Dukes of Madness: Chapter 8

The first time I came to the Velvet Hideaway was six months ago. I was with Sy. We’d come to speak to Killian Payne about settling our debt for letting Nick off the hook for Daniel’s murder. That negotiation would later result in three of Killian’s tattoos, a single letter on Tristian Mercer’s chest, and the daisy on his Lady’s wrist.

Sy felt bad about it at the time. He knows how I am about tattooing people—can’t just be anyone or any old design. But the cost seemed worth it. Even if I were doing some shit design on some shit person, it was the price of getting Nick back, which made those tattoos important, sacred in ways the people wearing them couldn’t even begin to grasp. It was good enough for me.

The second time I came to the Velvet Hideaway, I was blitzed out of my mind, breaking into the basement to defile their asset.

I didn’t like the Hideaway either of those times, and I don’t like it now.

Cutting my bike, I narrow my eyes at the building, a coldness settling into my veins. It’s a newer construction, all clean lines and fake elegance. Apparently there’s a sterility to new buildings that even turning one into a whorehouse can’t shake off. It reminds me of my dad’s house. His office. His hotels. His investment properties. I grew up in buildings just like this: unfeeling yet somehow still exhaustingly performative. Probably why it took me so long to leave the church, this itching need to stand somewhere that has a history, a soul, a wisdom. My father’s the kind of man who’d pay a hundred grand for the first shade of white his eyes landed on. No life, no warmth, no creativity—but hey, if the price tag is high enough, it must be luxurious, right?

I scoff, climbing off my bike.

Walking up the steps, I keep my wits about me, my hand never too far from my gun. I wasn’t invited. The septic maw of South Side would welcome anyone into its trap, feeding off desperation, debt, addiction, and sex, but a rival Royal will always be watched. It’s hard to walk into this place and not instantly go on the hunt for a new supply of those stimulants Cash loaded me up with before. They’d gotten me through some hard nights and harder days, but it’s not safe here.

Even walking through the door makes my skin feel too tight, my nerves coiled for a confrontation. What I get instead is a tall Latina number, slinking through the foyer to greet me. I spend a brief moment fascinated by the way her black dress hangs on her curves, the folds and sways, stark against her tawny skin.

Pausing, she gives me a long onceover before purring, “Well, hello, gorgeous. How can I help you?”

Because I’m a gentleman, I hide my gun. “I’m looking for Augustine.”

Her dark eyes twinkle with the smirk curving her mouth. “Sorry, heartbreaker. Augustine’s been off the menu for ages. But I can assure you,” walking forward, she presses against me, palm on my chest, “there’s nothing she has that I don’t.”

I stare down at her, face blank. “I’m looking for something specific.”

She cocks her head, pouting. “Like what?”

“A guy.” It’s a struggle to keep a straight face at the way her expression falls. “He’d be about my height. Covered in tattoos. Surly and stupidly aggro. Bit of a prick, really. Goes by the name of—”

“Pretty Nick.” She steps back, rolling her eyes. But she knows who I am now. I can see it in the way she rights herself, the awareness that I’m not Sy, so I must be the Maddox. It settles eagerly into her aura, turning it an unseemly amber. “You know, if Dukes are going to keep encroaching on Lord territory, one of you could at least do us the courtesy of throwing down some dick. This isn’t one of your daddy’s hotels.”

There it is.

“It’s not my dick you want.” Pulling out my wallet, I flip through it for three Benjamins, extending the bills with a flick of my fingers.

Her eyes narrow and she reaches out to snatch them away. But then she slides up against me again, fingers dipping into my pocket. “Trust me when I say it is.” When she pulls back, the money is gone, tucked away into my pants. “Or at least it was.”

Brow furrowing, I pull it out, insisting. “Just take it. For your troubles and pointing me in the right direction.”

“I earn my money, and I’m damn good at it,” she says, face set into a deliberate neutrality. “But if you want to give someone your charity, then I’m sure they’ll welcome it on the Avenue.”

The girl walks away, hips swaying, and I get this glitch in my brain where I think of calling her back. I imagine miles and miles of that smooth, golden skin beneath me, and my pants get a little tight. I haven’t had a good fuck in forever. Nothing about this year is turning out how I thought it would. For one, I figured I’d have a Duchess who was ready and willing to get down and dirty. I also thought I’d be rolling in cutslut pussy, because really, has any Duke in the history of Forsyth reserved his cock for anyone?

Because for some reason, I am.

Not only that, but I have been. Since the night Vinny stepped into the tower, my dick’s been on lockdown. I told myself it was just because I knew it’d be so fucking good with her. What’s the point of filling up on peanuts when you’re about to be served a juicy porterhouse?

But that’s not really it.

I knew it the minute my ink buried into her flesh, when I marked her. She became mine.

Suddenly, that’s the only thing my dick wants—to claim the parts of her I haven’t yet. To make it real. To make it final. A marriage of bodies. A declaration of permanence. To bury myself in her pussy and watch as she takes every desperate inch of me. To see the look on her face when I show her what belonging to Remington Maddox means.

Annoying.

That’s what it is.

I’m young, hot, and rich as fuck. I could have any pussy in this place, and I could have it every day—morning, noon, and night.

So why the hell am I holding out for hers?

“You should.” Nick’s voice breaks me from my thoughts. I turn to find him propped against the entrance to the lounge, arms crossed. It’s been four days, so his black eye is more of a muddled yellow color, just like my jaw. The muscles below my eyes twitch when I take in the shirt he’s wearing—Forsyth University Football.

Killian’s.

I snort. “I should what?”

He jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Get your dick wet. Take her for a spin.”

I scoff, following his gaze. “Nah. See, unlike other people, I have a basic concept of loyalty. But hey, you like her so much, you fuck her.”

“Tried.” He pushes off, cramming his fists into the pockets of the same sweats he’d run away wearing. “No one here will take me. There’s a brothel-wide embargo on my dick.” There’s a lot I want to say to that. Before I can, he deflates, shaking his head. “Come on, man. Not here.”

Coldly, I ask, “Where else?” I know when Nick drops his eyes that he’s hearing what I’m putting down. He’s not coming back to the tower until we hammer this shit out.

Jaw tensing, he dips his head toward the back of the house. “This way.”

I follow him down the hall, past a large room of whores who look bored enough that two Dukes sauntering through their pad draws their full, unadulterated attention.

Nick notices, explaining in a droll voice, “Not much business here in the mornings and afternoons. There’s a little spike around lunchtime when the corporate types roll through on their break for quickies. But mostly it stays dead until nightfall.”

I don’t really give a shit, but I take this in, following him through the house and out the backdoor. Nick leads me to a large, industrial-looking garage in the back. It sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the sleek, soulless wealth of the main building. That’s how I know Daniel had it built. Guy never did have an eye for the finer details.

Inside is a cavernous space, empty and full of echoes. Despite the crisp fall weather, the interior is hot, the metal roof drawing in all the heat of the sun. The middle of the room is sunken, cordoned off by railings that surround it.

Inside the sunken part, there’s a bed.

“That’s the pit,” he says. “He’d make us fuck girls in there.” Nick’s eyes are fixed on the bare bed, shadows filling his eyes, and for a second, that word—’us’—makes my eyes narrow. “Killian’s shut that shit down.” Then he shrugs. “I’m guessing Sy sent you here? To what? Settle things once and for all?” When he turns to look at me, there’s an understanding there. I think that might be what pisses me off the most. That Nick knows what he did was wrong. That he looked at the situation, acknowledged how fucked up it was, weighed it in his mind, and somehow justified it enough to do it. It’d be easier if this were all a big misunderstanding, but that’s not reality.

When Nick bends down to tighten his shoelaces, I do the same.

It’s not really what I want.

What I want is the old Nick. The guy we could count on, no matter what. The guy who once looked my father in the eye and told him to eat shit. The guy who still came to my house afterward, because Nick doesn’t get embarrassed. I want the guy who’d braid Tate’s hair and then come with me to jump some seniors who were talking shit.

I want my best friend.

But what I get is Daniel’s soldier. Over and over. That asshole didn’t just get under his skin; his toxicity is pumping in his blood. Crimson and bronze.

Nick stands straight, chin raised, looking down his nose at me like he’s got any fucking right. He’s got this mask he wears when he’s out on a job. Stone cold blankness. He’s wearing it now as he stares me straight in the eye, and suddenly, all I can think about is him putting those bruises into Vinny’s thighs, fucking her with that goddamn look on his face, like he’s above it all. I think of him filling her up before throwing her away, just like he’d done to me and Sy two years ago.

And then I pull my fist back, coldcocking him so hard that my bones rattle, from knuckle to sternum.

The crack to his jaw, the way his head whips around, the stunned grunt he makes… it’s all so satisfying that I find myself winding up for another one, fist flexing. He looks at the ground, spitting out a glob of blood, and then turns his gaze back to me.

But he doesn’t hit back.

He’s still as a statue—frozen—as if he’s just waiting for the next blow.

A bitter snort escapes me. “What’s wrong, Nicky? Been a traitor for so long, you’ve forgotten how this goes?” Ever since we were kids, Nick and I have settled our beefs with a solid round or five. Neither of us are much for grudges—that’s more Sy’s thing—so all we’ve ever needed was to blow off some steam, land a few jabs, make each other hurt a bit. It’s the way we’ve always squared up.

Nick just raises his arms in invitation. “Take another shot, brother.”

My lip curls. “Beating the shit out of someone who won’t fight back? Little satisfaction in that.” But I do it anyway, my fist tightening, and the second hit, a nasty mollywhop to his temple, actually has him staggering back. “Then again, a little is something.”

Nick spends a moment shrugging it off, giving his head a tight shake before regaining his posture, feet spread, chin raised.

My blood boils.

I plant my palms on his shoulders and shove, growling, “Fight back!” Nick takes a step back, planting his feet, but doesn’t raise a hand. Eyes flashing, I shove him again, and then again, his solid body being propelled in bursts across the floor of the sweltering building. Sweat drips over one of my eyebrows and I snap, “Fight me, you fucking bitch!”

Nick just locks his jaw, taking my next shove with a bitter grin. “No.”

I get in his face, snarling, “Because South Side has turned you into a weak, two-faced coward.” Another shove.

Finally, there’s a spark in his eyes. It’s not much—he’s still got that fucking stone mask on—but his muscles tense as he shoves me back. “Because I fucking deserve it! Is that what you want to hear, Remy?”

Violently, I slap his arms away. “Fuck that! We all know you deserve it! What I want to know is why!”

The stone mask shatters, Nick’s face contorting into an ugly, vicious desperation. “Because I was fucking killing her!” he explodes, shoving me with a momentum that has me hurtling back. “You think you know? You have no fucking idea. You don’t love her!” He bears down on me, fists clenched, face red. “You don’t know what it’s like to give everything to someone, just to have them throw it back in your face. You don’t know what it’s like to fight this… this fucking instinct, every second of the day, to just take it.”

I spring back, pushing him by the throat. “But you did,” I snarl, teeth bared. “You took it. I saw the fucking bruises! I know what you did to her!”

I visibly watch his next words rise to the surface, sounding so raw and unhinged that it’s as if they’re rending their way through his vocal chords. “And I watched a piece of her fucking die while I was doing it!”

I’m not sure I’ve ever heard Nick scream before. Not like this, not out of anger. He and his brother have control down to an art form. But this? The heaving chest, the bald hysteria in his eyes…

It makes me go utterly still.

Nick stands there for a long second, panting as the fury slowly recedes. What’s left afterward is a grim sort of exhaustion. When he slumps to the floor, it carves his shoulders into a tired, dejected line. “It should have been perfect. It should have been—” He drops his forehead to a palm, shaking his head. The rest comes out in a raggedly thin whisper. “She cried.”

I close my eyes, drawing in a long, calming breath. “The fuck are you talking about?”

He doesn’t look at me when he answers, fixing his gaze to some unidentifiable, distant point. “You know, sometimes girls cry and it’s just like… tears and snot, and it’s mostly just annoying, but this was…” He wets his lips, face going an ashen gray. “It was like she was dying, Remy. Not in a literal way. In that way where… there’s just nothing left inside.”

My face twists in confusion. “Because you fucked her?”

He finally lifts his gaze, eyes hooded and blank. “Because I broke her.”

I bark a disbelieving laugh. “Well, if you didn’t, her father sure fucking did!”

He bursts, “I wasn’t thinking about—” but the words clip off with a click of his teeth. “I just knew if I kept her, I’d do it again.”

“So she’s gotta eat shit because you don’t have any fucking self-control?”

“I had two years of self-control!” he snaps, shoulders tensing. “Fuck you, you don’t get it.”

I scoff. “That’s the issue, isn’t it? Just like always. You have a problem, you go off and solve it alone. I hate to break it to you, but you’re not good at it.” Buzzing with frustration, I urge, “So fucking tell me what the problem is for once instead of making it worse.”

There’s a long beat of silence where I’m convinced this is useless. And then he lets out a slow breath, head hanging. “When I’m with her, it’s like… there are things I need. Need, not want. And if they don’t happen, I go out of my goddamn mind.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Things you need?”

Nodding, he explains, “I need to touch her. I need her to look at me. I need to taste her. I need everyone to know she’s mine. I need her to know she’s mine. I need her attention. I need—”

“What you need is massive amounts of therapy. I mean, Jesus Christ, Nicky.” I sink my fingers into my hair, tugging at the roots. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t want her pretty fucking bad, but she’s just a girl.”

Nick slides me a look through the corner of his eyes, and yeah. Fair.

She’s more than just a girl, and we both know it.

Instead of voicing this, he goes on, “I knew whatever her dad had in store for her was probably messed up.” He tips his head up, smiling joylessly. “But more messed up than me?”

I rub my temples against the brewing ache in my head. “Fuck.”

He nods. “Pretty much.”

The fucked up thing is, I can see it. The path from Point-A to Point-B, carved with the best of the worst intentions. It didn’t make any sense to me before, and if I’m being honest, it doesn’t really make sense now. It’s crazy.

But sometimes, I am, too.

I let out a sigh that might never end, dropping down next to him on the cement floor. “Nick,” I start, resting my elbows on my knees. “From what I’ve heard, Vinny’s had a kind of fucked up life.”

His eyes narrow. “You can’t make me feel any worse than—”

“I’m not saying this to make you feel like shit,” I insist. “You and Sy… you’ve got a really nice family. You’ve got three nice parents who love you. Three of them. You both had a good upbringing. You had counselors and summer camps and awkward parental talks that probably ended with hugs or gift cards or whatever. And you had each other. Yeah, you fight, but you and Sy care about each other. Hell, most of your fights are because you give a shit about each other.”

He rolls his eyes. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that you had the fucking dream, and look how you both turned out. Neurotic, obsessive, impulsive, insecure, basket cases.” I turn to him, giving him a long, significant look. “Now imagine if you didn’t have any of that.” Nick looks away. “Vinny’s got issues, bro. She’s used to being treated like shit, and she was raised in the Royalty, where people don’t give anything away without wanting something in return.” Softening a blow has never been something I bother with, but right now, I make an attempt. “I kind of think the harder you want her, the more she’s going to turn away. And I don’t think she can help it. You’re like the person-version of that box her dad had her in. You suffocate her, man.”

“So you’re saying I should give up.” The stone mask returns, but it’s not the same. This one isn’t carved out of arrogance. It radiates grief. “I should watch her suck your dick and ride my brother and just…” Nick stares out over the sunken part of the building—the pit, he’d called it—and shakes his head. “I don’t know how to let her go when she’s right in front of me.”

“I’m saying you should let her have some fucking room to breathe.” I push to my feet, feeling sore and wrung out for someone who didn’t even take a hit.

“How?” he asks.

Shrugging, I offer him my hand, watching as he looks up at it. “You could start by saying you’re sorry.”

He laughs. It’s depreciating and lacking in humor but that’s how far this has gone. “An apology seems pretty fucking weak, bro. I mean, Hallmark doesn’t make a card for shit like this.”

“No, they don’t, but even you can suck it up and just say the words.” But I couldn’t. I covered a fucking hairbrush in black marker, and she doesn’t even know what it means. Then again, I had a lot less to be sorry for.

He sighs and takes my hand. I heave him off the ground. “You think she’ll accept it?”

This time I laugh. “Not a fucking chance.”

He grimaces. “Then what’s the point?”

I roll my eyes, because goddamn. “The point is you’re a Duke. A Bruin. You belong in the tower and she does too. She’s our Duchess. The instant Sy broke into the Count’s mansion, that was sealed. For life.” His jaw tics. “Yeah, your big brother is the savior now. But that little act? It came with consequences.”

For the first time since I got here, his spine straightens. “What consequences?”

“Saul was at the tower when I left. I don’t know what he wants, but you and I both know it’s going to be painful.”

“Shit,” he says, and something flickers in Nicky’s eyes.

Purpose.

And like that, he’s drawn back in.