Dukes of Peril (Dark College Bully Romance): Royals of Forsyth U (Royals of Forsyth University Book 6)

Anything you want…

She has to know that by now.

I’d kill for her, die for her, burn this whole fucking city to the ground for her. But all she’s asking for tonight is this. For me to pleasure her, share her and show Sy what it looks like when a man does it right.

I could tell from the apprehension in her eyes that she doesn’t quite understand this yet. Sy is a part of me, just as much as Remy–just as much as she is. One day, she’ll get it. For now, I rear back to slide her shorts and panties off, not bothering to take my time. Beside the mattress, my brother is silent and still, his dark eyes locked on every newly revealed inch of skin.

Don’t tease.

Hard to say if she meant her or him, so I cover my bases. Grabbing each of her knees, I spread her thighs obscenely wide, putting her wet pussy on full display for us.

And then I dip down to taste it.

She hisses in a long gasp, fingers tangling instantly in my hair. “Oh, god.”

I lick out to catch her slickness, groaning at the taste. Her clit is already swollen, like she’s been horny all goddamn day. I flick my tongue against it, catching a glimpse of Sy in my periphery. He has his head tipped back against the rails, watching us through lazy, slitted eyes.

He’s squeezing his dick through his sweats.

Lavinia never lets me get her off like this, my tongue flicking wild circuits around her clit, and now is no different. She tugs my hair, begging, “Please, Nick, please.”

I’m useless to do anything but obey, licking a sloppy, wet path up her belly, between her tits. “Some day, Little Bird,” I wrestle Sy’s shirt off her just as her fingers slide my boxers down, my cock springing eagerly from the elastic, “I’m going to make you come on my tongue.”

The mattress is old and lumpy, not exactly comfortable on my knees, and every time I come up that staircase to claim her, I find that old fantasy cropping back up in my head; her, waiting for me in my bed. I never ask her to. I wouldn’t fucking dare. Lavinia won’t ever come to that bed.

Not after what I did to her in it.

So I grab her hip and turn her on her side, facing Sy. When I spoon in behind her, pulling her into the curve of my body, I slide my hand down her thigh and tug her leg up, hooking my forearm beneath her knee to keep her spread.

She’s tense at first, not at all as flexible as I damn well know she can be. But then Sy makes a low, gritty sound at the sight, and suddenly the tendons in her thigh go lax, allowing me to slot my dick up against her entrance.

I always love this part. Sliding into her–slow or fast, gentle or hard–watching the slack rapture take her features as I fuck my way inside. Usually, I’d make her look at me, just to bask in my spoils of victory, the sweet curl of satisfaction that she’s finally mine.

But tonight, I keep my eyes on my brother’s strained face as I position the tip of my dick against her slick entrance. Resting my lips against her sweat-damp temple, I tell him, “She’s wet for you, you know.” I push in slow and steady.

Eyes fixed to her hole, Sy’s jaw clenches so visibly that his teeth must ache. “How wet?”

My own jaw is clenched almost as tightly, holding back the urge to slam to the hilt. “See for yourself.” I kick her discarded shorts and panties off the mattress and she whimpers, fingers clamping around my forearm as the motion buries me deeper.

I don’t watch him pick them up, shifting my full attention to Lavinia’s flushed face. I mouth at the juncture of her neck. “You feel so good, baby.”

“More,” she breathes, brow knitted together.

I grip her leg and push my hips, sinking into her so easily that I bury a groan into her shoulder. Lingering there, I feel her buck back against me, always seeking more, which is how I feel the new surge of slickness.

Just then, I hear the unmistakable sound of Sy spitting.

Lavinia’s pussy flutters around me, a hitched gasp escaping her throat. “Sy…”

“Shit,” I grind out, raising my head, which is when I see it. Sy has his dick out, one spit-slick hand squeezing the shaft while the other fists her panties. I drag my mouth over her warm cheek, watching her glazed eyes watch him back. “Just looking at that dick gets you wet, doesn’t it?” He always keeps it locked away, like it’s something to be embarrassed about. But right now, Lavinia is looking at that thing like she’s dying to be the one with her hand around it.

Sy’s electric eyes are glued to her, but he lifts his chin at me. “You gonna fuck her, or what?” Glancing up, I realize his hand is gripping his cock, motionless, poised for a reason. So I pull my hips back, dragging my cock away, just to punch it back inside. I push her thigh higher, strangely excited to show him this. My chest burns with too many things to list, but I know pride is one of them.

Look, my body is telling him. Look at what I got for us.

Sy’s fist moves with me, slow on the backstroke, quick on the upstroke. I’ve never seen my brother like this before, every muscle in his body tightening as his eyes glow hot for a chick. His nostrils are flared, the line of his mouth hard and angry-looking, and I think I get Lavinia’s reservation about the whole thing.

He looks like he wants to murder some pussy.

His eyes are also radiating absolute agony, chest collapsing with the sharp inhale. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

“Thanks,” I rock into her, indulging in the glide. “I try.”

He shoots me a quick, homicidal glare, and it takes some work to keep my stroke up. Guy looks like a wild animal who’s afraid of having his kill taken away. It’s not that it hasn’t occurred to me what’s going down here. It’s just that I don’t give a shit. Lavinia wants my cock, but she wants his, too. I’m his stand in.

If the sight of him matching his fist up to my rhythm isn’t enough to remind me I’m still getting the better half of that deal, then the way Lavinia’s arm reaches back, fingers winding into my hair, definitely is.

She tilts her head just enough to meet my demand for a kiss, tongue licking out to caress mine. It’s not the best angle, but it still makes my balls tighten, even knowing that she’s peeking at Sy from the corner of her eye.

I drag another long, slow thrust, watching her eyes flutter. “You feel how wet and primed your pussy is?” I move to whisper my next words into her ear. “I bet if you went slow, you could take him.” I keep my voice nothing but the barest breath, the words meant only for her. “Right here, right now. I’d stay and watch, make sure he does right by you.”

Something in my brain breaks and rearranges itself at the thought of it. My Little Bird taking that monster of a cock. The look on her face when he pushes it inside. The crush of her brow as she struggles to make room for him inside…

Fuck.

But her lungs seize, and she bears greedily back into my thrust, making her answer clear.

Just me.

I’m not expecting the feeling of disappointment, but I guess I should. Even from the first time, that night in the Hideaway’s basement, I’ve been darkly eager for Sy and Remy to know what I know, to see what I see, to have what I want.

But this isn’t about Sy.

Not really.

Lavinia makes a sharp, mournful sound when I suddenly pull back, dick slipping free. The look she shoots me over her shoulder is a mixture of shock, annoyance, and yearning. Nevertheless, she goes easily when I move her legs.

I lay on my back, sideways on the mattress. My feet are pointed at the clock, Sy somewhere behind my head, and when I pull her on top of me, I know they’re able to look at each other, face to face.

“Come on, baby.” I grab her hips, whispering, “Show him how you’d ride him.”

Lavinia’s eyes drop down to mine, mouth parting–maybe in surprise, maybe just to say, “Yeah?”

I answer by grabbing the base of my cock, positioning it right at her slick hole. Her eyes shift back to Sy when she finally sinks down, taking me to the hilt, and I should be jealous he’s getting that instead of me; the look on her face as she takes me in. The notch her teeth dig into her lip as she adjusts, feeling me so deep. The lazy slump of her eyelids as she relishes it, hips giving a little, testing rock.

Clearly, I’m a saint.

“Fuck,” she breathes, rolling her hips to a rhythm. “Just like that,” she says to Sy.

I can’t see him, but I can hear him behind me, panting like a dog, the wet sounds of his fist on his cock as he matches her speed. “Touch her tits,” he says, voice like gravel. When I run my palms up her body, cupping them in my palms, he demands, “Use your mouth.”

I push up on an elbow to mouth at her nipple, tongue tracing a slow circle around the pebbled peak. Her fingers wind into my hair, clutching me close, and I don’t even have to look to know they’re eye fucking each other. I can feel it in the way she’s fucking me, hips sliding back and forth, fingers tightening in my hair. I can hear it in his rough breaths, the shifting sound of fabric.

She’s fucking him through me.

When I fall back, hands clamped over her flexing thighs, she fucks me like it’s some kind of punishment. Eyes intent on Sy behind me, she plants her palms on my chest and bucks hard, making me groan. She doesn’t let up, back and forth, up and down, her hips land unforgivingly against mine, and I stare at her in awe. The flush on her face. The wild heat of her eyes. The bounce of her heavy tits. Usually when my Little Bird is on top, she rides me slow and sweet, always demanding my mouth against hers, my hands roving hungrily over her body. Sometimes I’ll give it to her fast and a touch too brutal, but I know she likes it most when it’s making love–me worshiping her.

I’ve never been outright fucked by her before.

When she comes, I feel it right down to my curling toes, her pussy clenching around me as she cries out. Her hips grind down hard against me, and I’m useless to do anything more than plant my heels, rut up into her, grunt like a savage, and come my goddamn brains out. Behind me, a strained, feral sound comes ripping out of my brother, and I know he must be doing the same.

She collapses against my chest, pressing these sweet little sighs into my shoulder as she comes down. “Thanks for that,” she whispers.

“What can I say?” I take back over, tucking her hair back to brush a kiss into her sweaty forehead. “I’m a giver.”

Behind me, Sy snorts, but I hear him cleaning up, his breaths evening out slowly. A minute later, he appears above me, looking a lot less tense, and tips his fist out.

I raise my own to lazily bump his knuckles.

His eyes shift to her, softening, before he reaches down to run a hand over her head. “Night,” he says.

Both of us want to stay in her bed but not until we’re invited. Soon, I think as my brother and I both head downstairs.

Very soon.

I flip up my collar to keep the cool air off my neck as I walk across campus. I woke up in the loft next to a shivering Lavinia this morning, trying my best to warm her with nothing but my own body heat and a thin blanket.

Winter’s coming up on us like a South Side street dog.

I’ve just left Remy at his art studio to get to my own class. Sy and I have discussed if someone needs to stay with him, but my brother says no. He’s got to do this on his own. Thank the fuck. I’m tired of babysitting a grown-ass man. I prefer problems that can be hit, shot, or otherwise maimed, and whatever demon Remy is fighting, it’s not something I can beat into submission. He has to put in the work himself. It won’t be an easy road. His family is fucked. His body and brain are a mess, but he’s got something others don’t.

Us.

Lavinia and Sy are in the science hall. Their schedules align, at least building-wise, and even though he’s not in the class with her, I feel good knowing he’s nearby. I fight the urge to pull out my phone and look for her on the tracker. This need to know where she is all the time, to make sure she’s safe, is overwhelming. It’s fucking ridiculous and I resist it.

I’ve got Lit across campus, although I take my time getting there. My zone of excellence isn’t in academia, but I know it’s part of the deal and I’ve got to do it. The good news is my TA is a cutslut and she won’t mark it if I’m late.

My route takes me near the athletic complex, and the constant vibe on campus is school spirit and football. Huge orange and purple banners hang outside the building promoting the team. Football. What a joke. Helmets and padding? Grow a fucking pair and beat the shit out of the other guy the real way, the right way, bare-knuckled and bleeding.

Even I can’t avoid the news that the team is struggling without their superstar quarterback, Killian Payne. I have to admit, I’m impressed he gave up a career in the NFL for the position of King. When I worked for Daniel, his son always seemed too egotistical to make the sacrifice, but maybe I was wrong about that. Maybe I’m the one that struggles with the idea of leadership.

It’s not my only struggle.

I pull my phone from my pocket and slide my thumb over the screen, clicking the icon to confirm Lavinia’s location—

“Bruin.”

I pause when I hear my name, eyes shifting to the guy in a basic black suit and aviators. He’s older—not a student–and looks like a low-rent cosplay of a secret service agent, so the clothing is a dead giveaway. He’s one of Saul’s goons.

I barely slow my stride. “What’s it to you?”

“Mr. Cartwright would like to see you.”

“I have class.” I guess college does come in handy, because if Saul found out about any of the shit that went down the last couple weeks, I may not make it out of the meeting alive.

His expression doesn’t change, nor does his body language. It radiates, ‘you’re coming with me.’

“He’ll get you an excuse.”

I glance down at the ring on my finger. Meeting up with Saul without advance notice isn’t giving the best optics ever, but like everything else in this world, when do I get a choice? It comes with the territory. The position.

The having of a Duchess.

“Whatever,” I say, “let’s make it quick.”

He leads me back to the main athletic building—the administrative offices that back up to the stadium, Mercer Field, which everyone knows is named after Tristian Mercer’s family. Not for the first time, I wonder how much the Mercers know about their little golden boy’s exploits. Burning down his King’s office building. Programming explosives for the promise of pussy. Tristian’s racking up a lot of skeletons around here.

But regardless of the name on the stadium, Saul is the director of this place. Pretty cush job, if you ask me. Big paycheck, big power, eyes and ears everywhere. It’s a long way from our janky little West End boxing gym. People can say what they want about Daniel Payne, but at least he did his business in South Side, not locked away in the middle of Forsyth proper with all the security campus neutrality brings.

The goon leads me to the elevator, and while he dutifully watches the door, I spend the whole ride up to the top floor openly staring at him. With each floor we pass, I can see the tension in his neck cranking up.

I jerk my chin. “What’s Saul paying a guy like you to bum around a college campus?” Guys like him–and me–aren’t exactly Forsyth material. This guy runs the book end of Saul’s empire. Probably chases down delinquent gambling addicts on the weekends.

The guy doesn’t answer, but I still see that tendon in his neck twitch.

I remain motionless, expressionless in that way I’ve been informed makes people uncomfortable. “Nice. It must be a lot if it buys your silence, too.”

Ah, there it is.

His eyes flick to me, narrowing. “Twenty-three.”

I whistle. “What’s that? Quarterly?” When the guy just stares back at me, I snort a laugh. “Shit, man, that’s annual? Are you part-time or something?”

He’s looking a little put out now, turning to glare at me. “I’m working my way up.”

“Okay,” I say, the doubt clear in my voice. “Daniel paid me three times that, plus benefits, the second he took me on.”

His eyebrows crash together. “Benefits? What benefits?”

“All the pussy you can eat,” I say, even though I never really indulged in it. The only girl in Daniel’s brothel I actually wanted was off-limits. When the elevator finally dings, I give him a slap on the shoulder. “Tough luck, chief.”

The doors open to an impressive reception area. An attractive woman at the desk barely looks up to say, “He’s waiting on you, Neon.”

Underpaid Goon–what kind of stupid-ass name is Neon–mutters, “Thanks, Michelle.”

I’ve been in a King’s domain before. Daniel’s office building before it burned down. The little room Killian now occupies at the Hideaway. The Baron’s crypt. But fuck. I’m not prepared for the grandeur of Saul’s office.

Saul is one of us. DKS. West End. A Duke, born to fight. You wouldn’t know it, though, taking one glance at this place. Sleek chrome and leather furniture outfits the room, while the walls and shelves are a tribute to the history of Forsyth sports. Photographs, plaques, and trophies celebrate the All-Americans, Heisman winners, and various other National Champions the school has pushed out over the years. For all his shortcomings, Saul excels at his job. Finding talent, molding it, harnessing it, promoting it. The players under the Forsyth U banner are just another version of the guns the Dukes sling for him.

Saul deals in weapons.

The furnishings and décor are overshadowed by the glass wall overlooking the massive stadium and expansive green field below. Saul stands next to it, looking down at the grounds crew as they touch up the paint in the endzone. For the first time, I think I finally understand who Saul Cartwright is and what it means to be King. A strange flicker beats in my chest. Sometimes it’s easy to forget just how big of a deal this guy is, which is probably intentional. But Saul’s just as loaded as the other Kings, running his guns and manipulating the gambling market, all while holding one of the most prestigious positions in Forsyth.

I’m nothing but a name and a trigger finger.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says, eyes flicking to the goon. “Wait outside, Neon.”

“Good chat, Neon.” Flicking the goon a peace sign, I mosey along the length of a sleek credenza, inspecting odd trinkets that aren’t quite trophies, but still clearly meant to be awards. A brass tennis ball. A gilded shuttlecock. A silver letter opener in the shape of a miniature hockey stick. “Care to explain why I’m here and not in my literature class?”

“I’d love to,” he says, pulling a cigar from his jacket pocket, “but we’re waiting on someone else before we get started.” My eyes narrow, because if Sy and Remy are about to be hauled in here, then some serious shit must be going down.

Every cell of my body sings with alert.

But when the door swings open, it’s not Sy or Remy. It’s another one of those badly dressed goons, his hand gripping the bicep of my motherfucking Duchess.

The hand on her is enough to drastically shorten this fucker’s lifespan.

The tears streaking down her cheeks are enough to end it entirely.

I take in the scene quickly, noting her hitched breaths and pale face, eyes red-rimmed and panicked.

I swipe the silver hockey stick from the credenza right before I lunge, barreling into the lackey. He slams against the wall with a grunt, eyes wide as I put the letter opener right beneath his eye.

“What,” I growl, pushing the tip of the spear into his flesh, “did you do to her?”

He’s fast, whipping out a pistol and pressing it against my gut. “I’ll do it, Bruin,” he says, tone deadly. “I didn’t touch her. She just fucking freaked out when we got in the elevator.”

My heart pounds in my ears, wondering if I can sink this thing into his eye before he can pull the trigger. But then his words process, and I glance at Lavinia again. She’s desperately trying to put herself back together, straightening the short black skirt she’d put on this morning, wiping her eyes with the wrist of her pink sweater.

“Jesus Christ.” I blink, nails digging into this asshole’s neck. Fuckfuckfuck. “You put her in the goddamn elevator?”

The goon’s eyes narrow. “If I’d made her walk all those flights of stairs, you would have seen it as an insult.”

From somewhere behind us, Saul clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “Ewing, put the gun down. For Pete’s sake, this carpet is Persian. You’re not spilling Bruin blood all over it.” He sighs. “You too, Nick. Release my man. I prefer his eyeballs in their sockets.”

Ewing lowers the gun, and I drop my hand.

Lavinia is already shaking her head when I reach her. “Don’t.”

I do anyway, grabbing her face and thumbing away the remnants of tears. “I didn’t know they were going to do this.”

She nods, saying, “I know, I know, just–”

Saul asks, “What’s wrong with Lucia? Is she sick?” But his tone isn’t worried, it’s full of polite disgust. Still concerned about his fucking rug.

“Nothing,” I snap because it’s none of his goddamn business. I press my forehead to hers and speak low. “Breathe, baby. Take a deep breath and I’ll get you out of here.”

She nods and exhales a shuddering breath. Her fingers wind around my wrists, gripping tight, like I’m her anchor. She may be right about that. An anchor that’s dragging her down.

I’m the one that locked her in that elevator.

“We’re leaving,” I announce, grabbing her hand. “Whatever this is, we can deal with it later.”

“No,” Lavinia says, taking another deep breath. “I’m fine.” She glances over at Saul. “I-I just need a minute.”

“Fuck this,” I snap, pulling her into my side. “You want to talk to one of us, you can make an appointment.” I turn for the door, but Ewing’s massive body plants in front of it, arms straight by his side, gun still in one hand. His expression is blank. This guy clearly gets paid more than poor Neon. “Move,” I say, voice low and full of threat, “Or I’ll fucking make you move.”

“Nick,” she says, fingers curled into my shirt, “it’s okay.”

“He put his hands on you,” I argue, wishing like hell I’d brought my pistol.

“I’m not leaving. I don’t want to.” I look down at her and see it—that stubbornness in her eyes. So fucking stubborn. “Please?” she begs, easing me away from the door. “Remember last night? You said–”

Anything.

Goddamn it.

I turn to Saul, trying to tamp down the red-hot impulse to murder someone. “You have five minutes.”

“Nick,” Saul says, ignoring my time demands, “Lavinia, why don’t you take a seat.”

Stiffly, I say, “We’ll stand.”

“Nick,” Saul says, voice carrying a heavier tone. A warning. “I’m not here to hurt you or your Duchess. We need to talk, and I’d like to do it civilly.”

Lavinia and I share a look. No civil conversation begins with being dragged to someone’s office against their will. But I can’t go off half-cocked with her in the room. Not while she’s in this condition.

I try, “Whatever you need from me doesn’t involve the Duchess. Let her go.”

“Actually, it does involve her. But you don’t need to worry.” He walks over to the bar against the wall, uncapping a decanter to pour himself a glass of amber liquid. He pointedly doesn’t offer one to us. “Although it stands to reason the hit has made you paranoid.”

“I’m not paranoid,” I say, realizing that makes me seem more so. “The hit has been handled. Everything’s fine.”

“It seems to be,” he says, gesturing to the slick leather loveseat. Lavinia moves stiffly, reluctantly beside me, but takes the seat next to mine. Saul takes the armchair. “I’m not sure what you did, but it appears all signs of the contract are off.” He swirls the amber liquid in his glass. “Bravo.”

Lavinia relaxes a little, some of the strength returning to her voice when she says, “Is this about my father? Because if I could get him to back down on literally anything, I wouldn’t even be sitting here right now.”

I shoot her a dark look.

Well, that thought is disconcerting.

“This is about DKS business,” he says, tipping the glass to his mouth. “Although it isn’t not about your father. Nothing can be in this town. You know that.”

“Frat business,” I repeat, impatient to get her out of here. “What kind?”

Saul gives me a look that says just how much he doesn’t care about my impatience. “Each year we have several obligations that require representation by the Dukes and Duchess. One is coming up in the near future.”

I clench my fists. “This is about that stupid charity carnival?” I gesture to Lavinia. “The Duchess is off limits. No one approaches her, talks to her, engages with her without coming through me or one of the Dukes. Am I clear?”

He looks up at me, lip quirked. “Didn’t like me seeing her weakness, did you? Your ‘Little Bird’ has a broken wing. A flaw.” He tsks. “But you should know by now there’s nothing stupid about a city-sponsored networking event, son.”

I return his stare evenly.

I’m not your fucking son.

Lavinia cuts in, “Saul–Mr. Cartwright–we already know about our duties for the carnival. I’ve already begun coordinating with the Lady. I’m prepared to do what’s necessary to have a successful event.”

He gives her a grin. “I’m glad to hear you say that because you’ll have a very specific role to play.”

Wringing her hands, she guesses, “What, like I have to man a booth or something?”

Saul looks between us, a low chuckle escaping. “The two of you don’t get it, do you? You still think this event is about cheesy carnival rides and inter-house charity.” He puts a hand to his chest. “How precious.”

“Tick tock,” I tell him, voice full of warning. “Say your part, Saul.”

“Very well.” He puts down his glass only to inspect his cigar, patting his jacket pocket for a lighter. “At the end of the carnival, DKS hosts an annual alumni poker game. These are large donors, you see. Their generous support allows us to maintain properties like the clock tower and gym. They also help facilitate our other operations.”

This I understand perfectly: operations means guns.

These aren’t just alumni.

They’re customers.

Saul goes on. “Many of our brothers are powerful members of the community, with roots that run as deep as mine.” He presses the trigger on the lighter, torching the end of the cigar as he pins Lavinia with a stare. “And each of them strongly dislikes your father.”

Lavinia shrugs. “Who doesn’t?”

Seeing where this is going, I argue, “Lavinia isn’t his, Saul. She’s ours. She’s a Duchess.”

“Yes, yes.” Saul waves a hand, the ember of his cigar casting a trail. “But they don’t see it that way. So you’ll understand how a… display of sorts is in order.”

“A display?” Lavinia passes me an uneasy glance. “What does that mean?”

He gives her a slow, sleazy smile, jamming the cigar between his teeth. “It means, little girl, that you’ll be their entertainment.”

That word–entertainment–can only mean a few select things in this town. When it’s about a girl, it narrows it down considerably. I shoot up, spitting, “Fuck that.”

Saul’s still grinning around his cigar, looking disgustingly satisfied. “She’ll dance, show her tits, give our brothers a little peek at what’s under that hood. She spent two years in a whorehouse. What’s a little skin between sworn brothers? Don’t you share?”

I can’t even let myself imagine it, knowing if I do, I’ll lose the already frayed thread of reason that’s holding me back from gutting this guy. “If you think I’m going to let a bunch of power-tripping grudgefucks paw at my goddamn Duchess all night, then you’re out of your fucking mind!”

Saul puffs his cigar, nodding. “I see that you’re worried about her safety, so I’ll give you this. You and the other Dukes will be her security.”

“I don’t think you’re understanding me, Saul.” I reach down to pull the knife from my boot, voice low and deadly. “The answer is no.”

After a short pause, he bursts into a gravelly laugh. “Oh, you’ve got such spunk, kid.” Gradually, the mirth falls away, leaving a ruthlessly pensive expression. “Truth be told, I’d love to meet you in the ring someday.”

“Me against your washed-up ass? Please.” I scoff, eyeing him disdainfully. “You have a beer gut and a bum knee. You couldn’t even beat Killer.”

“Oh, but I can beat you,” he says, raising a finger, “with nothing but my fingertip.”

He brings his finger down on the remote control perched on the arm of his chair. There’s a brief whirr and then an enormous flat screen appears from behind a wall panel. The picture on the screen is dark and grainy, but I’d know the face anywhere.

Lavinia is spread out on a bed.

A man in a black ski mask is fucking her.

“No,” she’s gasping, fighting, as I punch my hips into hers. “Don’t! Please don’t!”

I grunt, “Hold her,” and another masked man appears–Remy–climbing onto the mattress and wrenching her arms up.

“I’ll scream!” she warns, voice wobbling. “I’ll scream, I’ll cut your goddamn throat, you motherfucking—!”

I slam into her with a deep rumble, remembering all too well what it felt like to finally–fucking finally–claim her like this. How warm she was inside. How unbelievably tight. The way it felt to know I was filling her up, making her mine.

I can’t rip my eyes away from it.

“The Lucia girl is going to give our brothers a show, Nick.” Saul’s voice is closer, maddeningly matter-of-fact, and I realize he’s climbed to his feet at some point, standing loosely beside me. “Else, I’ll have to give them and the rest of Forsyth a show of my own.”

When I eventually look away, unable to bear what comes next, it’s to the sight of Lavinia on the loveseat with her head bowed. I don’t need to see her eyes to guess what she’s feeling. This is humiliation to the highest degree. To Saul, I try to keep my voice even, belying the nuclear explosion currently happening in my gut. “Blackmail? Really?”

His eyes swing to the screen. “Oh, it’s not just blackmail, kid. This little feature here doubles as a nice, juicy bit of insurance.” He straightens suddenly, eyes flashing in delight. In the video, me, Sy, and Remy spread her legs, showing off my cum dribbling out of her hole. “This is my favorite part. Goodness, look at that pretty cunt. Who knew a Lucia girl could be so pink and tight?”

I lunge for him, grabbing him by the collar, his glass falling to the floor and shattering. “This video doesn’t fucking belong to you.”

“Everything belongs to me!” he snarls back, clamping my wrist in a bruising grip. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. Disobeying orders, making deals with Kings behind my back, telling me what’s mine.” His nostrils flare wide, eyes burning with anger. “So in case you feel entitled to positions that don’t belong to you, consider this, Bruin.” He spits my name like it’s an insult, full of venom. “If the Lords found out you duped them, they’d kill all three of you. Especially at the agreement of your own King.”

I should have known.

All along, I should have known that Saul only let me in to make me fall. The last Bruin. His only competition. I’m not here to be a Duke. I’m here to be his joke. “You ratfuck piece of–”

“I’ll do it.” Lavinia’s voice cuts through my rage like a blade made of ice. “If you let Nick protect me, I’ll…” She swallows and I see her in my periphery, trying her best to raise her head high. “I’ll entertain them.”

Saul never breaks my glare, baring his teeth. “Smart girl.”

I search his eyes, every muscle in my body poised to tear him apart. “When I came in here, I had this thought that you were smarter than people give you credit for.” White hot rage circulates in my blood—pounds in my ears. I twist the shirt, tightening it around his neck. “Obviously, I was wrong, because you just committed suicide,” I hiss, then shove him back, where he stumbles into the bar, knocking over the crystal decanter.

Saul violently rights himself, a lock of graying hair flopping into his eyes. “You don’t scare me, Nick. Hers isn’t the only weakness I’ve seen this morning. After all, if you’re dead, where does that sweet cunt of yours go? To her father? Back to the brothel?” His eyes slide to Lavinia, narrowing. “Maybe I’ll just let the alumni have her. Fifty bored, bitter, horny, washed-up fighters just chomping at the bit for a little taste of territorial revenge.” His voice drops to a low timbre when he meets my gaze again. “They’d fuck her so much bloodier than you did.”

“We’re leaving,” I say, because I know if I don’t, I’m going to stop caring about the fact Payne will kill me when that video gets out.

As I’m grabbing Lavinia’s hand, wresting her off the couch and storming toward the door, Saul calls out, “Nice chat, Bruin. To the victor!”