Lords of Pain: Chapter 11

As much as I bristle while doing it, I take the time the next morning to dress ‘appropriately’. The last thing I want is another correction—aka: strip tease—in front of the guys at breakfast.

I flip through the clothes in my closet, fingering the short, perky skirts that I know Tristian would prefer. There are a few outfits that I assume Rath picked out; faux leather leggings, shirts with strategic rips and tears, a little edgy. It makes me wonder what kind of outfit Killian would like to see me in, but as I pick through the rack of clothing, there’s nothing that stands out. Maybe, like he always said, I’m just trash to him, repulsive and embarrassing.

It’s a strange comfort, the idea that he doesn’t want me, but it makes it that much harder to navigate.

I decide on a mishmash of options. There’s a pair of tight, black pants for Rath. A pink top with a swooping low neckline and short, puffy shoulders is for Tristian. I choose a pair of Mary Janes that don’t exactly look comfortable, but seem to complete my ‘oh so innocent’ ensemble. Innocent. I shift my shoulders, looking in the mirror. Yeah, right. Tristian could have my breasts out in a second flat.

I even open the jewelry box on my dresser, intending to choose something to go with it. I all but laugh at what’s inside. A few different, sweet-looking pieces. Earrings. Hair clips. Bracelets.

It’s the chain with a small, delicate crucifix hanging from it that makes me slam it closed.

Give me a break.

Martin’s inspection goes flawlessly. “Very good, Lady,” he says, nodding in approval. I almost expect him to pass me a doggy treat. “I’ve been asked by Lord Tristian to explain the breakfast standards, so know that unless you’re asked to attend in the dining room, you’ll eat in the kitchen.” At my nod, he adds, “Today, the Lords would like their Lady to eat with them.”

After that, I’m sent to the kitchen to get their drinks. I hear the guys in the dining room already, their deep voices and loud movements.

Ms. Crane pours a cup of coffee, eyes sliding to me. “Good plan, girl.”

“Plan?” I ask, pouring some kind of ultra-organic orange juice, likely for Tristian.

“The outfit,” she says in her raspy voice, gesturing to my chest. “You picked it out yourself, didn’t ya? ‘Course you did. You’re starting to learn.”

I feel my jaw tighten at her words. “Yeah, I know my place.”

But Ms. Crane scoffs. “I meant you’re starting to learn what you can control. Haven’t got much. People like us never do. That makes the things we can control that much more important.”

I disagree, “I don’t have any control. They bought all these clothes for me.”

“Open your fucking ears, girl,” she hisses, eyes pinning me. “You can’t control the year, but you can control the day. You could have worn something else. You chose not to disobey. You chose to do the opposite.” Rattling the jar of sugar, she concludes, “You set the tone of the day. Eventually, you might learn to use that thing between your legs, but this is a nice start.”

I look at her skeptically, not quite seeing her point, but also a little too scared of making her angry to say so. She’s an older lady, and I know from meeting her last night that she seems really cranky a lot. Apparently, my lot in life is handling prickly, unpredictable people.

“I see,” I lie.

Ms. Crane nods approvingly. “Yeah, you will. People don’t realize how small a life can get. My husband could have made mine fit into a breadbox, if he could.”

I look at her curiously. “You’re married?”

She barks a harsh, rough laugh. “Hell no, girl. Not anymore.” Casually, without any expression whatsoever, she explains, “Stabbed that fucker in the neck. Seven times, too.”

I wait a second, half-convinced she’s joking. She isn’t. I take a step back. “You…stabbed him?”

Without sparing me a glance, she answers, “Damn right, I did. You don’t need to worry, girl. He had it coming. My old man would’ve made those three in there look like goddamn boy scouts.” The thought makes me shudder.

I look around the room, wondering if anyone can hear. “Should you be telling me this?”

But Ms. Crane just flaps a wrinkled hand. “I’ve already been convicted and sentenced. No one can do anything to me. If you want my advice, go for the quiet boy first. He’s the best at handling the other two.”

Stunned, I enter the dining room behind her, thoughts swirling with what Ms. Crane’s life must have been like. Worse than these three? Like Ted levels of worse? Or even worse than that?

I fight down my shiver and begin carefully placing their mugs and glasses around their plates. Ms. Crane puts a plate in front of Killian and Rath, but I notice that Tristian already has a bowl of something gross-looking in front of him.

Killian gives me a curt glance, like just looking at me pisses him off.

I venture a small, quiet, “Good morning,” to him.

He ignores me.

Tristian’s eyes are following me, though, taking in my appearance slowly, appreciatively.

Rath lets out a low hum. “Don’t you look sexy this morning,” he says, leaned back lazily in his chair.

Ducking my head, I run my hands nervously down my sides. “Thank you.”

“Actually, I was talking to Ms. Crane.” He gives her a wink and the old woman sneers back.

“Don’t you get fresh with me, you failed abortion.”

I stiffen, certain that I can’t stomach watching this woman get punished. My panic is short-lived, though.

Rath just shrugs. “Your loss, old hag.”

“I’ve lost dirty socks I wanted more than you,” she replies, hobbling out of the room.

“Sit,” Tristian tells me, pointing to the seat at his side. “We have some things to go over.”

Hesitantly, I do as I’m told, sliding my chair in as I survey the setting in front of me. There’s whatever Tristian is eating, just a smaller bowl of it, and an egg with two sausages.

“It’s oatmeal,” Tristian says of the bowl, “with fresh fruit and granola. You’re a woman, though. You need iron.” I guess that explains the sausages. Leaning closer, he whispers in my ear, “And you don’t just look sexy, Sweet Cherry. You look downright fuckable.”

Butterflies whirl in my stomach. “A-are you going to be following me today?”

He shrugs. “You never know when one of us is watching.”

“You’re here,” Killian starts, voice firm, “because we need to discuss appearances.”

Rath says, “Tristian told us about your little incident yesterday.” The way his lip turns up on the word tells me exactly what he thinks of fainting spells.

As if it were a ball for me.

Before I can do something as idiotic as apologizing for them not feeding me, Tristian adds, “We talked about it and decided that you’ve had enough time to acclimate. People need to know our Lady serves us, respects us, wants us.”

“Especially after yesterday,” Rath agrees.

Tristian explains, “We can’t have people thinking we mistreat you. So we’ll need to start incorporating some PDA into our daily appearances on campus.”

Frowning, I ask, “PDA? Like…holding hands? Didn’t we kind of do that yesterday?”

Killian rolls his eyes. “Holding hands is only PDA if you’re in fifth fucking grade.”

Tristian’s voice is gentler, but I can still see the gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Sweetheart, when a girl serves, respects, and wants a man, what does she do?”

I stare back at him, confused. “Well, she….uh…” God, what do these guys want. More than I want to give.

“She embraces him,” Tristian finishes for me, looking slightly annoyed at needing to. “She kisses him.”

I freeze, staring at them with wide eyes. “Kissing?”

“In case it needs to be said,” Rath adds, dark eyes boring into mine, “we’re looking for something in the ‘tongues and necking’ department. Not little gradeschool cheek-pecks.”

I feel my face pale. “Like…French kissing?”

Killian gives me a disgusted look. “Are you really this stunted? No one over the age of twelve calls it that. It’s just kissing.”

I touch my cheeks, beginning to feel the heat pool into them. “No.”

That word gets a reaction. Three reactions. Pissed, amused, and curious.

“’No’ isn’t part of a Lady’s vocabulary,” Tristian clarifies. “But why the strong reaction? It’s a kiss, Cherry. The easiest way to show affection.”

For him, it’s easy. But for me…

I swallow. “I’m just not comfortable kissing you guys.”

“What’s the big deal?” Rath asks, between bites.

The big deal is that it’s too personal. Too affectionate. Too intimate.

The big deal is that it’s not something they’re doing to me or I’m forced to do to them. It’s something, I assume, we do together.

The biggest deal is that after all the abuse and manipulation, I’ve never actually been kissed. My virginity is something I’m willing to barter with—I already expect it to be terrible. First times always are, right? But a kiss, it’s the thing you wait for. Girls dream about it. It’s a rite of passage and I want it to be right, not taken by an abusive asshole.

I say none of this. Just swallowing the whole rant back, but one glance at Rath and he says, “Tell us why, Sweet Cherry.”

It’s a command, one with a punishment on the other side, and I can tell by the glint in his eye it will involve more than a strip tease.

“I don’t know how!” I blurt. It’s completely involuntary, just a lack of brain-to-mouth filter. Of course, it’s true. But I know instantly, just from the way they’re all staring at me, that I should have faked it.

Tristian lifts an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Face flaming, I slowly, reluctantly admit, “I’ve never done that before. Kissing.” There’s a long, tense silence around the table while I wring my hands. The guys only take their blank stares from me to share a look with one another.

It’s Rath who speaks first, voice flat, “Now I know you’re bullshitting us.”

Kllian adds, “I told you she was full of shit. Probably something she tells to those old geezers she’s bleeding dry.”

“It’s true!” I insist, indignation rising in my chest. “Why would I lie about that?” It’s even more embarrassing than being a virgin, because on some level, Killian is right. I am stunted.

“I’ll bite,” Tristian jumps in, wiping his mouth on a napkin before turning to me. “Tell me how it is that you’ve had a dick in your mouth, but you’ve never kissed a guy before.”

I glare into my bowl of oatmeal, feeling a thread of anger surging beneath my skin. How dare they. “I don’t know, Lord Tristian, why don’t you tell me? Because it seems like the kinds of guys who are into me would rather force me to my knees and jam their disgusting dicks down my throat.” I give him a falsely sweet smile. “It’s the only use my mouth ever seems to have for them.”

“Careful about that tone,” Tristian says, plucking my spoon from the table. He thrusts it into my hand, forcing me to take it. “That might have something to do with it.” His smile is sharp and mean, and the threat comes through loud and clear.

Nevertheless, as we eat, Rath keeps throwing me these long, calculating looks. I do my best to tune them out as I force down the oatmeal, inwardly twisting myself into knots at the thought of kissing them.

Kissing.

I never really felt like I was missing out on anything. I’m not so old. I still have time to find someone soft and sweet to teach me. Or at least, I thought I did.

Afterward, when we’re all collecting our bags for school, Rath gestures for me to follow them. “We’re driving today,” he explains, hand landing on the small of the back as he ushers me down the hall. “You can ride in the back, with me.” He punctuates this by bending down to lick a stripe up the side of my neck.

I only just barely manage to stop myself from flinching away, but it’s one more reminder that these men are anything but soft and sweet.

In the garage, there’s a huge white truck taking up most of the space—although a motorcycle is parked on the other side. Killian is already in the front seat of the cab. It isn’t a surprise this is his vehicle. He’d always wanted a massive, intimidating truck. He’d badgered his dad for one for graduation. Guess he finally got his way.

Rath is already in the back, earbuds plugged in. Tristian opens the back door for me and offers his hand to help me up the big step in my clunky shoes. I climb in next to Rath, ignoring the way my skin prickles just being near him. Tristian gets in the passenger seat, and I glance at the rearview mirror.

Killian’s staring back at me.

No, not at me.

At my mouth.

He looks away instantly, cranking the loud, rumbling engine.

Being in close quarters with the guys like this is an assault on my senses. All their scents swirl around me and my awareness of their presences reaches a fever pitch, almost like I’m carrying around an extra, tangible appendage.

Even from back here, I can feel the anger rolling off Killian, the smug cockiness from Tristian, the low-key indifference from Rath. Without my bidding, I start thinking about it.

About kissing them.

Will it be awful? Will they make it hurt? What if I’m bad at it? And that’s really the crux of the matter, that they’re expecting me to be this girl who can believably, effortlessly do these things. Checking in a few minutes late or speaking to Daniel is one thing. Making them look bad in front of the whole campus is something else altogether. It’s not about the rules. It’s about appearances.

I’m wholly inadequate.

I stare down at my lap, hands clasped so tightly that my knuckles have gone white, and wonder if I can just fake it. Let go of my fairytale ideals and just do it. How hard can it be? I’ve seen it done before. My heart pounds hard in my chest and sweat beads on my neck. The car feels warm—hot, stifling—and my hands pluck idly at my clingy pants. There’s a pressure in my chest, something wild and heavy, almost painful to breathe against. None of them are aware that I’m on the verge of panic, but suddenly, all I can think about is tongues and lips, the biting pressure of teeth, the sting and taste of blood.

“Stop the truck,” Rath says, yanking his earbuds out. Killian keeps driving but Rath leans forward and repeats, “Stop, Kill.”

Killian jerks the car over and idles at the side of the road.

“What the fuck?” he asks. “Did you forget something? You know I’m not a fucking shuttle.”

Tristian turns around and his eyes dart from Rath to me, curiosity flickering in the blue. I turn to Rath, and he says, “I’m not going out there and just kissing her cold. Not after what you said happened yesterday.”

“So what? You just want to go home?” Killian asks.

“You know as well as I do that the best way to get better at something is to practice.”

“Practice,” Tristian repeats. “We’re halfway to school.”

Rath snorts. “You’re telling me you’ve never made out in a car with five minutes to spare?” I notice Rath’s shifting a second too late. My head turns toward his as his fingers wind into my hair, he pulls me to him.

“Wait—” I start, but he doesn’t. His mouth finds mine too fast for me to really think about it. I stiffen, locking up against the soft feel of his lips on mine, the cool shock of his lip rings, but Rath doesn’t seem to care that I’m frozen. Even though all of this was fast—too fast—his lips pluck gently at mine in slow, coaxing movements. He’s not rough. I look at him wide-eyed, even though his closed eyes are blurring into one.

“Relax,” he says against my mouth, hand coming up to cradle my jaw. His next kiss is more of a surge than anything, like he’s putting his whole body into it. There’s something inherently and curiously sexual about the way he moves, the way his tongue just barely peeks out to greet my lips. The hard metal of his piercings are a stark contrast to the softness of our lips meeting.

I will myself to copy him, feeling my face grow hot when our noses bump awkwardly. Rath doesn’t miss a beat though, guiding the kiss, tilting my head back.

When he parts his lips, I follow suit.

The feel of his tongue against mine sends a hot, sharp spark of electricity through my veins. It’s not quite like I expected. Wetter. Warmer. Rath licks into my mouth as if he’s tasting something he likes, but is savoring it with long, quick dips between my lips, massaging my tongue with his. His thumb finds the edge of my jaw and tilts my head back, giving him the access he needs to deepen the kiss.

He swallows my gasp, tilting his head to lick deeper, longer, slower. It isn’t until he drops his hand to my thigh that I realize I’m pressing them together in pursuit of a friction that I only barely understand.

He makes a rough, guttural sound that sends a spike of something white-hot shooting right down into my core.

“Rath.”

I rear back, breaking the kiss, but Rath remains suspended there for a moment, eyes dark and heavy.

Tristian’s twisted around in his seat, staring at his friend. There’s a glimmer of annoyance in his eyes, even if his expression is artfully neutral.

Rath seems to shake out of his daze, sending Tristian a red-lipped smirk. “Just figured I’d make sure she doesn’t embarrass us all. Is that a problem?”

Tristian doesn’t react, though. Why would he? Tristian is calm and collected all the time. Even while fingerbanging me in the library. Reactions are obviously for the weak, and here I am, once again, proving exactly how weak I am.

Rath slowly moves his hand from my thigh as Tristian speaks.

“No,” he says, but it’s obvious that there is. “She needs to be ready. Not just for school but for the party at the house tonight.” His gaze flicks back to me but is settled on my lips, which feel hot and swollen. “We have one every week during football season. Kind of a pregame event. Obviously, you’re expected to be there and expected to uphold your duties. Martin can fill you in on the details.”

I nod obediently, ducking my head to hide the redness of my cheeks. Killian restarts the truck and the drive to campus isn’t long, especially when I spend most of it pressing my fingers to my mouth, trying to process what just happened with Rath. All I can hear in my head is the rush of my heartbeat and Ms. Crane’s words.

Go for the quiet boy first.

If that’s the kissing they’re looking for, then…

Well.

I guess I’ll live.

When we park, Tristian gives instructions for the day. “Same rules as yesterday. Keep your GPS on. Text on the hour—every hour. No excuses.”

“Do I need to meet you in the library again?” I ask.

“Sorry, Sweet Cherry, not today.” He pouts like he’s sad about it. “You’ll meet up with Rath in the music building.”

“I’ll be in studio A4.” I stare, transfixed as Rath’s tongue peeks out to prod at one of his lip rings. “I have an oral presentation in my Lit class that might run over, though.” It doesn’t take much searching to see that he’s unhappy about it.

I don’t need to ask why.

I nod, pretty sure I know where the music building is. “Anything else I need to know about?”

“Behave yourself,” Killian says suddenly. “You’re a representative of the Lords now. People are watching you. Do not speak to other men who aren’t your professors.” His gaze hardens. “Including my father.”

Bristling, I argue, “He came to see me, Killian. I’m just supposed to ignore him? That’s insane.”

His chiseled jaw clenches. “Fine, Story, disobey me and see what happens.”

The threat behind his words is clear. I don’t want to see what happens.

Killian’s out of the vehicle before I can respond, door slamming behind him. Tristian follows suit, his expression unreadable, and then Rath, who offers me a hand down from the cab.

Much like yesterday, they all lead me to the fountain in the middle of campus as everyone watches. It’s an uncomfortable, oppressive feeling, being watched all the time. Despite Killian’s earlier disdain of handholding, I still take the chance of slipping my hand into Rath’s.

PDA is PDA.

Rath doesn’t seem to mind, barely sparing me a glance as we approach our destination.

When we do, I’m almost knocked off my feet by the shock of strong hands whirling me around. Tristian’s mouth is on mine in an instant, more aggressive than Rath’s had been. More demanding.

It takes me a frozen moment to recover, opening my mouth to him, taking Tristian’s forceful tongue into my mouth. He makes a rough sound, hands tightening on my hips as he pulls me to him. It’s difficult to think when this is happening—when Tristian is consuming me, possessing me—but I try. I lift my arms to loop around his neck, hoping that it looks more natural than it feels.

Tristian responds by lowering his hands to my backside, taking two large handfuls of it and squeezing.

His voice is low and rough against my lips. “That’s my good girl.” His hands are still massaging my backside when he leans down to whisper into my ear, “Shame I couldn’t have been your first.” He pulls away, sending me a smirk. “Not for that, at least.”

Swallowing against the lingering sensations, I watch him disappear into a crowd that parts for him like the red sea.

I turn reluctantly to Killian, teeth bearing down into my lip. His gaze is fixed to the action, but his eyes are full of angry fire, face set into a stony stillness. Cautiously, I shuffle toward him, hearing the whoosh of my blood in my ears at the idea of my mouth on his. The thought of throwing my arms around his neck feels akin to touching a red-hot coal. Every particle of my body rails against it instinctively, knowing there’s only pain to be had there, but this is the deal. Slighting Killian in public would have consequences. I rise up onto my toes and tilt my face, bracing for impact.

He turns and storms away.

I stumble forward in surprise, only just managing not to fall into the empty space he’s left. A rush of mortification washes over me at the thought of everyone watching. At everyone knowing I’ve just been outright rejected.

Rath smoothly intercepts, throwing his arm over my shoulder and leading me around the fountain. “They’re just pissy I got there first.”

I pull a face, not really able to doubt him. In my experience, that’s all guys seem to care about. They’re like the living embodiment of people who comment ‘first!’ on videos. It’s useless and completely without value, but for some reason…

Eager to change the subject, I say, “Can I…ask you a question?”

“You can try,” Rath says, his vacant expression making it clear that he doesn’t feel obligated to answer.

I try anyway. “If you have so much trouble with…well, you know. Then why are you taking Lit?”

I watch as the hand hanging from my shoulder curls into a fist. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Jesus, this again. “Sure, you don’t.”

He comes to a stop, jerking me with him. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?” His gaze is full of thinly-veiled anger. “For your fucking information—not that you’re entitled to it—all degrees have required credits. This is one of mine.”

“Oh,” I blink back at him, understanding. “Then how do you…?”

“Pass?” he asks, eyes narrowed. “The same way I always pass.”

I guess, “Bribes. Payments. Threats.”

He gives me a hostile smirk. “You’re just full of observations, aren’t you, Sweet Cherry?”

Intuitively, I realize he’s about to strike back. Probably with something that’s meant to embarrass me as much as it’s meant to scare me. I don’t give him the chance. “You’re really good at playing piano. I saw you before, the way you were so focused. It looked effortless. It must have taken you a lot of time and practice to get to that level of proficiency. I bet you could pick up…other things, in no time.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” he snaps. “It’s different now that I’m a Lord.”

I pause and let a group of girls pass by. Several turn to get another look, most likely of Rath, who’s dark, handsome face is the kind that draws a second glance. Secretly—guiltily—I’ve caught myself doing it, too. “How?”

He looks at me like I’m stupid. “We’re the top of the heap at Forsyth—actually, beyond that. Lords don’t have weaknesses. Ever. People are always looking to exploit one.”

I cut him a look. “It isn’t weakness, Dimitri.”

Something flutters behind his eyes when I use his real name. “It is when you want to be the best at what you’re doing.” He sweeps his dark hair from his eyes, scowling. “If people want to think I’m lazy and entitled for making others do my work, then I don’t give a fuck.” I hear what he doesn’t say. That it isn’t even a lie. “It’s easier this way.”

“I think it sounds a lot more complicated, actually.” I chance a look up at him, meeting his gaze. “I meant what I said before. I can teach you.” I wither at his stare, but force myself to explain. “Look, I’m under contract to keep quiet. And it’s not like I don’t already know. You might as well get something useful out of the two, right?”

“I can’t afford to shake shit up. Don’t you understand that?” He stares at me spitefully, cheeks turning a faint pink, but before I can respond he mutters, “Of course you don’t. You’re nothing but a dumb, worthless bitch, anyway. Like you could teach me anything. Seven minutes of making out in the car, and you still kissed like a dead fish.”

He storms off, leaving me in his angry wake. I gape after him, stunned and wounded in an odd, surprising way. Something inside me cringes and curls up, feeling dumb for thinking I could get close to him. That I could get through to him.

Ms. Crane is wrong. Rath—Dimitri—is just as hard and cruel as the others. Trying to have a civil conversation with one of the Lords is like stabbing yourself in the eye. Clearly they aren’t capable of that or any other functional emotion except anger and hostility. If I’m going to survive being their Lady, I’m going to remember not to let my guard down.

Ever.

I manage to get through the morning without any infractions. At least, I hope so. I texted at the correct times. I didn’t speak to any of my male classmates, which is harder than anticipated. The sexy-yet-coy clothing is like a beacon to college men, but I don’t fall for it. I suspect wearing these outfits is probably just another trick to come up with justifications to ‘correct’ my behavior.

When I change classes, I stick to the edge of the quad, ever alert so that I don’t run into someone again or accidentally do something wrong. I’m determined not to miss lunch today, so I get in line at one of the takeout places in the student union. I work my way through the queue, heart rate elevated. I know it’s crazy, but I can’t help but feel the heat of eyes on me. I know I came to Forsyth for a reason—to protect myself and others—but the paranoia may break me before Ted does.

The server calls my name and I flinch, grabbing the bag quickly. The common area is crowded—loud. Too many people to talk to, too much trouble to get into. I’ve only been in this arrangement for two days, and already my brain is taking hold, seeing every little thing as an instinctual danger. It’s frightening to think what kind of person I’ll be once it ends.

I take the stairs to the second floor, ignoring the signs that say ’Wet Floors-No Admittance’ and see a grouping of unoccupied leather chairs outside one of the conference rooms. I rush to a seat, drop my backpack and coat on the empty cushion next to mine, and open the bag. I have the sandwich halfway unwrapped when someone moves my backpack and sits next to me.

“Sweet Cherry,” Tristian drawls, “did you go get lunch without offering to get me something?”

My stomach sinks as I gaze back at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you wanted anything.”

“Did you ask?”

His tone is gentle, but I know better. He caught me in a vulnerable, compromised position. His favorite thing. I take a deep breath and hold out the sandwich. “I can go get you something. Or,” I swallow back the annoyance, “would you like mine?”

His nose wrinkles, while his stone cold blue eyes hold mine. “As if I’d eat that garbage. Anyway, you’re too late. I’m not hungry anymore. At least, not for food.” I frown, trying to follow him, but then his hand rests on my thigh. “You didn’t wear a skirt for me.”

“It was in the closet, but I—” Heat burns in my cheeks and I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

“You dressed for Rath today.” The corners of his eyes tighten with a brittle smile. “No worries,” he says, as though he anticipated a kink in his plans. He lifts my black coat off the chair next to ours and spreads it over his lap. “As much as I like putting my fingers on—or inside—you, I’ve been dreaming about yours being on me for a long time now.”

He reaches under the coat and I hear the unmistakable sound of his zipper parting. My eyes widen, stomach plummeting. “You want me to…” I can’t say it. “…here?”

His hand takes mine, cool and large and soft, and slides it under the coat, placing it forcibly on his already erect cock. I can’t see it, but I can feel it. The skin is hot, taut, and smooth. I look around, panicked, but we’re completely alone. I’d been so worried about not being around other people, about staying out of trouble, that I’d led him straight to the perfect secluded spot to fulfill his obvious need for exhibitionism.

He leans back and exhales, the column of his throat rippling with his groan. “I know you don’t have a lot of experience with this, but first off, you’re going to need to move your hand a little.”

“I can’t do this,” I whisper, desperate to yank my hand away, but knowing that I can’t. “This is…this is wrong. We’ll get in trouble.”

“Maybe we will.” His lips quirk, like he’s almost hoping we will. “This is what happens when you selfishly don’t consider your Lord’s needs.” He settles back and closes his eyes. “The sooner you get started, the sooner you can go.”

For a blink, I consider running, bolting out of the building, away from Tristian, the job, and every stupid, stupid, decision I’ve made since I was sixteen. But then his cock twitches under my hand, pressing into my palm, and a different kind of feeling settles deep in my belly. It’s the sensation I’ve struggled with since that night in the laundry room. The bitter conflict of fear and want.

I take another look around, making sure no one is watching us, and then slowly stroke up his cock, toward the tip.

“There you go,” he says, cracking one eye to look at me. “Keep it up.”

I run my hand back down to the base, touching the soft sack at the bottom. I get a feel for him, the size and girth. He’s thick, filling my fist. I shift my position, trying for something more casual, natural-looking. I reach for the bag with my lunch, placing it on the couch between us so that it looks like I’m doing something other than…what I’m actually doing.

What the heck am I doing?!

His voice a low, resonant murmur. “That’s it, sweetheart. A little harder, if you don’t mind.” Tristian, to his credit, looks completely serene, like a college student taking a nap during his break. As I stroke up and down, his face remains impassive, utterly blank, but as I build a rhythm, I begin noticing tells. When I reach the base, his nose wrinkles just a little. When I stroke up his length, his neck muscles tense. And when I get to the top, rolling my thumb over the tip, his tongue darts out and he licks his lips.

I watch him without really thinking about it, finding myself curious. Playing with the reactions. Anticipating them. Creating them.

Controlling them.

“Does that feel good?” I ask. I didn’t mean to, but it slips out. I hate that I even want to know.

“It does,” he breathes, head lolling to the side so he can look at me. His eyes dart down and he grins lazily. “Your nipples are hard. You little freak.” My nipples are hard, and the spot between my legs burns. I like the way he feels in my hands. I like that, even though he’s in control, I have a little bit over him, too. “Are you wet?”

“Maybe. Just a little,” I stiltedly confess, squeezing my thighs together. I hastily divert, “But this isn’t about me. It’s about you.”

The door of the conference room pushes open and suddenly we’re no longer alone. Dozens of people pour out of the room. Men, women, students. I look at the sign on the door and see that it says ‘Orientation Meeting’. Fuck. Those meetings hold a hundred prospective students and their families. My hand freezes, but Tristian’s comes down on mine. “Don’t stop,” he says, his voice a warning.

Stiffly, reluctantly, I continue. Surrounded by the building crowd, I sense Tristian coming closer to the edge. I lean into him, like we’re talking quietly, my body curled innocently around his. His jaw tenses. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

I look up and see a woman watching us, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Part of me wants her to go tell on us, to make this stop, for someone to tell Tristian this is not okay. But there’s the other part. The one I battle every day. The dirty, fucked-up, guilty idiot who got myself into this. Sometimes that part overpowers the other.

This is one of those times.

“People are watching,” I say, “so unless we both want to get expelled, you need to finish up.”

I bend down and press my lips to Tristian’s, swallowing up any response. His lips part in surprise, eyes flying open. After a moment, his hand reaches around my neck and crushes me to him. His tongue pushes into my mouth, hips bucking into my fist, and then hot, sticky fluid begins filling my palm. I do my best to catch it all.

The next minutes pass in a blur. I break away from the moment only to find myself flustered, hands and knees shaking, body lit on fire, convinced we’re going to get caught. Somehow, though, he gets my hand clean and his cock back in his pants. He leads me through the crowd as I fumble with my coat and backpack. No one would ever know what just happened between us. What he forced me to do.

At the doors, the sun bears down on him, alighting his blond hair in a halo of light. From this vantage, someone might mistake him as god-like.

“See you this afternoon,” he says, smirking. No thank you, no apology, nothing a guy should probably normally say to a girl after something like that. I watch him go, fingers sticky with residue, cheeks aflame with humiliation, and my belly warm with want.

Two girls pass me by, eyes sweeping jealously between me and his retreating figure. I feel pity for them, knowing that they saw the façade. The lie. The deceit.

There is nothing god-like about Tristian Mercer. If anything, he’s a demon.

It takes all afternoon to slow the adrenaline from my lunchtime encounter with Tristian. I half expect campus security to bust through the door and drag me out for inappropriate behavior. I don’t hear half of what my professors say and, once classes end, I’m mostly just glad for the escape—even if it does mean going home to the Lords.

The music building is cool and quiet when I enter, and I check the information board to get directions to the practice room. Room A4 is up one flight of stairs, and I peek into the windows of the different practice rooms in search of his. The rooms are sound-proofed, but I can see people playing various instruments, some individually, like cellos and violins, others in small ensembles. When I get to the right room, I pause to peer through the window. Rath is walking up to the piano and places his sheet music on the stand. He sits, face determined, jaw set in concentration. He’s not alone in the room. A small group of students sit in the observation seats. It makes sense. He needs to practice in front of people, I suppose.

As much as I hate to admit it, it hurt when he called me a dumb, worthless, bitch that morning. It hurt when he said I was a bad kisser. Mostly, it hurt that it hurt at all. As if I don’t know him. As if he hasn’t already hurt me worse than that, and for less. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. I knew him being nice to me was nothing more than a trick. The last thing I want to do is sit in the room with him and wait for more abuse. But I know if I don’t, the consequences could be worse.

Carefully, I open the door and step inside, trying to be as quiet as possible as he begins to play.

Music fills the room and he doesn’t look up as I enter. I take a seat in the back, wanting to stay invisible.

A guy in the front row clears his throat loudly—so loudly that Rath stops playing, shooting him a glare. “That’s Prelude in C Major,” the guy says, and some of the others laugh quietly in their seats. “The board says you’re playing Solfeggietto?”

Rath stares at him unblinkingly, not responding.

The guy shifts in obvious discomfort. “It’s in there. In the folder.”

After a moment of Rath’s dark stare, he gets up from the bench, snatching the folder from the piano. He thrusts it at the man’s chest. “If you’re so fucking smart, then why don’t you pull it out for me, fuckwit.”

Forehead creased in a frown, the guy flips the folder open, leafs through the pages, and plucks one out.

Rath snatches it from his hand. “Congratulations, you’re capable of something a trained monkey can do. Now if you don’t mind, I was warming up with Prelude, you shining testament to dead dicks.”

The others laugh louder now as the guy shrinks down into his seat. Taking the bench once again, Rath unfolds the paper and begins playing.

If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine it’s being played by someone with actual, real-life feelings. Feelings that aren’t anger. Feelings that don’t only want to hurt. I can almost forget the fact he just effortlessly manipulated someone into doing work for him.

I can almost forget that it’s not okay to like those fingers flying across the keys.

His playing sounds magnificent, rich notes reverberating through the room. His fingers move quickly, fast like lightning, and I can’t imagine Rath not being able to do anything, let alone read. But even though the notes feel flowing and serene, when I open my eyes, I see his shoulders are tense, his jaw tight, a lock of hair falling into his eyes as he reads the music.

Dimitri is troubled.

But the expression on his face, when he stands and bows to the audience, says otherwise.

His eyes flick to the back of the room, to me, and a chill runs down my spine. Ms. Crane had been right about one thing. Rath had never been the meanest of the guys—Killian holds that position—and Tristian is just mindfuckingly cruel. Rath is aloof. Dismissive. Indifferent, until he wants something. Like seeing me cry. Wanting to hear me beg. Loving that we share a dirty secret.

He steps off the stage, collecting his things with jerky, hostile movements. Storming down the row toward me, he doesn’t stop when he reaches me. He just grabs me by my arm and drags me outside. I stumble in my clunky shoes, twisting my ankle, but swallow back the cry of pain.

“I failed my fucking oral report, thanks to you,” he growls, eyes ablaze. “It was worth thirty percent of my fucking grade.”

“Me? I didn’t do anything!”

“Yes, you did!” he spits, getting in my face. “You got in my head this morning! All that bullshit about trying. You made me think I had something to prove. You fucking played me!”

I gape at him, bending back to put some distance between us. “That’s crazy, Rath. You’re crazy! I just wanted to put the offer out there, in case—” I swallow. “Your problem is that you’re so used to being around assholes that you don’t even know what it’s like to have someone be nice to you,” I tell him, taking a step back. “Because that’s all I was being—nice. Just like I thought you were being nice by kissing me before.”

His hands move lightning fast, slamming hard into my shoulder. In a blink, I’m pressed into the wall, being crushed against the stone.

He openly sneers at my whimper. “Shut up.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“Good,” he replies, applying more pressure, jaw clenching at my wince. “I’ll do more than that if you tell anyone what I said this morning. If you tell anyone anything.”

“I can’t, remember? I signed a contract.”

“Just don’t fucking forget it.” He releases me and I rub my shoulder, watching him storm off. I grab my bag and trail after him, knowing that if he shows up without me, there will be hell to pay.

On the way to the truck, I simmer in what I know to be true. Rath is freaking out because I touched something personal. A weakness. Something a Lord shouldn’t have. Proof that a failure isn’t just laziness or entitlement. It’s an inability to do something.

An inferiority.

And I’m going to be the one to pay for it.