Dukes of Madness: Chapter 9

Sy is the worst patient ever.

“Stay still,” I snap, hands chasing him as he leans away.

“It smells gross,” he snaps back, scowling. His words are still a touch slurred, so his general condition ruins some of the intimidation factor. Here, all battered and bruised, perched on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, head hanging heavily between wide, slumped shoulders, I forget to be afraid of him. Ever since he woke up, five hours ago, he’s been moody and sour, but also quiet and sullen. He’s obviously nursing a mild concussion, and god knows he has to be lit up with aches and pains, but when he stood up to walk to the bathroom earlier, he didn’t so much as wince.

He refuses to take the pain pills.

I dab at the split on his lip gently, coating it with the sticky honey. “You’re well enough to travel now,” I try, moving to his cheekbone. “We can probably head back to—”

He wrenches his head to the side, glaring at the shabby comforter. “No.”

It’s been eighteen hours since he was attacked. His cuts are scabbing over. His bruises are darkening. He says there’s no blood in his urine, but I don’t really believe he’d tell me if there was. I’ve fed him the half of the burger I didn’t eat and sports drink from a pallet he has in the trunk of his car.

But I can’t do much here.

Sighing, I lean back on my heels, kneeled on the floor in front of him, to inspect my handiwork. “Sy, look—”

“I can’t go into the tower right now,” he says, not for the first time.

I throw my hands up. “Why the hell not? Saul’s boys won’t possibly come for you there. You’re protected when you’re up there. One way up, one way down.” Gesturing to the room around us, I note, “But here, we’re sitting ducks.” If someone discovered us—my father or Saul—we’d be toast.

He links his fingers together, squeezing his fists, and I watch as the abused skin over his knuckles thins and splits. “The night I brought you back into the tower, what did I fucking say?”

I search through my memories of that night, which are hazy at best, and try to remember. I know I was so terrified of the elevator that I passed out on the way up. But before that, when he was psyching me up, trying to convince me that everything was going to be okay, I told him I’d rather die. And he said…

You see that door you just came in? When a Duke loses a fight, he spends the night somewhere else, because losers aren’t allowed to walk through it.

My groan is rough and frustrated. “You can’t be serious. This is some stupid Duke ego thing?”

He replies in a gruff, quiet voice. “I lost.”

“Jesus, Sy, you were outnumbered three to one.” I duck forward to catch his gaze through a swollen eye. “You didn’t lose. You were just… overpowered.”

He doesn’t answer, pitching to the side and dragging his feet up to lay on the bed. He sets his head back on the pillow, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Suddenly, his face contorts, a gagging sound emerging from his throat. “What the fuck? You said that was honey.”

I hold up the jar. “Manuka honey. It’s not like… regular honey.”

He grimaces. “It tastes like shit. Where the hell did you get this?”

I know well enough to brace myself before I say, “Tristian Mercer brought it.”

He jolts up, back rigid as he gapes at me. “Are you fucking kidding me? You let a Lord in here? While I was unconscious?”

“I needed help and didn’t know who to trust. Remy didn’t answer his phone, and it’s not like I could trust some random DKS guy.” I screw the cap back on the honey and set it on the bedside table. “Saul’s the one who did this to you, so he was obviously out of the question. Who’s left? My father?” I bark a laugh that must sound completely crazed. “So I called the Hideaway. The women there… well, they were my only support when I was locked up. I asked for a favor, and they came through.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. I’m well aware that his frustration isn’t just about me calling South Side. It’s about how everything in our lives is an utter shit show and he has no control. I get it. I’ve lived it for years now.

“I’ve done my best to make us safe here,” I tell him. “And I think there are South Side soldiers watching the motel. But…”

But we should go home soon.

I don’t speak the thought, letting it linger heavily in the air between us, not just because I know he’d argue. It’s the first time I’ve thought of the tower as home and not felt a sense of defeat.

“Fucking hell.” He scrubs his hair. “Now we’re going to owe them. Double.”

Putting away the bandages, I mutter, “Because Nick’s there?”

“Or was,” he answers, sounding just as unhappy at the mention of his brother as I feel making it. “Hopefully Remy’s got him home by now.”

So much for any thought of ‘home’ bringing me comfort.

“Speaking of, he texted. Remy,” I clarify, crossing the room for the phone I left on the rickety table. I carry it back over to him and sit on the edge of the bed. “I replied and told him we were safe, but I didn’t take any chances on someone discovering our location.”

He opens the messages and taps out a series of words and emojis I can’t decipher. A reply comes back almost instantly, similarly unreadable. He tosses it across the bed where it bounces off the yellowing sheets, muttering, “We need to get you a phone.”

I blink at him, unable to parse the thought. My own phone? I haven’t had anything like that in years. “How long?” I ask, watching him carefully.

His forehead creases. “Until you get a phone?”

“Until we can go back.” I roll my eyes. “Another day? Two? What are the rules on this idiotic concept of losers not being able to enter the tower?”

Sy swallows hard at the word. Loser. “Three days,” he answers, eyes going tight when he shifts.

Sighing, I concede one thing. “You’re going to need it to heal up. Get your strength back.” The groggy scowl he sends me makes me smile. “Yeah, sounds familiar, right? Time for a little payback.”

He gingerly pulls the comforter over his bare chest, already looking half asleep. “If you bring me soup and a kitten, I’m fucking out of here.”

Sy isn’t the only one who’s exhausted, and I watch as he falls into slumber, breath evening out, before I climb beneath the blankets and do the same.

I wake up in the silent hours of the morning.

It must be a force of habit. Back when I was being kept here, I’d sleep during the evening. Otherwise, I’d be treated to the girls in the rooms parallel to mine, screaming and moaning as whatever shitty John took his fill of her. But it’s always been quiet here after 2am. If I keep my eyes closed and pretend not to smell the musty sheets, I can almost imagine I’m somewhere else.

Except for the fact I’m waking to the sound of Sy’s heartbeat beneath my ear.

Sometime in the night, I must have rolled toward him, seeking his warmth, because now I have a leg thrown over his thigh, my hand resting on his bare stomach as I burrow mindlessly into his chest. For such a fit guy, Sy is surprisingly comfortable to sleep against. Not hard, but comfortingly firm and radiating heat.

If he wakes up to this, he’s going to be pissed, but I give myself a few moments to dread rolling away, back to the cold vacancy on the other side of the bed.

Then, I rise with his sigh, his chest slowly expanding, and I realize he’s awake.

I flinch back, dragging my limbs away and putting some distance between us. “My bad,” I croak, unable to make out much more than the outline of his face in the dark. “Not enough pillows in this shithole to construct your usual perimeter.”

His quiet, “Whatever,” is full of strain.

“Shit.” I rub a hand over my face before reaching over to turn on a lamp. “Was I hurting you? Let me check your ribs.”

When I try to pull the comforter back, he grips it tight. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” The bruising is horrific and I’ve been worried this whole time that he broke a rib or punctured something without knowing. “Just let me see.”

He gives me a hard stare before letting go of the comforter, pressing his shoulders against the pillow. I don’t allow my eyes to linger over his body, instead getting right to the problem area. Gently I touch a particularly dark bruise and he hisses. “Fuck.”

“Sorry, sorry!”

He keeps his hands on his lap, on top of the blanket, obscuring his crotch. I take great pains to avoid looking at it and seek a distraction while I check out the other tender spots on his torso. “I’ve been thinking…”

He sucks in a breath when I press down on his side. “Not until tomorrow night.”

I give him an exasperated look. “Not about going back. Remember how we were in the library that day, when Perez cornered me? What you said…”

A line forms above the cut on the bridge of his nose. “Only I’m allowed to upset you?”

“No, Sy.” I shoot him a glower. “You told me my punch sucks.”

He snorts. “Actually, I believe I said you hit like a girl. A guy would never tuck his thumb.”

I might press a little too hard on my next pass, making him wince. “The point is, I’m not good at it. Fighting.”

He grunts, swatting my hand away. “Physically, at least.”

“And,” I go on, satisfied that I didn’t harm him with any accidental cuddling, “if the last couple months have taught me anything, it’s that I’m woefully unprepared to defend myself.” I stare at his mottled flesh, and bitterly add, “From anyone.”

There’s a long stretch of silence where nothing except his labored breaths are apparent. And then he whispers, “Hey,” and tilts his head to force our gazes to meet. “If this is about those guys back there, there’s not much I could’ve taught you to fight them off. I couldn’t even fight them off and I’ve got over a hundred pounds on you.”

I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat. “It is about them, but… it’s also about Nick, and Perez, and my father’s fucking henchmen. It’s about Tristian Mercer and being trapped in here alone with you,” I gesture to the door, “with nothing but a cheap lock between us and whatever is out there. I don’t need to be able to win a fight against them. I just need to be able to get away if I have to.”

His expression is hard, cut from stone, and I know I shouldn’t have asked him. Remy would have been better, maybe. I should have waited and asked him. But I’ve never seen Remy fight, and Sy…

He’s good.

Really good.

I move to stand, but he grabs my wrist and pulls me back down. “It’s our job to protect the Duchess. What happened back there wasn’t on you. It was on me.” His eyes ping back and forth between mine, flashing in a searing anger. “You weren’t the one who lost that fight.”

“You and I both know I can’t always be with you and Remy. I need to be able to do this. I’m so tired, Simon.” I reach out and gently touch the butterfly bandage under his eye. It should make him look weak or vulnerable, but it just makes him more intimidating. And, strangely, handsome. “I’m so fucking tired of being held down by the men of Forsyth.”

I stand, and this time he lets me, his fingers dragging lazily across my wrist as I walk away. I disappear into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. Ignoring my reflection, I turn the squeaky knobs until the water rushes out, dipping my hands in to splash on my face. Admitting that I need help, to him in particular, cuts to the bone. I’ve shown a weakness here, one that transcends my inability to fight off three hulking men. The fact that it wasn’t enough to get him to agree is just an extra dose of humiliation.

It casts a light on the sad state of my life to say that having a phone would completely change it. Sy will give me one, and he’ll protect me, keep me safe. But I’m not stupid. All of those things are contingent. They can be snatched away at his whim. We’re on good terms now, but what about when we get back to the tower, where his brother is probably waiting?

I sit on the toilet and drop my hands into my face. It’s not like I can hide in here forever, but who knows? Maybe if I wait ten minutes, he’ll just fall back asleep, like it never even happened.

That plan is shot to hell. When I walk back out, he hasn’t moved. In fact, he’s levered himself upright, shoulders propped against the pillows, and appears wide awake.

Fuck.

“I think Tristian may have put some protein bars in the food he left if you want one,” I say, heading to the table. I feel his eyes on my back.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Oh, okay.” The room is suddenly too small for the both of us. This whole situation only works smoothly when one, or both of us, are asleep.

“Lavinia,” he says, and then, softer, as if he’s testing the shape of it on his tongue, “Vinny.”

I look over. “Yeah?”

“I guess… maybe I can teach you some defensive moves.” His weary blue eyes sweep over me. “But if you want to be trained, I’m not going to go easy on you. You’re going to have to gain some weight, add a little muscle mass and work on your stamina, which we both know is shit.”

My heart flutters and I turn to him fully, daring to feel a morsel of optimism. “Yeah, we do.”

He looks away, sighing. “But, you’re right. You need to be able to defend yourself, as much as you can.” Suddenly, his mouth twists into a smirk, a soft laugh bouncing his chest. “You know, for such a tiny chick, you sure do have a lot of enemies.”

“Says the guy who just got jumped by one of his.” I pick up the protein bar and turn, tossing it to him. He isn’t looking, though—not at my head.

His eyes are quite obviously glued to my ass.

The protein bar smacks unceremoniously into his chest, making him flinch. “I said I wasn’t hungry,” he repeats, setting it aside. “But I’ve been thinking about something, too. Something you can do for me in return.”

My stomach plummets. “What?”

He shifts under the blanket, clearing his throat. “At the Equinox party, you…” His eye twitches. “You made me look good in front of all those people.”

My eyebrows shoot upward. “You want me to make you look like a sex god or something? Like some gratuitous PDA?” When all he does is stare at me, unblinking, the hair on the back of my neck rises. Slowly, I realize, “No. You don’t want to look good.” That’s not Sy at all. He doesn’t like winning because of appearances. It’s about the show of superior skill. “You want to be good.”

His cheeks turn pink and he fists the blanket, looking away. “That night, you kind of… coached me.”

As far as I can tell, he only has one weakness.

“Sy Perilini has never lost anything. Virginity included.”

Nick said that before I climbed into his brother’s lap and talked him through an epic dry-hump. Coached, as he said.

“You want me to, like, sex-train you?”

He pulls a face. “Don’t say it like that. That sounds ridiculous.” Not as ridiculous as this genetically superior, well-endowed man, asking me to coach him in sex.

“Sy,” I start, wondering how to approach this. We’ve just gained some sort of tenuous allyship and I find myself really not wanting to ruin it. Nevertheless, “I can’t fuck you.” When his eyes shutter, I’m quick to explain, “Physically, I’m not sure I could even take it. I’ve had sex a few times—” Three times: once with a shy, handsome boy I went to high school with, and twice with his shit of a brother. “—but I’m not, like… really experienced.”

I run both palms down my hot cheeks, wondering why I’m even saying this. I can’t fuck Sy because I don’t want to fuck Sy. That should be enough.

At first, I’m sure we’re both going to just crawl into two separate holes and die of mortification, but then Sy’s gaze jumps to mine. “You’ve never fucked Remy,” he argues. “But you’ve done enough with him that you know he’s…” His lip curls. “Good at it.”

Annoyingly, I now find myself thinking about it; what Remy’s like in bed. No doubt, being with him is like riding a rollercoaster. I bet Remy stretches before he gets started, really limbers up. I bet he fuels up on something—liquor, stimulants, carb loading. But no, that doesn’t sound right, either. I bet with him, it comes out of nowhere, unplanned, impulsive, covered in ink and paint at four in the morning. Either way, I bet a night with him would leave a girl limping down all those tower stairs.

“Well…”

Sy lets out a disgusted sound. “See? You’ve never even had his dick and you’re hot for it.”

I shake myself out of it. “What exactly are you looking for then?”

If he wasn’t so injured, I’m pretty sure he would transform into the Hulk and smash his way through the paper-thin walls of this motel and run as far away from this discussion as possible. But he’s not.

“I’m not stupid. I know I’m not… normal,” he says, pushing down the blanket. I’ve seen his cock. Felt it, tasted it. I know he’s not average down there. I look at the hard line of his cock against his leg, noticing that it’s bigger now than it has been in days. He’s horny. “Bitches—women—they all talk about wanting a guy with a huge cock, but the second they see or feel it, they’re pounding sand.” He lifts his chin. “You did.”

He’s right. Every time I look at it, I get a funny feeling in my stomach. It’s some horrific mixture of desire, curiosity, and bone-chilling fear. “Yeah, well, the first time I saw it, you were attacking me with it. Come to think of it, the second and third times weren’t much different.”

He huffs but doesn’t disagree. “But you don’t go around telling everyone about how shitty I am in bed. They do.” What shocks me is that he’s genuinely distressed, running his fingers through his hair. “Normal guys like Remy and Nick… they got to experiment. Fumble around. Train themselves.”

“But girls never let you get that far,” I say, understanding.

He really gets going now, hands flying in the air. “And it shouldn’t fucking matter! I’m the best fighter in Forsyth. I have a nearly perfect GPA. I’m a Duke, for fuck’s sake. But all people ever talk about is how bad I am at this.” He thrusts a finger at his crotch. “And that.” He thrusts a finger at my crotch.

“So you do want to look good,” I hedge, perching on the edge of the bed. “You just also want to back it up.”

He looks away, still red-faced. “Basically.”

Gently, I try, “South Side has a lot of working girls who’d—” At his sharp, incredulous glare, I raise my hands. “…who are all loyal to a rival house. Fine, I get it. So… what? You want to practice on me? Use me like a cum covered pin cushion?”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “Why are you always so fucking difficult? I agreed to help you, can’t you do the same for me?”

I lean back on the bed and lay a hand on his leg. His breath hitches and I watch the length and width of his cock expand. “Maybe…” I lick my lips, too aware of his eyes darting to the motion. “Maybe we could try some things. Kiss me.”

His head snaps back. “What?”

“Kiss me,” I repeat. “You’re getting hard, Sy. The natural progression of this is that you kiss me. Let’s see what we’re working with. Seduce me.” He groans, head falling back, and my jaw drops in outrage. “What, you can cram your cock into my mouth, but you don’t want to kiss me?”

He glowers up at the ceiling. “That night of the party, we kissed plenty.”

I shrug. “Whatever. Remy kisses me like he’s a goddamn soldier going off to war. Forget all this stuff about dicks. When it comes to women, that’s what makes him better than you.”

The challenge sparks in his eyes and suddenly he’s bolting toward me, mashing his mouth against mine.

Jesus, I should have known.

This isn’t about sex.

It’s about winning.

I grab his jaw to soften it, his lips harsh and too stiff against mine. He adjusts his posture without ever separating our lips, rolling to prop up on an elbow. I can feel the swell of his cut against my kiss, and when we part our lips to deepen it, I can taste a twinge of that honey salve.

Sy kisses awkwardly at first, like he’s taking a test or ripping off a Band-Aid, eager to get to the end. I let my hand trail down his neck, landing on his chest, and then I slow it, licking lazy against his warm tongue. Gradually, he sinks into the rhythm, adapting to the plunge and retreat, and it’s… good.

It’s just as good as it was the night of the party.

Maybe even better, without the weight of everyone’s eyes on us. This is completely without artifice, and even when he stumbles, knocking our teeth together, it just enhances it, like I’m seeing a part of Sy that’s unbearably private.

The gruff vibration of his groan sends a shockwave down into the pit of my belly, igniting my nerves into a tingling mess.

“Touch me,” I say against his lips, coaching him. I feel his arm moving, hear the shuffle of the comforter as it rises, feel the momentum of his swirling tongue kick up a notch, and then…

He grabs my tit.

I pull away, glaring. “Really? Right for the goods?”

His eyes are heavy and glazed, lips wet and red. “What?”

“Have some game, Sy, Jesus.” I pull his hand away, pointedly settling it on my hip. “Remember that it’s not all about you. You have to be patient.”

The muscles beneath my palm flex. “That’s hard to do when I’m on a fucking hair trigger all the time.”

I don’t even need to look down to know he’s rock hard. “Isn’t that why you guys are supposed to jerk off? To deal with stuff like that?”

He pulls his hand from my hip, flopping back to the mattress. “I try not to do that so much.” Back to glaring at the ceiling.

Now, I let myself look, and sure enough, his cock is raging at full staff, thick and obscene beneath his pants. I clear my throat, startled at the sight of it. “Why not? You obviously want it.”

He drags his fingers through his hair, tugging hard enough that his knuckles go white. “If I give in, then it’d be all I’ll do. It’s easier if I just… hold it in. Control it.”

God, his head and his body are a mess of mixed up repression and denial. No wonder he’s so pissed off all the time.

I reach haltingly for the waistband of his sweats. “Can I… uh, see?” Truthfully, the question is more for myself than him.

“Why?” he asks, watching me warily.

“Just… let me get a lay of the land here.”

His jaw tenses, shoulders rigid. It’s not just anger, either. The moment my knuckle touches his skin, finger hooked into his waistband, he releases a thinly veiled shudder, eyes slamming closed. Slowly, I lower the elastic, getting a flash of his dark, wiry hair. His hips rise, and I wrench the pants down low, his cock getting caught and then snapping free, landing heavily against his belly.

My cunt clenches just looking at it.

I open my mouth to speak, and he cuts me off. “I swear to god, if some smart ass remark comes out of your mouth, I’m going to fucking lose it.”

I roll my eyes. “I was going to say that it’s not so bad.” Straight up, the thing’s a bit of a nightmare, but it’s not exactly ugly. It’s aesthetically a perfect cock, from the flushed, swollen head to the strong shaft. There aren’t any scary curves or bulging places. It’s veiny and dark, just like the rest of his skin, and it’s fine. There’s just so much of it. “It’s just, uh, a little intimidating. Like the rest of you.”

His shoulders unwind, just a notch, and I stare at it, tilting my head to scrutinize it from every angle. It’s hard to believe I’ve had it in my mouth, thrusting against my lips, surging against my tongue.

I lick out now to taste the remnants of Sy’s kiss on my lips. “I’m going to touch it.”

But he snatches my wrist before I can, blue eyes blazing into mine. “You have no fucking idea how close I am to—” His teeth clench, the knot in the back of his jaw flexing. “If you touch me right now, I won’t be able to control it.”

I pause. “What, like, you’ll come? Well, maybe you should. It can’t be healthy to keep yourself all backed up and—”

“That’s one way it could go,” he cuts me off, eyes smoldering. “The other is that I pin you to this bed and use you like… what did you call it? A cum covered pin cushion?”

I yank my wrist back. “You’re saying you can’t control yourself when you’re horny? That’s bullshit.”

“I do control myself,” he bites out. “I try not to get horny at all. Which, by the way, is really fucking difficult when some girl is traipsing around your living room in spandex every day.”

My jaw drops. “That’s why you were such an asshole to me before? Because I made your dick hard?” But my own words bring back the memory of Nick’s, the day he won me in that fight.

“If he’s this bitchy, you must really get his motor revving. He doesn’t like being reminded he’s not a robot.”

And I remember that day at the gym, when he’d forced me to my knees, eyes frantic and pained.

“You did this… You’ve been doing it for days… Making me feel this… You made it happen… You take it away…”

So that’s why he’s been so nice to me lately. I guess it’s hard to get it up for someone who’s so weak and battered that she can’t even walk on her own. But I’m looking at it now—his gigantic cock—and it seems to understand that sex is something it wants again.

I blow out a long breath, face feeling hot. “I’m going to touch you,” I repeat, ignoring how it makes his cock jump, “and you’re going to lay there and do nothing until I give you an order.” When he parts his mouth to argue, I say, “There’s a knife under my pillow. If you try to hold me down or take something that’s not on offer, I’m going to cut your fucking balls off.”

His jaw clicks shut. There’s an inferno raging in his eyes, but he trains them on the ceiling and swallows, his throat jumping with the motion.

I ask, “How long has it been? When was the last time you… you know.” He cuts his eyes to mine and then looks away, lightning quick, and I gawk at him. “Not since that night of the party?”

Silence.

I don’t go for it directly, threading my fingers down the trail of hair under his belly that I’ve been eyeing for days. It’s as soft as it looks, baby-fine, and his lower belly caves with my touch.

I haven’t even touched it yet, but he gives a full body shudder, growling, “Oh, fuck,” and slams his eyes closed. I keep mine wide open, watching his cock swell.

My first touch is barely more than a graze of my fingertip along the shaft. The muscles in his thighs lock right before his cock twitches, a long string of precum dribbling down to his hip. There’s this sound he makes, deep in his throat, a sort of rumbling whine, and an emptiness in the pit of my stomach flares suddenly to life.

His hips surge up and I take my hand away, chiding, “Be still.”

His breaths are loud, hissing through his gnashed teeth. “Don’t fucking tease me.”

“It’s not a tease,” I insist, finally wrapping my fingers around the shaft. “It’s training.”

I watch as his fingers twist into the sheets, but only distantly. Mostly my eyes are trained on the head of his dick, which gives another strained surge of fluid. I’ve never seen a guy leak like this, and I’m strangely fascinated by it, the way this muscle reacts to the slightest touch. When I give a light, testing squeeze, more of the sticky fluid weeps out.

Sy keens.

My eyes dart to him, but he’s digging his head back into the pillow and his eyes are squinched so tightly that the bandage on his cheek is straining.

“Relax, Sy.” I give him a slow stroke, watching the resulting tremor run up his limbs. His muscles are coiled so tight that I can see every tendon in his neck. “What are you holding back?”

“Everything,” he grunts, stiff as a board. I look back at his dick, at the fluid that’s pooled beneath the head, and drag my lip through my teeth. It’s funny to think I’d had to threaten him before—that he’d had to warn me he might lose control—because here, holding the heavy weight of him in my hand, I realize it’s actually much different.

Right now, I have unutterable power over this man.

“Do you think… could you kiss me? When you’re like this?” Instantly, he shakes his head, thrashing tightly from side to side, and I firm up my voice. “Try. Kiss me, Sy.”

He lets out a harsh breath that’s edged with frustration, and suddenly, he’s lurching up onto an elbow, grabbing a thick, painful fistful of my hair, and crushing our mouths together.

The second our tongues meet, he comes, grunting into my mouth.

His cock surges and jerks, and the rest of his body follows it, shuddering as his other hand clamps onto my fist, forcing my fingers tighter. Sy makes a sound like a wounded animal, and then my hand is met with the warm slickness of his release.

“Easy, easy,” I say, pitching toward the hand that’s currently tearing hair from my scalp.

He doesn’t say he’s sorry. He just lets go and flops back, and even though I know it’s over, his hips are still flexing, cock giving one last gush, adding to the considerable mess on his belly. The back of my neck is damp with sweat. My pulse is pounding in my ears. There’s a tingle in my thighs that I know all too well isn’t going to go away.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so horny in my goddamn life.

I clear my throat, holding my hand out to the side. “Let’s, um, clean up.”

Sy doesn’t even bother reaching for the tissues on the bedside table, instead fumbling around on the floor for one of the towels I’d used to clean him up before. His face is still red, but his muscles are looser, eyes hooded as he lazily wipes at his stomach and chest. Falteringly, I point to a spot on his collarbone before lifting a corner of the towel to swipe the cum away.

That beast has some wicked momentum.

When I disappear into the bathroom to wash his jizz from my hands, I find that my own face is aflame, and there’s a brief, shameful moment where I wish I were back in the tower.

Remy would take one look at me and know.

He would slide up against me. He’d kiss me and stoke the fire between my legs into a raging blaze. He’d make me feel his hands on me, and sure, he’d take. But he’d also bring me pleasure—whether I wanted it or not—and right now, I really, really fucking do.

The thought is startling and pulls me back from the edge, because I can’t be this. I can’t be like the Lady, who’d gladly spread for her Lords. The Dukes aren’t my boyfriends. They’re just the sentries standing between me and Forsyth. And if I need to train Sy to understand what sex is supposed to be, then I’ll do it because I know he’ll take it seriously, and because it serves a purpose.

But none of this is real.

When I return to the room, Sy has the comforter pulled back up to his chest. The scowl has returned to his face. “You were carrying your bag in your right hand.”

I blink at him, pausing in the doorway. “What?”

“After the fight,” he says, sliding his eyes to mine. “Lesson one: always leave your dominant hand free.”

“Oh.” I linger there in the doorway for a moment, trying to get my bearings. I squeeze my thighs together and give him a nod. “Okay, good point. But that’s not really the kind of lesson I had in mind.”

“Neither is making me nut,” he counters. “A stiff breeze could do that.”

My eyes narrow. “The orgasm wasn’t the lesson, Sy. It was that the more you deny your body’s urges, the more they’re going to rule you.”

“Whatever,” he replies, looking away. “I was handling things just fine before you came along.”

I correct, “Before you came along. I don’t know why you act like I’m inflicting myself on you. The three of you were inflicted on me.”

His nostrils flare. “You know what I meant.”

“Well, excuse me for having the sheer audacity to fucking exist,” I snap, every ounce of my libido exiting stage left. There’s a long stretch of tense silence before I decide sleep is the only remedy to this. Flinging the comforter back, I move to stuff my pillow between us—absolutely no more cuddling—only to get a good look at what’s going on beneath his pants. My jaw drops. “Seriously?” I screech, flinging a hand toward it. “But you literally just—”

The shutters slam over Sy’s face, teeth grinding. “I fucking told you this is what happens.”

“Yeah, because you probably have years of spunk backed up in that thing!” Shaking my head, I crawl into bed, keeping my distance. “You need to do it every day. Isn’t your mom a sex therapist or something? You should—”

“Talk to my mother about my dick?” he asks, voice a cold deadpan.

Yikes.

“Maybe not,” I sigh, turning off the lamp. Once the room is dark and silent, I find myself thinking about tomorrow. About going home. About seeing Remy. About seeing Nick. I find myself wondering, “Did he tell you what he did?” Instead of an answer, I get the rustle of sheets as Sy turns to look at me. “Nick,” I clarify, swallowing thickly. Remy must know by now, but it’s been nagging at me. The possibility that everyone does. “Did he tell you that he…”

Another beat of silence, and then, “He what?”

So he doesn’t know.

I almost just roll over and go to sleep. The less people who know, the better. “He tied me up,” I say instead, speaking more to the dark in front of my eyes than to the man beside me. “Before he took me to my dad—after you dropped me off. He tied me up and he—” I get stuck for a moment on the verbiage, unable to form my lips around the word I want to use.

Sy opts for another. “He fucked you?”

My smile is brittle and empty. “Yeah. If that’s what you want to call it.”

This time, the quiet around us is filled with dreadful, awful things. Mostly because I know what he’s going to say as soon as the sigh falls from his lips.

“Lavinia, he’s my brother.”

It shouldn’t surprise me. Blood is thicker than whatever it is that’s bound me and Sy since he came for me that night. If it comes down to a choice between me or Nick, I know who he’ll choose.

When I feel his touch on my cheek, I realize it’s wet with the trail of a single tear. “I never make promises. You know as well as I do that in our world, a promise is just another word for debt. But I promise you this.” His thumb slides away, soft as silk. “I won’t let him hurt you again.”

Hours later, after Sy has turned away and fallen asleep, I know that it’s useless. Sy thinks his urges are his weakness. Remy probably assumes his moments of instability are his weakness. Nick probably thinks I’m his weakness.

But I know the truth.

Nothing makes a Royal as weak as their loyalty to the broken machine of Forsyth.

We leave the motel the next night, gathering our shit and locking the door behind us. Things have been quiet and solemn since we woke up this morning, partly because we’ve been anticipating our return to the tower, and partly because of what happened in bed last night.

Sy is walking a little easier, but he still has a bit of a limp, holding his side gingerly as we cross the lot to his old Trans-Am. When he says, “Lesson two: always check behind the car and clear the back seat before getting in,” it’s the first mention that’s been made of our agreement. I don’t tell him that I already learned that lesson, remembering that first time I tried to escape the tower, only to realize halfway into putting the SUV into reverse that Nick was waiting in the backseat, armed and furious.

I’m too nervous about getting back to the tower to do much more than raise my chin in acknowledgement, stuffing our things into the back.

Sy drives, even though the oncoming headlights make him visibly tense up, eyes squinting until they pass. “You can still sleep with me,” he says, voice abrupt in the silence of the car. Shifting uneasily, he adds, “I mean… in my bed. Or Remy’s, even. If you’re scared of Nick.”

I give a noncommittal hum, gazing out at the passing scenery.

He lets out a long sigh. “Christ, don’t be pissy. He’s a Bruin, and you’ve always known what that means. Nick’s a Duke, and you’re the Duchess.” His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “We have to find a way to make this work.”

“And if we don’t?”

He looks over at me, eyes dark. “Then we’ll be divided, and Saul and your father will beat us.”

Of course, he’s right. But he’s also fucking crazy if he thinks this can work. Last night, when I confessed everything Nick had done to me, I felt disappointed in his response, and I’m not sure I like it.

I think it hurt.

We arrive on the crest of midnight, the moon hanging high in the sky, and I crane my neck to see it—the moon, and the illuminated windows of the top floor.

“I called ahead,” he says, grabbing his bag from the backseat. “They’re awake.”

When we first step through the doors, I watch as something shivers through Sy.

“Losers aren’t allowed to walk through it.”

That’s another weakness: the inability to take a loss.

When he turns to the stairs, I begin, “Shouldn’t you use the—” and he cuts me a look.

“What? Use the elevator? Are you going to get into it with me?” When I shake my head, he says, “Of course you aren’t. Are you going to go up this dark, empty stairwell all alone, knowing Nick’s here?”

My jaw clenches and I look away. “No.”

“That’s what I thought.” There’s a trace of annoyance in his voice when he gestures upward. “So we’re walking up together. Let’s go.”

The climb takes a long time. Sy heaves himself up the stairs more than he walks, pulling himself along the railing with his upper body strength. Halfway to the top, he pauses, panting, and when I duck beneath his arm to take some of the weight, he shoots me a brief, exasperated glance.

And then he begins climbing again.

We walk the rest of the way up like that, my holding some of his weight as he lumbers heavily toward the top. I see the hesitation in his eyes when we reach the party room, as if he’s considering just stopping here, claiming one of the couches, and never moving again.

But because he’s Sy, he powers on, up the last flight of steps to the main living quarters.

Sy enters first.

I don’t even pretend like I’m not using him as a meat shield, hovering directly behind him as he calls out. I doubt I’ll ever be ready to see Nick again, but since I don’t have the luxury of picking a date, here I am.

Luckily, Remy appears first, coming around from the couch only to go stock-still at the sight of him. “What the fuck, Sy?”

“Should see the other guys,” Sy mutters, dropping his keys on the table. “Virtually unscathed.”

I glare at the back of his head. “Hey!”

He twists to shoot me an irritated look. “Yeah, our girl got in a good shot. I, on the other hand, managed to pummel the business end of a bat with my skull.”

After sweeping his eyes over me, Remy walks up to him, eyes tight as he grabs Sy by the chin and turns his head, inspecting the damage on his cheek. The moment stretches on, the air around us growing strangely electrified, and I realize I’ve never really seen Remy angry before. Peeved, sure. Annoyed. Restless. But the calm depth of darkness in his eyes when he steps back is worse than anger. It’s bloodshed, senseless and uncontainable, and when he pulls his gun from his waist, racking the slide, even Sy moves back a step. “We’ll retaliate,” Remy says.

“Against who? Our own fucking house?” Sy grabs the gun. “Don’t chamber a round in the house, idiot.”

“You’re saying Saul did this?” Remy’s fists flex. “Our own King.”

Sy clears the loaded round, jaw tight. “Yeah, I recognized two of the guys. Remember Franklin from our freshman year? And that douche, Donaghy?”

“The ‘roid head?” All three of our heads swing in the same direction. Nick stands in his doorway, looking casual as you please. “Fucking hate that guy.” His chest is bare and he’s raising a bottle of water to his lips, staring down the bridge of his nose at me.

Everything comes flooding back in Technicolor, high-definition. Those eyes staring down at me as he forced himself into my body. Those lips unforgiving against mine, even when I was sinking my teeth into them, making him bleed. The metallic flavor of it on my tongue, the way it made him groan in delight.

Mostly I remember the way he looked in the warehouse, handing me over to my father and Perez.

I remember begging.

I remember him walking away.

Grunting, Sy makes his way to the couch. Going from the motel to the car, then up the tower stairs, is the longest he’s moved in days. He needs to rest. Still, I find myself straining toward the security of his retreating form.

Remy’s eyes dart over to me then, ticking down my body, and suddenly I’m the one those murder-eyes are being pointed at. He steps up to me, the sharp angles of his face more severe than I’m used to. “Let me see,” he demands in a low, gruff voice. Instinctively, I tug down my waistband, showing him the star. But even though he touches it, eyes flicking downward as he counts the points, he guides my hand away, head shaking. “I meant the rest of your skin. Did they hurt you?”

But I know what he’s really asking.

Did they mark you?

Instead of waiting for me to answer, he pulls up my shirt to reveal my stomach, and then my sleeves to reveal my arms. His inked fingers sweep back my hair to inspect my neck, shoulders. “Where?” he asks, an impatience growing in his features.

“My knees,” I whisper, unsurprised when he falls to a crouch. Cool fingers graze against the red rash the asphalt had made, and then around to the backs of my knees, cradling them as he takes an inventory.

His jaw ticks. “Where else?”

I roll my eyes, pretending I don’t feel the fire of Nick’s stare on us. “I don’t know, Remy. Maybe my back.”

I go willingly when he spins me, shucking up my sweater to inspect my back. I never thought to check it, to see if the man pinning me down had left any damage, but the gritty burst of noise Remy makes is clue enough.

There’s an unhappy tilt to his mouth when he turns me back, but it softens when our eyes meet. “You took care of him,” he says, cradling my jaw. He doesn’t need to tell me he’s going to kiss me this time. It’s perfectly telegraphed, from the pitch of his chin to the palm he tucks beneath my hair, resting heavy against the nape of my neck.

“Remy kisses me like he’s a goddamn soldier going off to war.”

The words I’d said to Sy come rushing back to me when Remy does just that, capturing my mouth in a deep, bruising kiss. He tastes bitter, like beer and days of distress, and I twist my fingers into his t-shirt and ride it out, because it’s everything—everything—I’d wanted from Sy last night. It’s mindless and slow, devouring in a way that would have lesser woman’s legs buckling.

Across the room comes a sharp, startling burst of sound, and Remy and I flinch apart, looking toward it.

The plastic water bottle is crushed in Nick’s tight fist, and if murder had been in Remy’s eyes before, then I don’t even know what to call Nick’s expression.

He looks like he’s one second from punching a wall.

“Sit,” Sy growls from the couch, “the fuck,” he points to the couch opposite, “down.” When Nick and Remy just stand there, glaring at one another, Sy barks, “All of you! We need to talk.”

“Me, too?” I ask, but the words are full of contempt. Do Dukes talk? I thought they settled everything with their fists. Or with drugs, alcohol, sex, and avoidance?

Remy grabs my hand and pulls me over to the armchair, dropping into it and pulling me into his lap. His fingers dip beneath my waistband, touching the star, and across the room, Nick balls his fists.

A tiny squeak comes from the kitchen, and the Archduke comes running across the open floor. Sy scowls as the kitten passes him and I wince as his little claws dig into my skin, finding purchase in my legs to climb into my lap.

Instantly, I tug him close, pressing a whisper into his fur. “Hey, Archie.”

“He missed you,” Remy says, running his finger down his nose. “Been crying and looking for you all over.”

Archie kneads into my sweater, gazing plaintively up at me, and I say, “Thank you for watching him.”

“Hey, he’s a Duke. We take care of our own.” He gives Nick a hard, pointed look. “You gonna take a seat, or just stand there contemplating all the ways you want to shank me?”

Nick steps out of the safety of his room and sits next to his brother, arms crossed over his inked chest, knees spread wide. Nick and Sy are wildly different in a lot of ways. Nick is pale, Sy is dark. Nick is loose, Sy is tightly controlled. But seeing them next to one another, both sporting busted lips and yellowing bruises under their eyes, really drives home how similar they look.

Sy opens his mouth to speak, but Remy gives a jerk of his chin, saying, “Nick. It’s time.”

“Time for what?” Sy asks, looking between them.

Nick angles his head toward his shoulder, twisting until his neck cracks. It highlights the tension of the tendons in his throat. “I owe everyone here an apology.” He chews the words like they’re gristle, fixing his stare at the table between us. “I fucked up.”

Sy snaps, “You think?” but the loud, humorless bark of laughter comes from my own chest.

Nick’s eyes flit to mine at the sound and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. For the first time I notice that some of the bruising beneath his eyes is just exhaustion. “You had me so fucked up, Lavinia. You pushed me. You know you did.”

Teeth clenching, I go to stand. “I’m not listening to this.”

Remy yanks me back. “Let him say his piece,” he demands, voice warning.

Once again, I’m reminded of the truth of things. Remy and Sy… they don’t care about me. Not really. Remy only cares about answers. Sy only cares about them.

“Go on.” I smile bitterly. “Tell me more about how I was asking for it.”

Nick laces his fingers together and squeezes. It’s such a perfect mirror of the way Sy looked when I was patching him up after the attack—sullen and defeated—that I almost laugh again.

Is this how Nick sees it?

A loss?

“It’s not an excuse,” he says. “It’s an explanation. Things just got so…” Another flex of his fists, a twitch of his jaw.

“Maybe,” Sy says, lip curling, “if you’d come to one of us, none of this would have happened.”

To this, Nick nods. “Lionel was going to come for her. I shouldn’t have kept that from you, and I shouldn’t have made the decision to hand her over. Not alone.” He looks up at his brother, then at Remy. “What happens between Kingdoms affects us all. I get that now.” At Sy’s narrowed stare, Nick insists, “I do.”

It’s difficult to remain silent as he offers more of an apology to them than to me, but I do. I never expected anything else.

Sy doesn’t stay quiet, though. “I’m not talking about that, Nick. I’m talking about how you think with your dick instead of your brain. When it comes to pussy, you need a goddamn minder.” He nods at Remy. “We risked our hides to get her back. We’re not letting you put us in that position again.”

Nick twists to glare at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means that we need to project a united front, but as far as everyone in this room is concerned, the Duchess only has two Dukes.”

Nick shoots to his feet. “Fuck that!”

“No, fuck you!” Sy stands slower, but looks no less menacing. “Remy and I put in the work to get here. Three years we spent being Saul’s bitch while you ran free in South Side on your little quest to avenge a murder that you can’t even prove!” He jabs a finger into Nick’s shoulder. “Now, you’re going to earn it. You’re going to show us you can be trusted with her—with us. And that starts with you looking her in the fucking eye and saying you’re sorry, because I’m not going to order her to forgive you.” Sy shakes his head, nostrils flared. “I’m sick of cleaning up your messes, Nick. This one’s on you.”

Remy speaks next, his voice vibrating next to my ear. “He’s right, Nicky. You’re not square with us until you’re square with her.”

“Never going to happen.” All their eyes swing to the matter-of-fact tone of my voice. “He’s not sorry,” I point out, gesturing to him. “To be sorry, he’d have to acknowledge what he did. He’d have to face up to being a narcissistic, self-serving asshole who never thinks past his own needs and wants, and certainly never past his own dick. Not that it matters,” I scoff. “Even if he made some sorry attempt at an apology, I wouldn’t accept it.”

Remy sighs. “Vinny…”

I fly off his lap, dumping Archie in my place. “Did he tell you what he did?” I wonder, looking between my two Dukes. “Did he tell you that I got on my fucking knees? Did he tell you that I begged?”

The emotion sinks from Nick’s eyes, leaving them empty and hard. “Lavinia—”

I speak to Sy and Remy, but Nick’s the one I look at as I go on, “Or that I cried? Did your precious Bruin tell you that he stood there and watched Perez backhand me—”

Nick looks away, muscles rippling. “Stop.”

“Did he tell either of you that he liked hurting me so much, he came inside me?”

Nick finally explodes, roaring, “Stop!” I don’t understand why the coffee table suddenly goes lopsided, tilting to one end in a sad slant. But then it hits me that Nick has kicked it, breaking the leg. Sy grabs his arm, dragging him back, but Nick wrenches free, and it’s like whiplash. Now when he looks at me, he just seems tired. Defeated. “I went too far,” he says, voice gruff. “I lost control and now you hate me. Is that what you want to hear, Little Bird?”

“Don’t,” I warn in a low, deadly hiss. “Don’t you ever fucking call me that again.”

I don’t realize Remy’s standing until his arms come around my shoulders. It’s not a restraining move, his forearms loose against my collarbone, but the threat is there. “We’re not going to order you to forgive him, Vinny. But we need a ceasefire on this. Sy is right, we need a united front.”

“Nothing’s changed,” I say, ducking out of Remy’s grasp to make sure Nick understands that I’m speaking to him. “You don’t get to touch me without permission. You don’t get to tell me what to do. And I’m sure as fuck not sleeping in your bed ever again.”

With his jaw clenched tight he stares at me for a long moment, and I think maybe he’ll refuse my demands. He could. We both know it. Even if Sy and Remy say no—even if I learn to be a self-defense master—I’m never overpowering Nick in a physical fight. He can take what he wants, when he wants it, how he wants it.

But then he pushes out this bitter ghost of a laugh. “Fine. I’ve got bigger shit to deal with anyway.”

He turns and crosses the room, heading straight to his bedroom. The door slams behind him, and I look over at Sy and Remy, both seeming as unsure as I do about what is, at best, a shaky truce.