Dukes of Madness: Chapter 24

There’s nothing college students hate more than the person who has a million questions and makes the professor run over time.

Turns out, I’m that person.

“Ms. Lucia,” the professor says as he packs up his belongings. “Unfortunately, I have a meeting in ten minutes across campus, but if you need more assistance, you should consider joining a study group.”

“Right. I’m not struggling or anything.” I hesitate and avoid the glares of my classmates as they exit the room. “I just find the subject interesting, and I was wondering if you have any suggestions for additional reading?”

He pauses, sliding me a surprised look. “Well, I wish the rest of the class had your enthusiasm,” he says, before shooting out a list of books and essays. I’ve already read most of them, but some of them are new and sound intriguing, so I thank him again, hike my bag over my shoulder, and head into the hallway. It’s hard to articulate what I’m looking for. I doubt anyone can understand what it’s like to be alone for all those years with limited mental stimulation.

Now that I can talk to people, read anything I want, or search for information on the internet?

It’s awesome.

And sometimes overwhelming.

Not the content. That’s great. It’s the people. There are so many of them. Loud sorority girls and physically erratic boys. They jostle and joke and bang around, and there was a time that kind of thing wouldn’t bother me, but I can barely remember it. It’s taken me a few weeks to pinpoint it—what makes me feel so uneasy being out in the open like this. I’m always dogged by this low-level, nagging anxiety that I’m not where I should be. That I should be running away from something. That I’m not meant to be here, in a physical sense. I’m just not used to the freedom.

The thought causes me to run my finger down the back of my ear, where I know the tracker is embedded. Okay, maybe freedom isn’t the right word.

But the guys trust me now. Probably too much, considering what I did to Nick—not that they know—but they let me walk around campus like this. Alone. Which is more than I can say for the current Princess, who may as well have a leash around her neck.

I gawk at the Princes as I pass. Somehow, they each have a hand on her, one with an arm around her shoulder, another with a hand tucked into her back pocket, and another in front of her, pulling her by the wrist. She must be pregnant already. There’s no one more possessive and needy than a Prince who’s expecting a little fuckling.

“Shit!” The guy in front of me drops his backpack. Pens and pencils fall out of the pocket and scatter noisily across the floor. I step aside, trying not to run into them, but eyes have turned to the ruckus, people glancing over their shoulders to see what’s happened. It would probably be a good look, as Duchess, if I just—

“Let me help,” I sigh. From what I’ve seen, the general populace of Forsyth University doesn’t have a very high opinion of the Royalty. Sure, they’re afraid of us. They fall in line rather than fight back. They covet our positions. But ruling through fear has its limits, and no one knows that better than me. If I’m going to be Duchess, then I want people to know the West End isn’t like the North.

So I kneel to pick up a pen that’s rolled behind a pillar, flashing the guy a tight grin. I reach for it, bent over and straining, which is when a pair of shoes comes into view.

Snakeskin boots.

My heart sinks.

I’m still on my knees, but I lurch back, scurrying to get back into the main hall. The closest I get is a messy collision into a hard body, hands clenching painfully around my upper arms.

“Hey!” A palm is clamped over my mouth midway through my scream, trapping it inside my throat. That doesn’t mean I don’t fight, legs kicking out on instinct. It’s embarrassing, really, how everything Sy has taught me flies right out the window in favor of old habits. Kick, scream, thrash, bite, scratch. These are the wild flails of panic. Of anger.

Sy’s words ring in my head.

“You let anger take the wheel, you’re going to crash.”

I force my flailing limbs to go still just as a door opens, the man behind me hauling me inside. It’s a storage closet, light dim, the scent of disinfectant almost knocking me over. Four walls, closing in, a confined space.

But I try to push down the panic. The feeling of suffocation. The rapid pounding of my heart. The instinct to kick and scream and throw myself at the nearest immovable object.

I breathe.

Just like Sy taught me.

The man holding me shoves me off, sending me smacking straight into another body.

Perez’s body.

“Oh, hell no.” I spin, trying to get past the Count blocking me in—Lars—but I already know it’s pointless. Perez is a bit of a soft little shit, but his other Counts are athletes, ripped and brutal.

Still, I’m about to find the sweet spot between his legs like Sy showed me when Perez yanks me back and sneers, “Chill the fuck out. We need to have a little talk, Duchess.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask, gaze pinging between them, hyper-aware of their every twitch, my joints aching with the restraint not to fight.

Perez nods at Lars to leave the closet. “Guard the door.”

The second Lars is gone, I whirl on Perez, snarling, “If you wanted to meet, you should have just sent me a text like a normal person. We could get coffee and have a chat.” My snark probably isn’t as convincing as it could be, considering it’s spoken in a breathless voice, wide eyes scanning the walls.

Perez, who’s bouncing a padlock—up and down, up and down—smirks. “Oh, they let you have a phone now?”

I inch toward the door, muscles coiled. “Yes, but I’m sure it has a GPS tracker in it, so the clock is ticking.” I cross my arms over my chest, trying to look tough instead of terrified, because I won’t give Perez the satisfaction of assuming it’s for him. “Are you delivering a message from my father? If so, you can tell him to fuck off.”

“Your father didn’t send me,” he says, eyeing me with those dark, beady snake eyes. “Pretty sure he’s written you off as a lost cause altogether. About damn time, if you ask me. I was getting sick of pretending you were worth the effort. You see…” He snaps his wrist, tossing the padlock from one hand to another. It takes me a moment in all the panic to notice it for what it is.

The padlock from the cedar chest at my father’s house.

Perez smirks when my eyes home in on it. “Your sister is a prize. Sexy, smart, powerful. I used to lay some of my junksluts out and pretend they were Leticia as I fucked them. But you?” His eyes crawl down my body, lip curling. “You’ve got the body, but let’s face it. You’re second best, and Bruno Perez doesn’t settle.”

“Well, good luck getting your prize,” I grind out, annoyed that his words have found purchase, stinging at a wound deep inside. “Since she’s dead and all.”

He snatches the padlock out of the air, pausing with narrowed eyes. “So you’re finally admitting it. You killed her.”

I shake my head. “Not me.”

“I bet you did,” he sneers, fisting the padlock. “You always were jealous of her, pissed off that she got all the attention.”

I scoff, inching back. “You want to be my father’s son so bad that you’ve deluded yourself into thinking you know about our family. You’ve seen exactly what he wants you to see and nothing more.”

Unbothered by this, Perez shrugs. “I’ll tell you what I do know about. His business. Our business.”

My shoulder brushes a shelf and I bite down a gasp, the walls feeling too close. “Christ, would you just cut to the chase?”

“Word got back to me that you’re interfering with transactions between my dealers and their customers.” He looks down at his hand—the one missing the finger Nick cut off—and his face hardens. “I can put up with a lot of shit, Lavinia, but not that.”

“What are you talking—” But then it hits me. Cash. I told him to leave Remy alone, twice.

Perez’s eyes flash with barely controlled anger. “See… it was one thing when you told him to stop selling to Maddox, but a whole other when you kicked him out of that fucking fight. You want to run away from North Side and be Duchess of the West End trash heap? Fine. But you will not be cutting into our bottom line, Lavinia.”

I raise my chin, pinning him with a glare. “I was following orders from my Dukes about their territory. West End doesn’t want the shit you’re slinging.”

“West, East, South…” He hurls the padlock aside, causing a bottle of solvent to crash to the floor. “Forsyth has been buying our shit since before Viper Scratch was a twinkle in your daddy’s eye, and you’re not about to stand in the way of the empire I plan to inherit!”

I flinch at the outburst, but try to hide it. It’s so hard to think when I’m in here, sweat springing up on the back of my neck, heart thrumming like a hummingbird. “You and I both know Viper Scratch isn’t just normal dope. That stuff is shoddy garbage. Get the dosage wrong, and you can take down an elephant with one pill.”

“I don’t fucking care!” He lurches forward, shoving a finger in my face. “This wasn’t some goddamn negotiation between Kings, which means you have no authority over my dealers! You need to remember your fucking place!”

My phone buzzes, the sound loud in the small, cramped space. I don’t answer it but we both know who it is. One of my Dukes, looking for me. I was already late before this kidnapping snake cornered me.

Perez nods down at the phone in my pocket, still visibly fuming. “Got your pussy on a leash, huh? Learning the Bruins are no different than the Vipers? They may be all soft and cuddly, but we both have fangs.” He gets closer, uncaring, when I flatten myself against the wall. “How do they like it, Lavinia? Do they fuck you like animals? Do they get you down on all fours and ride you like the mangy bitch you are?”

I remain rigid so he doesn’t see the tremors. They’re not for him. The only scary things here are these four walls closing in on me. “It must just kill you.” Raising my chin, I meet his glare with a slow, sharp grin. “No matter how hard you try, you’ll never be a real child of North Side. I might be a mangy bitch, but I’ve got the name. The blood. The pedigree. Do you know the real reason my father keeps your no-name, nine-fingered ass around?” I pitch my voice to a whisper, as if I’m telling him a secret. “You’re expendable.”

It comes faster than I’m expecting.

“Piss off your opponent. Go for the jugular. Be a viper.”

He strikes quick, the hit slamming into my temple before I see him even move. My neck snaps to the side, head hitting the door. Thank God, because otherwise I would have dropped to the floor. Instead, I’m able to get the space necessary to jab up with my knee, slamming it hard into Perez’s groin.

He sucks in a gasp, doubling over, one hand grabbing for me as I wrench the door open. Lars is on the other side, but he’s not expecting me, his reaction slow enough that I’m almost able to dart out of reach. His fingers catch the bottom of my shirt, but with a burst of power, I break away, my shirt ripping up the side.

It’s enough to do what Sy taught me.

I run.

The crowd in the hallway has thinned, the next set of classes having already started. I run toward the door, feet beating hard against the floor. My legs push and push, and there was a time this would have completely gassed me out, but mornings spent jogging with Sy have given me the gift of endurance—enough to reach the exit before either of them can catch up to me.

Nick is already there, though.

I see him before he sees me, the hard set of his frown as he stares down at his phone, probably waiting for my reply. He always looks so contrasted against the backdrop of campus. It’s not just his tattoos, although that’s a big part of it. It’s the way he holds himself, loose in a way that’s almost too deliberate, as if he’s trying to fool someone into thinking he belongs. It’s a physical battle to slow my steps, to not run into his chest and fist my hands into his t-shirt. He still catches the sound of me scampering closer, blue eyes rising to meet mine.

First, his expression smoothes. “Where the hell—” And then he sees my face. His hand freezes halfway to sliding his phone into his pocket, every part of his body going eerily still. “You’re hurt.”

I try to cover it up, shooting a worried glance behind me and hoping my hair shields the mark. “I-I was clumsy and I—”

His voice comes in a deadly, quiet timbre. “If you’re going to lie, you’re going to have to do better than that. Tell me. Now.”

“It’s nothing,” I insist, sniffling. “I took care of it myself. I can occasionally do that, you know.”

My play at aloof anger doesn’t even faze him. “I know what knuckles look like on skin,” he says in that low, lethal voice. But when he lunges forward to grab for me, I flinch—pure instinct. He slams to a standstill, pupils darkening. “Who the fuck hit you?”

The reason I don’t answer isn’t to protect Perez. It’s to protect Nick. After the crypt, I’m fully, horrifyingly aware of what he’s willing to do. How far he’ll go for me.

I can’t risk losing him.

His nostrils flare. “Lavinia!”

“I can’t!” My body deflates, and I do something I swore to myself I’d never do in his presence again. “Please, Nick.” It tastes sour in my throat. But things have just begun to even out with the four of us. I know it’s pathetic to think about it, but this last week might just be the best my life has ever been. So I do it. I beg. “Please, just let this go?”

Nick’s blue eyes bore into mine, and in my periphery, I see his fists flex. He wants to touch me, but he won’t. “Kiss me,” he says, expression blanking out. “Kiss me and I’ll let it go.”

My face falls before I can hide it. Nick hasn’t forced me to kiss him since that awful night he threw me back to my father. He’s had plenty of opportunities, situations I might have given in, but he hasn’t taken them. Not one.

Not until right now.

The bitterness is still there as I approach him, eyes fixed to his mouth as he waits. It’s not even just the circumstance of it. It’s the look on his face—hard and sharp and shuttered. Here, as I strain up on my toes to press my mouth to his, I’m not kissing Nick Bruin, Duke of West End. I’m kissing the soldier of South Side, cold and unreadable as his tongue licks out to taste mine.

If I thought I could kiss that coldness away, then I’m wrong, because he hovers there for a moment, nostrils flaring wide, and then snaps back, pulling out his phone. “I actually came to tell you I couldn’t take you home,” he says, fingers tapping over the screen. “I have a makeup exam I missed during the four days I was out. I need a passing grade by tomorrow, so I’m spending the afternoon in the Science building.”

I try to look at his phone screen, but all I see are three numbers: 237.

My eyes flick to the tattoo. “Who did you send that too?”

He grabs my hand and pulls me outside. Before we reach the bottom step, I have my answer. Two pledges run down the sidewalk.

“Got your message,” one of them says, and I instantly recognize him.

“Ballsack, I need you to get the Duchess home safe.” He hands Ballsack the keys to the SUV. “No stops. No bullshit.”

“Yes, sir,” he says.

Nick looks at the other kid—well, kid seems like the wrong word. He’s massive, with bulging arms and a thick chest. “Weasel, you’re with me.”

“Weasel?” I ask, trying to figure out the nickname, although clearly it’s not important. “Nick, this isn’t necessary. I can drive myself home. It’s a straight shot to the—”

Nick pulls me against his side but continues to talk Ballsack. “If anything happens to her, and I mean anything—if she loses a fucking eyelash on the way home—I will hold you personally responsible. Got it?”

“Got it.” I have to give him credit. He manages not to pee in his pants when Nick gives the order.

Ballsack insists on coming into the tower with me.

“This really isn’t necessary,” I say at the door, trying to stall. “I’ll tell Nick you got me back safe.”

“Sorry, Duchess,” he says, eyes narrowing at the bruise on my cheek. I’d seen it in the mirror on the way home, an angry red that’s already blooming into a brutal violet. “His directions were very specific.”

“Whatever,” I mutter, heading for the stairs. “For what it’s worth, I don’t use the elevator, so be prepared to walk.”

He spreads his hand out, gesturing toward the staircase. “After you.”

The climb is spent in silence, even though I can tell from his small, aborted breaths that Ballsack is constantly a second from saying something. It isn’t until we reach the party room that he finally finds the…

Well.

Ballsack.

“Did someone hit you?” he blurts, looking uncomfortable when I turn to him. Uncomfortable, but also kind of adorably upset. “Because you know the pledges and I—and the DKS guys, too—we’d make them pay. Whoever it is.” He stops, cheeks blushing a charming shade of pink.

It makes me smile. “Thanks, Ballsy. But I’m all good.”

His eyes dart up to mine, brightening at the new nickname, and it’s a reminder that I have to be careful. Nick isn’t the only guard bear around these parts who’d get himself into trouble for the sake of protecting me.

At the top, I jab in the key code for the living quarters, and the first thing that hits me when I open the door is the scent of lemon and butter. Sy stands by the kitchen counter pushing a bowl toward Archie, who is standing on the Formica.

Ballsack and I share a look, and I sniff the air. “Are you feeding my cat homemade salmon?”

Sy stiffens, not even turning to deny it, and then nudges Archie off the countertop. “I had extra.” He slides the bowl on the floor. “It’s not like I made it for him.” He wipes his hands on a rag, eyes darting to Ballsack. “What are you doing here?”

Ballsack starts to answer, but I cut in. “He was just giving me a ride home. Nick had a makeup exam.” I’ve gotten lucky, with Sy not turning fully enough to notice my cheek, and Ballsack sends me a nervous look at the lack of honesty currently going down. I give him a tight smile. “You can go now. Thanks for the ride!”

He doesn’t look convinced, but shuffles his feet uncertainly before moving to the door. “Remember what I said,” he adds before leaving.

Sy is easy to dodge, too caught up in being embarrassed about pampering his arch-nemesis to bother putting me under a microscope.

Remy?

Not so much.

He waltzes out of his room, wiping paint-stained hands on a towel. “Did I hear someone say Nicky’s still on campus? He was supposed to—”

It’s not that I don’t try to hide it, because I do, fanning my hair over my cheek. And it’s not like I don’t know it’s useless. I live with these two. I can’t exactly hide until it heals. In any case, Remy barely gets five steps away from me before he notices something’s wrong.

The tear in my shirt.

Fuck.

He must notice the way I’m keeping myself turned away from him, because suddenly he demands, “Look at me.”

Sighing, I drop my bag, preparing myself.

And then I look at him.

Remy’s on me in an instant, ignoring my flinch when his hand grabs my chin, angling my face towards him. His green eyes flash with a dark, lethal rage. “Nicky did this?” he asks, voice hard.

“No!” I’m quick to say, hand coming up to wrap around his wrist. “Nick wouldn’t—” Only that’s not entirely true. Nick’s knocked me around before. Still… “I promise you, Nick isn’t the problem here,” I insist.

Behind Remy, Sy appears, freezing at the sight of my face, getting a better look at the mark Perez left.

He stares.

Silently.

Remy doesn’t relax at all, knowing it wasn’t Nick. “Then who?”

I fidget anxiously, shooting Sy a desperate look. Nick and Remy… they’re volatile. They don’t control their impulses like Sy does. If Sy had been the one to ask, I would have told him—no question. Remy needs to be handled a little more carefully. “I’ll tell you—I will. But just… give me a few to decompress? I’m okay. It’s not a big—”

“Don’t fucking tell me it’s not a big deal,” Remy snaps, thumb digging into my chin, “Tell me who!” The tears come unbidden, pricking at my eyes like lava. The wetness turns Remy into a big, muddled blob of black and white, but somehow, I still see his eyes soften. “Goddamn it,” he mutters, suddenly hauling me into his chest.

It rankles to cry in front of them again. To let myself be weak. To fall into Remy’s arms and let him, once again, soothe away the hurt. I’ve been yelled at a million times by dozens of different people. I’ve built up a skin, hard like armor, something the words would bounce off of, emotional Kevlar.

Somehow, with him, it just doesn’t exist.

His wide palm cradles the back of my head, whispering, ‘Someone put their fucking mark on you, Vinny. We can’t let that slide.’ And then, more hesitantly, “Does this have something to do with your dad?”

I pry myself away from him and Remy lets me, looming over me with furrowed brows and an unhappy tilt to his mouth. “Just give me a few,” I ask, wiping under my eyes. “I’ve kind of had a shitty day, you know?”

Remy watches me walk to the freezer and grab an ice pack from inside. Bonus of living with fighters—there’s always ice packs. By the time I return, the hard, angry, worried crease hasn’t left his forehead. Watching me press the ice pack to my throbbing cheek, he huffs a sharp sigh, tossing aside his paint-stained towel. “Fuck it. Come with me.”

A couple minutes later, we’re standing up in the belfry, Sy having followed us wordlessly. Remy pulls a crumpled Ziploc bag from his pocket, revealing three perfectly rolled joints. “It’s not Count product,” he mutters, taking one out and extending it to me. “Light it up.”

Reluctantly, I take the joint, still sniffling. Sy stands behind me, flicking the lighter until a bright flame appears. I put the joint in my mouth and hold the other end over Sy’s flame, puffing an ember to life.

I can still remember with perfect clarity the last time I got high. Cash Money, in my father’s backyard, at our annual Christmas party, passing a blunt over the fence. Guys like Cash—the low level dealers—weren’t actually allowed to be seen on the premises, so they hovered by the back gate, watching over the property for my dad. It was just business as usual to find myself in their ranks, always cast off to the side and hidden, just like the strays begging for scraps.

I exhale a plume of smoke into the sky above Forsyth, letting it calm my nerves. I never realized being protected—cared for—would be so much responsibility. I lean over the open archway—the same spot Remy stood when he sliced his arm. If I look closely enough, I can still see the dots of blood staining the stone beneath our feet.

“Whoever did this,” Remy begins, taking the joint from my fingers. “Did you make them pay?”

“Oh, yeah.” The smile that quirks my lips doesn’t even feel forced. “I had a good teacher. I got away with one of your moves.”

But when I look over my shoulder at Sy, he’s just standing there, staring off into the distance. I don’t like the darkness in his blue eyes, the way his jaw is clenched tight, the flex of his forearm as he flicks the lighter, over and over, restlessly.

Gruffly, Sy asks, “Does Nick know?” and I remember the kiss.

“Not who,” I answer, looking down as Remy passes the joint back to me. “That’s why he had Ballsack drive me home.”

It’s quiet for a long while after that, and I’m hit with the realization that the sun’s about to set, floating somewhere behind West End’s horizon. It’s a special sight, one many don’t get to see, and I let myself get distracted with the colors—orange, pink, purple. Beside me, Remy passes the joint back and forth, and if it weren’t for how it all began, it’d probably strike me as romantic.

Sy’s the one to break the silence. “We should kill him.”

I peer up at him through the dying rays of light, confused. “Who?”

He scowls over the horizon, chin jerking toward North Side. “Your father.”

I follow his gaze, stomach sinking. “It wasn’t my dad. And even if it was, we can’t kill him.”

Sy’s hot gaze swings to me. “What, so you’re loyal to that scumbag all of a sudden?”

“No,” I insist, completely forgetting the joint. “There are things about him you don’t understand. He has protections—failsafes—that will level this whole fucking town.” Shaking my head, I look to the north. It’s weird to see it from here, so small, so far away. I lean to the side, propping my sore temple against Remy’s shoulder. “I won’t let him be the death of Forsyth. He doesn’t deserve a legacy that big.”

The door creaks a floor below, followed by heavy footsteps, drawing our attention to the hatch. Nick’s head appears first and we all look back to the horizon, waiting for him to join us. It only seems right that he should be here when I finally tell the truth. I feel him come up behind me, quiet as we all watch the light get dimmer and dimmer, the faint image of a crescent moon hanging over East End.

“It was Perez.” My mouth purses as I inspect the skyline. Houses and buildings and trees and life. “He’s pissed because I sent Cash away at Friday Night Fury. But it’s fine.”

“It is now,” comes Nick’s voice. I turn because there’s something about the tenor of it that makes a gnawing unease flip in my gut. The first thing I see is his bag—the same one he had at school. Then I see his hands, covered in blood.

Whirling around in alarm, I begin, “What—?”

Suddenly, Nick upends the bag, the contents landing on the stone with a heavy, wet smack.

It’s almost a relief that I scream—that the reflex still exists within me to be faced with something as gruesome as this and react like any normal, sane person would.

Remy and Sy don’t scream.

They stare at the severed head currently laying at our feet, Perez’s blank face staring up at us, and then at Nick, who I’m only now realizing is wearing a significant part of him.

Perez.

There’s blood fucking everywhere.

And Nick is here, head held high, offering this to me like some sort of terrible gift.

I can’t tell if it’s the weed that makes the world tilt a little or the fact I’m looking at Nick’s murder victim. This wasn’t a bullet, one-and-done execution like Felix. This was messy brutality. I grab out for Sy to hold myself steady, stomach turning violently. “Oh, my god.”

“I thought you smelled weird.” Nick’s voice sounds detached as his blue eyes pierce through me. That’s what it was. Mechanical. The soldier. “So I made you kiss me. Industrial strength disinfectant. Storage closet was the obvious guess.” Nick pulls something from his pocket, and I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Perez’s dick, maybe. Instead, it’s a gleam of dull metal clanking noisily.

The padlock to my chest.

Nick holds it out to me, arm extended, and I take it automatically, my brain too frazzled to parse what I’m feeling in my hand.

“Christ, Nicky,” Remy groans, thrusting his fingers into his hair. “The fuck did you do?”

But I’m the one Nick speaks to. “It was a mistake,” he says, “letting him get away with hitting you the first time.” In a rush, I remember that night in the warehouse when Nick passed me off to my father. The sting of Perez’s palm when he slapped me.

My mouth opens and closes, but it takes a long moment for me to find the words. “You—and me, by extension—just plunged West End into a war.”

“Good.”

I whip around to gape at Sy, who’s staring at Perez’s head with a grimly satisfied expression. “What?”

“Fuck him.” Sy kicks out, the toes of his shoe cracking hard against Perez’s skull. “I’m sick of the Counts and their bullshit. Killian should have done something about him when he kidnapped the Lady, but they’re too afraid of rocking the system.” He looks up at us, eyes moving from Duke to Duke, and then me. “That shit ends today. I don’t give a fuck what the consequences are. Forsyth is about to learn that West End doesn’t belong to Saul. It belongs to us.” He reaches out, and I’m not expecting it—the tenderness in his touch when he curls a finger, brushing a knuckle over the bruise on my cheek. “Just like you.”