Lords of Wrath: Chapter 11

The meeting is held in the student center at a table near the front windows. At least it’s nice and public. I’d spent twenty minutes beforehand scoping it out, panic and humiliation clawing at the back of my throat.

The worst of the Royal girls—Autumn, the Princess; Marigold, the Baroness; and Sutton, the Countess—sit across from me. Everything is stiff and tense with the act we’re putting on, as if these three hadn’t led me into a trap a week ago. The only one present who wasn’t involved that day is Bianca, the Duchess.

Luckily, with a stack of folders in front of her, Bianca seems to be the one in charge. As she passes them out, my phone buzzes with a text from ‘Lord Tristian’. Discreetly, I open it under the table, completely unprepared for what greets me: a picture of his erect cock.

Lord Tristian: T-Bone misses your pretty mouth.

I fumble the phone, stiff with shock. After a moment, another text rolls in.

Lord Tristian: Maybe when you get over being mad at me, you can finally collect your treat.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Tristian is exactly the kind of guy who thinks a girl wants to see his cock in the middle of a meeting—even when she’s irate with him. The same kind of guy who is likely to fingerbang you in a crowded room. The same kind of guy who thinks his cock qualifies as a ‘treat’ worthy of wiping away any resentment at being forcibly micro-chipped.

Horny fucking psycho.

“Phones up,” Bianca says, cutting her eyes at me. I slide it back in my pocket, knowing that my face must be glowing red. “I’d like to get this meeting over with as soon as possible. I have a rotation at the hospital this afternoon and a Duke to patch up at midnight.”

“Are you allowed to put your phone away, Story?” Sutton asks, batting her lashes. “Or is that against the rules?”

The other girls laugh, and my jaw goes tight. “I don’t know, Sutton.” I bat my eyelashes back. “Are you allowed to be around other women without stabbing them in the back like a sycophant, or is that against your rules?”

She gives me a barbed smile. “I make exceptions where necessary.”

Whatever. They’re owned by their Royals just as much as I am. Sutton’s always worn a necklace, high and tight around her throat. I used to think it was just jewelry, but it doesn’t go with all her outfits. I realize now what it really is. It’s just like my wrist cuff. A mark of ownership.

A collar.

Turning to Bianca, I grapple for any sense of an ally. “You’re patching up one of your Dukes? Did he get hurt?”

“Duh.” She gives me a look that says this should be obvious. “They’re Dukes. You know, raging chaos goblins?” At my slow, confused blink, she explains, “They’re fighters, Lady. They always need patched up.”

“Oh,” I say, head snapping back. Marcus’ words come back to me.

“Some stuff is just tradition. Stealing something from a rival’s house. Sabotaging a Baron ceremony. Winning the annual boxing match against the Dukes…”

Clutching onto that, I wonder, “When’s the annual boxing match, anyway?”

Bianca brightens at the mention, like a flower turning to the sun. “January. No offense to your Lords—Payne is totally jacked—but my boys are for sure going to win. The Dukes almost always do.”

Smiling tightly, I offer, “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

Bianca doesn’t seem put off by the friendliness, even though I now understand that she can’t be trusted. I’ll take artificial civility over the way Sutton and the others are looking at me right now.

“For those of you who are new, here’s the deal,” Bianca begins, squaring her shoulders. “Every year, we put on a carnival during homecoming weekend. The sororities might have their holiday formals and lame mixers, but this is the biggest jewel in the Royal women’s crowns. We have to do it up right. You’re all here to represent your houses, but as a unit, we come together to represent Forsyth.” Opening her folder, she explains, “The carnival is meant to be fun, but don’t be fooled—this is a serious event that’s meant to underscore the Royals’ charitable efforts. It’s the legacy that keeps our houses’ heritage intact.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I blurt. “The Royals do this for charity? You’re kidding.”

None of these guys have a charitable bone in their bodies.

Autumn scoffs, appearing uninterested. “You should know, Lady. The Lords are the biggest fundraisers out of all the frats. The work they do with the South Side Community Center has won national recognition. Last year, they raised half-a-million dollars.”

Bianca nods and Sutton rolls her eyes at me like I’m an idiot. I might feel like an idiot if I hadn’t spent the last few weeks doing anything other than surviving and experiencing their less than charitable attitudes first hand.

“In your folders is a detailed summary of your responsibilities for the carnival. Countess, you’re in charge of food and beverages. Baroness, you’ll take games and prizes. Princess, you’ll organize the schedule and set up. I’m going to handle the rides, and Lady, you’ll be in charge of securing permits for the location.”

I stare at the information on the page. Apparently, there’s a big lot just outside of South Side where this sort of thing is normally held. I see the contact information for the property owner and deflate.

Daniel Payne.

Fucking perfect.

“It seems like a lot of work, but the guys will do their part,” Bianca says once she’s finished outlining responsibilities. “It’s tradition, and there’s nothing these frats love more than upholding all their rituals. They’ll provide the manpower, with the pledges contributing most of the heavy lifting. Everyone really gets into this, so don’t be overwhelmed. Take your time. Do it right.”

Soon after we’re dismissed, I step outside and lean against a column, anxiously texting the guys my status.

Lady: All done.

I keep the other Royals in my periphery, suspicious and on edge. It’s Tristian who responds.

Lord Tristian: Be there in a few minutes. Then you can get your treat.

I stare blankly at the phone, stomach sinking. Great. Now I’m going to have to suck him off and act like I don’t want to rip it off with my teeth while I’m doing it. This entire day is a disaster.

At least I got to sleep alone last night.

Well, sort of.

Rath slept on his couch, leaving me in his big, comfortable bed. It was a good sleep, too. The kind of sleep I probably wouldn’t let myself get around Killian. A soothing bath, some weed, a massage, and…

God.

That orgasm.

I was dead to the world for eight solid hours for the first time in a long time.

The issue is, he knows something’s shifted between us, despite all my efforts to remain impassive—which was the best I could possibly aim for, considering. There’s no doubt in my mind that the knowledge of him toppling down the points-based totem pole with me has made him furious. They’re all hyper-competitive egomaniacs, after all.

What I’ve come to discover about Rath is that he doesn’t hurt me when he’s mad.

He managed it just fine when he wasn’t, though.

I scroll through my phone until I hear Autumn and Sutton talking on the other side of the column.

“Did you get any news about Perez’s car?” Autumn asks.

“Definitely arson,” Sutton replies, voice wry. “The bar had cameras outside, but the assholes had masks on.”

“That sucks.”

“It does, but it’s not like we don’t know who did it.” Sutton sniffs haughtily. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Word is that their boss is pissed. You know how he is about the South Side. They crossed a line in their own territory. Whatever he’s going to do to them is probably better than any payback the Counts could come up with.”

Autumn wonders, “So what, Perez is going to drop it?”

Sutton laughs. “Doubtful. You know how he is. That’s twice now they got the best of him. But my boy is patient. He’ll wait it out, nice and steady.”

The conversation shifts back to homecoming planning, and I stay hidden until they’re gone. Knowing that Perez still plans on getting revenge makes my palms sweat, and for the first time I don’t mind having this tracker lodged under my skin. The Lords definitely have a way of making enemies. The Counts, they know about. Ted, they don’t.

I wonder which one will get to them first.

Tristian chooses that exact moment to pull up. His windows are too tinted to see inside, but the instant I open the door, his music blares through. He reaches over to turn it down, patting the passenger seat. “Hop in.”

Rigidly, I comply, giving his crotch a baleful glance. The ironic thing is that suddenly, I wish it’d been Rath to pick me up. Every day here has been like an agonizing set of monkey bars, swinging from least-hated Lord to least-hated Lord. My brain keeps tallying up the score, the winner changing faster that I’m able to parse. With each transgression, I’ll think this is it—nothing could possibly make him seem anything less than the worst evil. But I’m constantly being proven wrong.

Sometimes, it’s that one of them shows me something soft and incongruous, leaving me to face the reality that perhaps everyone—even these harsh, cruel men—are made up of both light and dark. But sometimes, it’s that one of them hurts me more, better, more perniciously, lowering the bar with every act of brutality.

This is an odd mixture of the two.

I’ll never see myself forgiving Tristian for putting the tracker into me, but at the same time, last night had complicated my feelings for Rath. I’m all too aware of his ability to manipulate me, but the way he’d been in the bathtub, so ready to gather me up and hold me close, didn’t seem artificial at all.

Neither had the somber look in his eyes when he told me goodnight and left me there in the bed, exhausted and confused.

Tristian’s got a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose, wrist slung loose over the steering wheel. “How’d it go?”

My answer is short. “Fine.” I’m wondering if he’ll drive somewhere so I can give him road head again. We’re too close to the brownstone to bother getting anything started on the way home, but he could make a detour. Somewhere crowded, no doubt.

He pauses, watching me from behind the glasses. “Still mad, then?”

I look out at the campus, remaining silent.

Sighing, he grabs the gear shift and yanks it back, peeling out of the lot. “You know, I could be mad, too.” His mouth is scrunched into a tight, unhappy line. “You’ve never—not once—slept in my bed. You’ll sleep with Rath. You’ll sleep with Killer, even though he fucking hurts you. But me?” He shoves the gear shift up angrily, and I wince. “I get fucking nothing. And you know what’s fucked up?” He actually glances at me like he expects an answer. We’d be here all damn day. “I’m the one who takes care of you. Me. Everything I do—and it might piss you off, but it’s true—everything is because I want to keep you.”

Keep me.

Not keep me happy.

Not keep me safe.

Just keep me.

I give a loose, unconcerned shrug. “Why don’t you just make me sleep in your bed? That’s what Killian does.”

He slams his palm on the steering wheel, roaring, “I don’t want to make you!”

I flinch so hard that my entire body jumps. Aside from that fight with Killian, I’ve never heard Tristian yell before. It makes something hard and panicked rise in my throat. I watch with wide eyes as he sucks in a deep breath, nostrils flaring.

He lets out a soft curse, reaching up to comb his fingers through his blond hair. Gently, he says, “I’m not Killian.”

I’m not sure if he’s talking about the yelling or the order to sleep with him, but I say, “Okay,” and don’t feel any less unmoored.

He takes off his sunglasses, shooting me a look I’d call apologetic on anyone else. “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Gulping, I fix my eyes out the window. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. I scared you, and that’s…” He turns onto the street that leads us home, and I can see him glancing back and forth, from me to the road. “You were right yesterday. What you said to Rath, about being treated like our Lady? There are some things you can call us out on, you know.”

I give a weak laugh. “There are a lot of things I can’t.”

“Yeah, there are,” he agrees, turning into the spot in front of the house. “But this is one of them.”

I watch him from the corner of my eye as he puts the car into park and kills the ignition. He lingers there, looking out the window, and his face is tumultuous and pensive, like maybe he’s got more to say.

Or like maybe he’s hoping I’ll say something myself.

I get this…awareness. If I reached over right now and bridged the gap, I think he’d be relieved. Happy. Because right now, he is distinctly unhappy.

Somehow, the way I act has the power to do that.

How odd.

I’m not sure why or how or when that happened. It’s perfectly clear that Tristian cares for me more as an object than a person. Why should it matter to him whether I’m hot or cold?

Testing this theory, I reach for the hand still on the gearshift, gently resting my palm over his knuckles. He remains still, but I don’t miss the flick of his eyes to our hands, that sulky crevice between his eyebrows disappearing instantly.

Jesus.

So easy.

He flips his hand, knitting his fingers with mine. “Hey,” he whispers, giving my arm a light tug. When I turn to meet his gaze, those blue eyes blaze back at me. “Forgive me?”

“For yelling?” I ask. I don’t even need to lie. “Yes.”

His eyes fall to my lips. “And for…the other thing?”

I stare at him. “Do I forgive you for forcing me to undergo a micro-chipping that effectively strips away the thin veneer of freedom I’ve been clinging to for my own sanity?” Smiling, I answer. “No, and fuck you for asking.”

His eyes harden. “I did it for your—”

I put my fingers over his mouth, cutting him off. “I don’t want to hear any more about it being for my own good. I get to be pissed about this, Tristian. You can’t force me not to feel something and you can’t talk me into seeing whatever twisted logic is eating a hole in your brain.” I let my hand slip away, willing him to understand. “This is the part of me you can’t control. You’re just going to have to deal with it.”

For a moment, I think I’m crazy for trying to reason with him at all. It’s a straight shot to more hurt and debasement. The tracker was obviously one of those things I’m not allowed to call him out on.

His eyes search my face. “But I don’t like it.”

Some of the tension drains from my spine at the response, spoken so plainly. “You’re free to feel that way, too. But I think if you wanted some gutless little Stepford robot as your Lady, you would have chosen someone else.”

“You’re right,” he says, after a long, pensive moment. He lifts my hand, holding my gaze as he presses a kiss to the cuff around my wrist. “You’ll let me give you your treat, though?”

My face falls. “Oh.” He looks confused at the reaction, and then even more confused when I reached for his fly, asking, “You want it here?”

He captures my wrist, frowning. “What are you doing?”

“Didn’t you want…” I look at him, baffled. “You said you wanted my mouth.”

His expression blanks out, and then he chuckles, low and mischievous. “Sweetheart, of course I want your mouth. But that wasn’t the treat I had in mind.”

My face flushes in embarrassment. “Oh.”

“Come on,” he says, looking excited as he opens his door. “I’ll show you.”

I stare at it for a long time, unable to move.

My chest swarms with too many emotions to process all at once. Disbelief, because he must be mistaken—there’s no way this is mine. It’s a joke, a trick. The actual surprise is waiting inside, and it won’t be nearly as appealing. Then I feel a wave of suspicion and fear, because I can’t even imagine the conditions that must be attached to this. After that comes the heartache. A sorrow so thick that I think I could choke on it. Because god—I want it.

Tristian’s arms wind around my waist from behind, a kiss pushed beneath my ear. “Do you like it?”

“I-I…”

I’m speechless.

He buries a smile into my shoulder. “I spent all day looking for the perfect one. I knew the second I saw that dark cherry red, it belonged to my Sweet little Cherry.”

“Mine?” I ask, tongue feeling dry and heavy. “Really mine?”

“Really yours,” he says, slipping away to walk to the car. It’s not all red. In fact, it’s mostly a flat, matte black. But there’s an elegant stripe that sweeps along the doors, slashing down the hood and along the roof, that’s a deep, vivid red. Tristian looks at the car, eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “Admittedly, the muscle car called to me because I’m a red-blooded man who likes the growl and speed, but you seemed to like my Porsche the other night. Not like girls usually do, either. You didn’t care that it was expensive and shiny. You just liked the power beneath the hood.” He turns to me, giving me a knowing look. “Isn’t that right?”

I can’t believe he even noticed that.

It’s nothing like my old car—the only thing I regret abandoning in Colorado. That one had been a beater. Old and rusted, but fast and true. It was the only thing that kept me together some days, roaring out along some deserted highway, feeling so free that my chest ached with the possibilities.

This one is like something out of a magazine. Sleek and flawless and…

“It’s a Dodge Charger,” I say, still stunned. He could have given me a pile of only semi-drivable rust and I would have been just as shocked. But this?

He spreads his arms wide, looking deviously handsome. “Pretty sweet, right?”

“Tristian, this is…” I shake my head, fear rapidly becoming the winning emotion. “This is too much.”

I can’t earn this.

Whatever he wants me to do in exchange, it won’t be worth it.

Probably.

“For you?” he asks, coming to stand in front of me. He reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Never.”

Swallowing thickly, I have to ask. “What are the strings?”

His eyebrows knit together as he watches me. “I get the tracker is a violation to you. I just wanted you to understand that it’s not all bad.” He tilts his head toward the Charger. “It can help us give some of your freedom back, see?”

After a moment of gaping at him, I hedge, “So, you’re saying…I’ve already paid the price?” and he gives me a puzzled look.

“There’s no price, Story,” he says, grabbing my hips and tugging me close. “This is a gift, because that’s what a Lord does for his Lady. If you’re asking if I expect something in return, then…well, you’re right.” My stomach sinks like a brick at his words, too disappointed to do anything but stand limply as he presses a kiss to my neck. He lingers there, whispering, “You have to smile.”

I cock an eyebrow at him. “Smile.”

Nodding, he assures, “That’s it. The only thing I’m asking of you is that you enjoy it. A sweet ride like this needs a Lady who can properly appreciate it, don’t you think?” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pair of keys. He dangles them there in front of me, waiting.

My palms sweat with the possibility that he’ll snatch them away, so I reach for them stiltedly, preparing for the inevitable, giving him too many opportunities to pull the rug out from under me.

When my hands close around the keys, something inside of me sparks to life, my pulse quickening.

Somehow, Tristian sees it, his lips curling into an indulgent smirk. “Come on. I know you want to give it a spin.”

It’s not that I don’t see it. This is probably another manipulation tactic. Having something I want just means they’ll have something to take away from me. It’ll give them leverage. Control. I shouldn’t get hopeful or attached. I should treat it as the bribe it’s clearly meant to be. It’ll come back to bite me. I just know it.

But life is harsh and cold and cruel, and I think it might be like I am with the guys, constantly having to untangle to the dark from the light, clutching any bit of goodness close, just to make it to the next monkey bar.

This is light.

This is good.

I look at the keys, feeling my face crack with a reluctant grin.

“There it is,” he whispers, brushing a knuckle under my chin. “Lay it on me, hm?” He taps his cheek, grinning like the cat who got the cream when I bounce up to give him a peck. “That’s my good girl. You think you can handle this thing?”

I pluck the sunglasses from the collar of his shirt, putting them on. “I think I can manage.”

He doesn’t make me ask, laughing at the barely restrained impatience on my face. “Go on. Be back in an hour. I’ll cover for you with the others.” He gives my ass a slap and sends me on my way.

When I open the car door and reverently slide behind the wheel, I notice something in the passenger seat, waiting for me: A dozen sunny daisies. There’s a skull hanging from the rearview mirror, ornamental and brand new, marking this as a Lady’s ride.

Okay, maybe Tristian isn’t the worst.

For now.

There’s one fundamental difference between this pregame party and the first. Thanks to Killian forcing me to blow him in front of the frat, every guy here knows intimately who I am. They also understand that I am completely off limits. No one hassles me as I walk through the party, still feeling buzzed off the drive I’d taken earlier.

The car is sex on wheels.

Pure, undiluted power beneath the palms of my hands.

I’m not proud to admit it, but if they’d asked me yesterday whether I’d be willing to take the tracker to get the car, I might have had to think about it.

Hard.

I’d gone to the back roads, really opening it up, getting acquainted with it. With every press of the clutch, I was saying, “Hello, my name is Story,” and with every shift of the gears, the car was saying back, “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Story.” When I adjusted the mirrors, I was saying, “I think we can be the best of friends,” and when it responded to my foot on the pedal, it was responding, “I think you’re right.”

I’d still be out there now, exploring the back roads I’d barely gotten acquainted with in my youth, except that I have duties tonight.

Rath’s in the corner of the main room, jaw working lazily around a piece of gum. I know him well enough by now to realize he’s craving a cigarette, but doesn’t want to leave the laptop and the music to move outside to smoke it. I’m still a little uneasy about last night. About the way he treated me. About him clearly being mad, but not making me take the brunt of it. If I’d never found the videos, I think last night would have pushed me into a canyon of feelings that I’m grateful to have avoided. Obviously, it’s better to have the veil lifted, but part of me wishes I could have accepted the lie. I could have chosen him that night. The plans he had for me…

They would have been perfect.

We could have had sex, just the way he wanted to, and I can see perfectly how it would have unfolded. The two of us in his bed all day, rolling around, learning each other’s bodies. After, when we were tired and messy, maybe we would have taken a shower—or a bath. Ms. Crane might have brought us up something to eat. Maybe Rath would have played me something on the piano as I stole food from his plate. Perhaps we might have talked, quiet and close, secrets pressed into sweaty, tender skin. I would have emerged from that room a changed person. An attached person. A person so close to the edge of falling that it would have been impossible to walk myself back.

It would have been wonderful and exciting and so horrifically fake.

Rath doesn’t see me coming until I’m slipping into his lap, so caught up in the music that he startles at the invasion. There’s a flash of irritation in his eyes that gets zapped away in an instant when he realizes it’s me.

He greets me with a low, “Sour Cherry,” but despite the words, his arm snakes around my waist, holding me to him.

“I’ve decided to be sweet tonight, actually.” I hand him the beer I’ve brought, still cold enough that’s it barely begun to sweat.

He tips it back, eyes dropping to my cleavage as he swallows. I don’t know how Tristian can accuse me of playing favorites with Rath and Killian, considering that I seem to dress for him every day.

“I bet you did,” he replies, adjusting his grip on my waist to pull me up his thigh. His dark eyes scan the room, even though he pitches his voice low enough that only I can hear it. “I could have bought you a car, too, you know.”

“Really?”

Scoffing, he sets the beer down. “Fuck no. Mercer money is bottomless. Rathbone money has both a floor and a ceiling, and not much room in between.”

My eyebrows rise in revelation. I always just assumed he was as wealthy as the others. “Well, I don’t think I need two.”

“Hm.” His expression is exceptionally broody, even for him, so I decide to give it the test. The same one I’d used on Tristian.

I cup his cheek, turning him to me, and then press our mouths together. I keep the kiss just as sweet as I promised to be, plucking gently at his lips between the piercings. He responds by yanking me close and prying my lips apart with his tongue, greedy as he plunges into my mouth. He tastes like beer and cinnamon, and when I feel the gum trapped beneath his tongue, I steal it for myself, pulling away.

“Thanks,” I say, giving the gum a few smacks as I slide away.

His eyes follow my retreat with a dumb look that I’ll be smirking about for hours to come.

I walk into the game room next, where Tristian is dealing cards at a table beside the bar. He’s holding court around a group of pledges that look starry-eyed and stupid, which means he’s probably taking all their money while he’s at it.

Tristian catches my eye and holds it, shuffling the cards with a precise, expert flick of his thumbs. “Might as well pack it in, boys. My secret weapon just walked in: Lady Luck.”

One by one, the pledges turn to watch me. It’s a little easier with them. None of the pledges were in the basement that night, so the only thing they know about me is that I‘m untouchable. Every single one of them stands when I approach, however, which catches me off guard, making me tense. It’s a bit startling, actually. I think for a moment they’re about to flee, but instead, they simply…wait. For me. To sit.

They’re not fleeing.

They’re being gentlemen.

One of them even takes his fucking hat off. It’s a quick, panicked gesture, like he’s not sure if he should or not, but he’s deciding not to take any chances. The scene is so surreal that I just stare at them for a long moment, unable to think of anything to say.

Tristian takes me by the wrist and pulls me in, dragging me into his lap. Like a switch has been flipped, they all sink back into their seats. I watch for a while as Tristian skillfully parts a freshman with two fifty-dollar bills. Once he’s gone, a baleful sophomore tries his hand, losing three twenties so fast that I barely catch sight of them before Tristian’s tucking them into his pocket. Every now and then, he’ll lean in to press a kiss behind my ear, or stroke the hair laying against my back.

Once the last victim has lost his money, Tristian calls the bartender over and says, “Try this.” He holds up a drink. It’s ruby red and has two cherries floating on top. “It may be your signature cocktail.”

“Oh, I-I probably shouldn’t,” I stammer. Lowering my senses around these guys seems unwise.

“Just a sip.” He takes one first and licks his lips. “I think you’d like it. It’s sweet, just like you.”

Loud laughter bounces across the room, and I glance over. Killian is surrounded by three girls over by the fireplace. They’re different girls from the last party, but still perfectly the type he goes for. Blonde, tanned, big tits, short skirts. My exact opposite. One leans in and whispers something in his ear, and a flicker of irritation crosses over me.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter.

Tristian follows my eyes, tsking at the scene. “Cherry, you can’t get worked up about Killian and his pregame stuff. He’s crazy superstitious. It’s almost crippling.”

My eyes narrow before I look away. “After the week I’ve had, Killian shouldn’t get to break the contract—no matter what kind of loopholes he added in.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Tristian says.

“Of course, it doesn’t. Since when does anything about this fucked up situation work in my favor?”

I grab the drink from him and gulp it down in one big swallow. It’s sweet on my tongue and spicy going down my throat—cinnamon, like the gum. I pluck out the cherries and pop them into my mouth before pushing the empty glass back in his hand. “Got another?”

His eyebrow lifts, and he hands the glass to the bartender. A moment later, I have another drink. It tastes better than the first. I drink it quickly and hold it out. “More.”

Tristian gives me a disapproving look. “Sweetheart, you’re going to get shitfaced if you keep going like this. Look how tiny you are. You probably have the metabolism of a gerbil.”

“Mercer,” I say, using his last name, “in the last week, I’ve been kidnapped, lost my virginity to my stepbrother, set fire to a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar car, had a fucking tracker implanted underneath my skin, and was forced to organize a stupid homecoming charity event with the bitchiest girls on campus. Name one person here who deserves to get wasted more than me.”

His eyebrows crouch low, like he’s about to argue. But he doesn’t. “Okay, you’ve got me there,” he concedes and looks at the bartender. “Make the next one a double.”

“A triple,” I say, already feeling the buzz. I take one more look across the room at Killian and his whores and loop my arm around Tristian’s neck.

“You know what his problem is?” I ask, eating another cherry and licking my fingers.

Tristian looks amused at the gesture, fixing his gaze down my shirt. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“He’s spoiled, entitled, and so goddamn obsessive.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you just described every man in this room, Cherry. The difference with Killian is that he’s obsessed with you. He has been for years.”

I roll my eyes, feeling the warm heat of alcohol under my skin. “He hates me. He thinks my mom swooped in and destroyed his perfect, spoiled little life by splitting his daddy’s attention. He’s not obsessed with me. He’s just obsessed with punishing me.”

“You know the saying,” he runs his nose down my neck, “there’s a thin line between love and hate. Killian Payne is riding that line even harder than he likes riding you.”

The liquor hits my bloodstream, and the room grows fuzzy. I feel weightless and loose for the first time in a while—even more than the weed last night with Rath. God. Fuck these guys with their trackers and bribes and games.

I look at Tristian’s flawless face, sharp jaw, and blue eyes. “How come you haven’t fucked me yet?”

His eyebrows climb to his forehead. “Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug, plucking the cherry out of my glass. “I just figured once Killian popped my cherry, you would have taken me for yourself. I keep waiting for one of you to pounce. It’s making my head hurt.”

There’s a beat of silence before Tristian rises my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Oh, I’ve thought about it. Repeatedly.” He pitches forward to steal a slow kiss. The chaste nature of it is belied by the words he speaks next. “I’ve thought about tossing you on my bed and driving into you so hard that you cry out my name. I’ve thought about bending you over the edge of the couch—the one right over there—and making the other two watch as I take you. I’ve considered doing it a million different ways.”

Those scenes flash in front of me, warmth pooling in my stomach. “So why haven’t you?”

“Maybe I’m waiting for you to heal up.” He licks at my mouth, his tongue darting against mine. “Or maybe I’m waiting for you to answer my question with a ‘yes’ instead of an ‘I don’t know’.”

Tristian Mercer, caring about my consent?

His lips tip up at my sudden peal of laughter. I don’t realize we’re drawing stares until his amused gaze shifts around the room, pinging from person to person. “Is that funny?”

I nod, wheezing. “Oh, my god, it’s hilarious.” I clutch my side, hardly remembering what was so funny, but knowing that it was.

He shakes his head, chuckling. “Okay, you are well and truly hammered. Up we go.”

I stumble when he stands me up, but his arms are there in an instant, catching me and dragging me close. “Oh, no.” I palm my head, vision swimming. “Everything’s all wonky.”

“I’m sure it is.” He’s talking to me like I’m stupid. Like I’m a child.

We’ve just reached the staircase when I ask, “Why don’t you just do it now?” I think I could do it like this—get it over with. Stop feeling like it could happen at any time. Finally get the smallest sense of peace. “You could fuck me tonight. I’ll say yes.”

He lumbers up the stairs, practically carrying me now. “That’s your massive blood alcohol content talking, sweetheart.”

He assists me down the hall toward the stairs, but my legs give out.

“Oops.”

He lifts me up and turns into the library, where he helps me onto a leather chaise. He covers me with a soft blanket draped over the chair, and my eyes flutter closed. I guess this is probably way better than sex, anyway.

I feel his lips on my forehead, a soft kiss pressed into my skin. “Soon, Sweet Cherry. You’ll be mine, soon.”