shadow of his mask. “I don’t think the Dukes respect death, Nick Bruin.”

Lavinia speaks before I can. “Maybe the Dukes respect life.”

“Do they respect yours?” he asks.

She pauses. “Honestly, it depends which one you ask.”

The King lets out a quiet, malevolent chuckle. “I was there the night this one won you. It was poetry, the way he moved. You could tell how badly he wanted you in that belfry. It was a real Bruin fight.” He swings his unsettling gaze back to me, raising a finger. “Now, fighting—that’s getting your hands dirty. Did you know the Barons and Dukes used to associate? Kind of like you do with the Lords now.” His voice takes on the wistfulness of an old man reliving his glory days. “We were the only two houses with a gratitude for real violence. Not the tough guy acts we all put on today, of course. I’m talking about the artistry of death. It’s been lost now, but I like to hear the old Kings talk about it from time to time. Do you want to know what they say?” The King leans down to the skull, as if it’s whispering to him. After a beat, he hums, lifting his gaze to us. “They say ‘to kill someone with your bare hands is an act of love.’”

I sigh, raising my chin. “Yeah, cool. Murder gets your dick hard. We get it. Tell us what you want.”

“It’s not about what I want.” He reaches into his blazer again, and I know when I hear the clink of metal exactly what he’s about to do. I stand rigidly as he pulls out three bullets, but the second he gently places one into the cylinder, I’m dragging Lavinia out of the chair.

Will catches me around the throat before I make it halfway over the table.

Fuck.

I’d almost forgotten he was still here.

“Oh, calm yourself, boy,” the King says, placing the other two rounds in the cylinder—three bullets, alternating chambers. “Only death can give up her secrets. You need to ask her what you want to know.”

Lavinia swallows, loud in the dark silence of the crypt. “I don’t suppose death has a toll-free number I can call.”

“Of a sort.” King places the gun in the middle of the table, palms up as he backs away. “Come now, William. That’s no way to treat our guests.” I shove Will off easily enough. The Barons might be sneaky, quick little fuckers, but they can’t match me for size. Will slinks off back to the shadows, and the King fixes Lavinia with a stare. “This is your choice to make. You can take it or leave unharmed.”

“Take what?” she asks, and there’s fear in her voice. The instinct to drag her out of here, protect her, save her, is so engrained in me, so fucking embedded into my muscles and psyche, that it takes me longer than it should to figure out the score.

“Fuck that,” I snap when it finally hits me—what he wants her to do. “No fucking way. Out of the question.”

The King taps fingertips across the forehead of the skull. “I can see your Duke already knows the gist, so understand this. My Barons might not be armed with guns, but they can kill just as fast.” He spares me only a short glance before refocusing on Lavinia. “I’m giving you the benefit of using your preferred weapon. This is a courtesy I don’t have to give, but if death shines her favor upon you, then I’ll answer your question.”

She looks at me, and then him, and then the gun. “You want me to… shoot someone?”

“You get one shot.” I see her shiver in my periphery, and then the King finally makes his demand. “Put the gun to your temple and pull the trigger.”

Her eyes fly wide. “What?”

I can’t see the smile beneath the mask, but I can hear it. The ominous joy in his voice. The way he props an elbow on the table, fingers twitching excitedly. “Do you know what they’d call a Duchess back in the old days? The fury of Forsyth.” He gestures to us—me and Lavinia. “Yes, the fists and their fury. That’s how they got the name, you know. Friday Night Fury.” His voice lowers to an eerie timber. “I see such a beautiful fury in you, Lavinia Lucia. I don’t have a dog in this race, but I wonder if death will see it, too. Will she find your fury better served at her side, or here, with him?”

For the first time since the gun came out, I look away from him to see her face. To tell her that this is bullshit. There’s another way. The Barons were never going to do anything but jerk us around, make us beg and scrape for a morsel of nothing.

Except she’s staring at the gun, chewing on her lip.

She’s thinking about it.

She’s considering it.

I haven’t put a lot of thought into what happened to her sister. She was probably a bitch who would have ended up being another burden of Forsyth, and from the way Lavinia talks about her, it sure as fuck doesn’t seem like there’s any love lost between them.

But in some deep, fundamental way, I understand.

I’m a brother.

Suddenly, I know for certain that I can’t handle hearing her answer. “All right.” I grab at my jacket, shrugging it off. “I’ll do it.”