Lords of Pain: Chapter 13

I don’t breathe with ease until I’m locked behind my bedroom door. I’m not sure how Ms. Crane earned the luxury of them jumping to her defense like that, but it doesn’t extend to me.

Rath is pissed.

Even so, I almost expected it out of him. He seems to get along with Ms. Crane the most out of the three of them. Killian sticking up for anyone is a surprise, but Tristian? He quite obviously can’t stand Ms. Crane. His words pulse back at me like an acidic whisper.

Ms. Crane is a part of us. She’s family. What exactly are you? You’re nothing.

Now that I’m alone, I kick off the painful shoes and rub my sore ankle. After all that tension, the last thing I want to do is go to this party tonight. God only knows what I’ll be expected to do. Serve food? Rub their shoulders? Grovel at their feet? Considering Tristian’s penchant for public displays, maybe even worse.

A knock on the door draws my attention, and I brace myself for whatever Lord is on the other side. “Come in.”

The door opens to reveal Martin, who sweeps in without reservation. “Lady, I wanted to talk to you about the party. As you’ve been informed, there’s a gathering tonight—a pregame ritual. There will be food and drinks and—”

“I know what a party is, Martin.” I rub my temples. “What exactly am I expected to do?”

He smiles. “Of course. Well, your role as Lady is to be available to the Lords as they need you. Typically, they would want you by their sides, refilling their drinks and looking—”

“Like arm candy. Got it.” I tilt my head. “But there’s a problem. They hate me. Well, at least two of them do. I know Killian doesn’t want me doting on him all night. Rath, either. So how am I supposed to approach this?”

He shakes his head disapprovingly. “Regardless of what they feel, they have chosen you as their Lady. You need to be available to their every need while guests are in the house. It’s how these things are done.”

“Fine,” I grind out, hearing what he’s not saying. If the Lords want to reject me, humiliate me, then I’m meant to just take it. Even though I’m pretty sure they’d rather me be in the kitchen with Ms. Crane. “Anything else?”

“One thing,” he says, shifting on his feet. “Killian has some very specific pregame rituals. They are very important to him since—as you may know—Lord Killian is quite superstitious. This season is vital to his career. The NFL will be watching his every move. His rituals can’t be disrupted in any way.”

“And I need to assist him with those rituals,” I guess.

He releases a clipped laugh. “God, no. I actually think it’s in everyone’s best interest that you stay completely clear of him for the evening.”

I can’t control the smile that splits my face. “That sounds perfect.” A weight lifts off my shoulders. Staying away from my stepbrother is my number one priority on any given day. But during a party with alcohol and drugs? I don’t want to be anywhere around him. “Well, do you have suggestions on what to wear?”

His lips form a tight line. “That’s not really my area of expertise. I’m sure there’s something suitable in the closet.”

I cast a skeptical glance at the wardrobe. “I’m not sure what they’d like.” I’m not even sure which Lord I should be appealing to tonight. Should I be slutty? Should I be cute and coy? Walking over to the closet, I assess the clothes. In truth, dressing up has never been in my wheelhouse. Back in high school, whenever I needed help I would…

Well, I’d call a girl friend.

But I don’t have any of those.

“Martin,” I begin, voice reluctant. “I know there are rules about who I can speak to and—”

“No men,” Martin emphasizes.

I nod. “Obviously. But I was wondering about other women. Other…students? Like the Countess or the Baroness?”

Martin’s face screws up. “Not if it can be helped. Girls are meant to be loyal to their houses. They can’t be trusted.”

I deflate, remembering how kind Sutton—the Countess—had been to me. Loyal to our houses? Yeah, right. These guys are all deluded. “So basically, I can’t have any friends.”

Martin frowns, forehead creased in thought. “Well, I suppose…there are other girls loyal to our house. Prior Ladies.”

I perk. “A prior Lady?” That’s not just companionship or camaraderie. That’s actual intel. “Like who?”

Martin pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call Charlene. She was our last Lady. Perhaps she can be of more assistance.”

As soon as she enters my room, I realize that any hopes I might have had of forming a friendship with this woman were misplaced.

She greets me with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, cherry red lips pursed into something forced and rigid. “You must be the new Lady.”

Charlene is gorgeous in that totally predictable sort of way. Every blonde strand of hair is perfectly curled and styled, tumbling down her back in elegant, platinum waves. She’s wearing a little black dress, breasts sloping from the top, accentuating her tiny waist and full hips into the perfect hourglass figure. I bet her list of rules was only half as long as mine. Clearly, Lady Charlene has never had to be told to remain waxed and sexy at all times.

Instantly, I regret asking for her. “Charlene, right?”

She gives me a slow look, eyes taking me in from top to bottom. It’s subtle, the way her lip curls, but it’s obvious that her expectations haven’t been met. “I see we have some work to do.” She dumps a bag by the door and walks, high heels clacking, to the closet. “Undress. I don’t have all night.”

I glare at her back, wishing now that I could send her away without upsetting whatever idiotic ecosystem is running this house. Instead, I do as she asks, pulling my top over my head. “There’s a couple black dresses in there,” I start, but she raises a hand.

“Black? Please. You’re the Lady to our star player.” She says this as if that makes any sense, pulling out a few different dresses, assessing them. “You should be in our spirit colors, obviously.” The sneer in her voice isn’t even thinly veiled, and she pulls something from the rack, turning to me. “Colors like this?”

I stare at the oversized jersey—orange and purple—and when she flips it around, I see the number 36 emblazoned on the back. ‘PAYNE’ is spread across the shoulders. “Looks like one of Killian’s jerseys must have gotten in there by mistake.” I laugh anxiously. “But I think if I walked out in that, Killian may actually murder me.”

She rolls her eyes, putting it back. “You have no imagination. Lord Killian, bending you over any flat surface, nothing but his own name and number staring back at him?” She scoffs. “Probably the best sex he’ll ever have.”

I clamp a hand over my mouth to muffle my surprised bark of laughter. Maybe this girl isn’t so bad. “Yeah, he is pretty full of himself, isn’t he?”

“Wear this,” she says, ignoring my question to fling a hanger at me. The dress is a deep, dark purple. Its short skirt flares at the hips, but the bodice is tight and more revealing than I’m used to. Nevertheless, I do as I’m told, dragging it over my head. “You need a bra with that,” she says.

But I just shake my head. “I’m not allowed.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not allowed to wear a bra?”

“Not in the house,” I explain, feeling my cheeks heat. I guess I’d been right before. Charlene clearly didn’t have as many rules.

Thankfully, she doesn’t question it. “Whatever. We need to do something with your hair next.” She starts pulling various instruments from her bag, gesturing to the vanity.

I take a seat and try, “Thanks for helping.”

She just hums. “Do you want it up or down?”

“I don’t know, really.” I look in the mirror, twirling a lock of hair around my finger. “What do you think?”

She pops a hip, resting her fist on it. “Rath and Killian will like it down, Tristian will like it up.”

Nodding at my reflection, I answer, “Okay. Let’s shave it off.”

She doesn’t even crack a smile at the joke, gathering my hair to run a brush through it. “You have no idea how good you have it, do you?”

“Good?!” I gape at her through the mirror. “Yeah, it’s so good being forced into servicing them, knowing that I can be punished for exercising even the smallest morsel of autonomy. What a blast!”

The brush catches on a knot and she yanks, ignoring my sound of protest. “What’s fun is being able to have anything you want. You only need to ask. This whole campus will be at your every whim. Boo hoo, you’re having sex with the three hottest, most powerful guys here. No one is coming to your pity party.”

When the brush hits another snag, I flinch away, glaring as I take the brush from her. “You’re acting like they aren’t the biggest assholes you’ve ever met.”

She rolls her eyes, watching me gingerly run the brush through my hair. “Of course they’re assholes. They’re selfish and greedy and spoiled. So what? They’re also good at what they do. Don’t act like they haven’t made you feel good.” She sniffs, raising her chin. “If I were Lady again—their Lady—I’d be on my knees for them without even having to be asked.”

“The only thing they’ve made me feel is a deep desire to hurt them back.”

“Then honey,” she says, bending low to meet my gaze, “why the hell don’t you?”

I pause, frowning. “Because I can’t.”

“Says who?”

“The rules, for one,” I reply, setting the brush aside.

She spreads her arms. “Show me where it says in these ‘rules’ of yours that you can’t strike back?” At the look on my face, she grins. “You have a lot to learn. There’s a time for compliance and subservience. But selfish, greedy, spoiled boys love it when girls fight back. Everything comes easy to a Lord. Makes it hard to flex their power when there’s nothing to test it, don’t you think?”

I’m still thinking of this as Charlene curls my hair, pinning it up. She does have a point. Nowhere in the contract did it say I couldn’t fight back. That I couldn’t hurt them. That I couldn’t defend myself. Could she be right? Would they like it if I fought them? Not disobedience or defiance, but a real, physical opposition. Would it make them like me more?

Should I care?

“Did you like it?” I eventually find the courage to ask. Despite that, I still keep my eyes averted. “When they hurt you, did you enjoy it?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes.”

Puzzled, I meet her gaze and ask, “Why?”

Her eyes narrow. “It’s not black and white. I don’t know where you come from, Pollyanna, but pain and pleasure can coexist.” She puts her hands on the vanity, leveling me with a look. “The rougher they are, the more they like it. If it hurts—if it really hurts—tell me who actually has the power there, honey. Then tell me how good it feels to know.”

I swallow nervously, knowing that I’ve not had a shred of power since the day Killian and I met. What I can’t admit to Charlene is that, in some deep, dark way, I understand that spark in her eyes when she talks about pleasure and pain. It’d be easier to say—to know—that I don’t like what they do to me. That the pain is so great, it removes the possibility of pleasure.

But it’s a lie.

And from the way Charlene looks at me, she knows it.