Dukes of Ruin (Dark College Bully Romance): Royals of Forsyth University Book 4

The little nest I’d made in the loft is just what I wanted. I spent all afternoon and evening tucked away up there, reading the books Sy had impatiently allowed me to snatch from the shelves under his watchful gaze. I got a pretty good spread. A couple more Russian novels, a textbook on pharmacology, a medical triage manual, and—the result of a quick trip through the library’s antiquarian section that had Sy nearly apoplectic—a book on 19th century classical engineering.

The loft is great for reading, not just on account of the natural light from the clock face, but also because I can watch the guys come and go and know they’re focused on something that isn’t me.

The problem with my nest is that it’s uncomfortable as fuck.

This must be why it’s so easy to fall asleep next to these men.

I knew it before, when I dozed off next to Remy’s bare, warm body for an entire day and night, but Sy’s bed is just as comfortable to fall asleep in.

Waking up, however, isn’t so easy.

It’s not the dark that makes me struggle for breath—although it doesn’t help. It’s the stillness. The sensation of being closed in, unable to escape, the feeling of being surrounded, and that’s exactly what I’m feeling now. It’s been a long time since I’ve woken up like this. Stiff with panic, convinced I’m still in the chest, sweaty and shaken and helpless. Ever since those two nights in the elevator, I’ve felt it lingering on the edge of my awareness, prepared to sweep me up in its grip, but I’ve managed to remain vigilantly on the other side of it.

Until right now.

The dreams—the night terrors—used to be the worst. Leticia taught me how to know what’s real, but nothing ever touched this: waking to the feeling of being restrained, trapped on all sides, unable to move.

I’m lying on my side, that much I’m sure of. My chest twitches with a quivering inhale, and I can lift my eyelids far enough to make out a dim slice of night, but I can’t move. My legs are trapped. There’s a solid wall against my back, and weight bearing down on my ribcage. The pressure of a hard rod crushed between my ass cheeks pulses. There’s something else, though. Something distinctive. A sort of… heaving flutter against my back. An undulation.

My brain erupts in a confused flurry.

I was bad.

How long have I been inside the chest? Is he going to let me out soon? If I scream, he’ll make me stay longer. Father doesn’t suffer disturbance. But sometimes I can’t help it, and I can feel it building now. The scream. It’s wedged in my diaphragm like a bomb, and the fuse is sparking to life.

But then the wall shifts behind me, dragging me against it.

The undulation is the rod, pushing into my ass in these small, rolling waves. The heaving flutter is warm against the top of my head, seeping through my hair. My breath begins coming in tight shudders that wheeze through my nerveless jaw like a whistle, because this isn’t the chest. This is something new.

The elevator?

The image of my father’s face in my mind morphs into Nick’s. I glimpse the tattoo on his temple, but the numbers are indecipherable, blurry shapes. What were they, again? Two, seven….something. His blue eyes burn into mine with so much anger. I’m being punished, aren’t I? Wouldn’t go to bed with Nick. Chose his brother instead. Tossed into the elevator and shut in until morning. Too hot. I can’t breathe in here. Why won’t he let me go? Doesn’t he know I’ll die here? Doesn’t he care?

The undulating suddenly stops.

So does the fluttering warmth.

There’s a moment of such utter stillness that I almost wonder if I’ve fallen asleep again, but then the weight on my ribcage gets snatched away, the wall behind me disappearing. There’s the shuffle of fabric and then my body rocks a little. I’m surrounded by a scent that’s almost recognizable: wood and coldness, an undertone of mint, and something aggressively masculine.

A voice cuts through the darkness. “Calm down.” It’s a strained, yet somehow sluggish rumble that resonates through my bones. The whistle between my teeth quickens. There’s a sigh, and then something touches my shoulder. “You’ve got sleep paralysis. Wake up.”

Everything begins clicking together. I know this smell, spicy and cold. I know this voice, plowing through the night with all the bluntness of a hammer. Nick hasn’t thrown me into the elevator.

It’s Sy.

I went to sleep in his bed, and that must be where I am. I can see the back of his door and the faint light bleeding through the crack beneath it. But I can’t fucking move.

There’s another touch on my shoulder and then Sy is rolling me to my back. Everything is blurry and dark, too hard to find the edges of. I can feel them, though. Sy’s hand shaking me. The jut of what I’m now realizing is his cock pushing into my thigh. His hand moving to my neck, my throat, fingertips pushing into the tendon.

He’s checking my pulse.

My vision swims, and for a moment, I get a clear visual of him hovering beside me. His face is little more than a blot of shadow, but a slice of light from the moon casts his jaw line into sharp relief.

The pressure on my jugular eases. “Still can’t move?” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

Can’t move. Can’t speak. Not even when those fingers begin sleepily wandering to my collarbone, trailing a line of fire toward my sternum. They pause there for a brief moment, and in the fog of my vision, I see Sy’s head tip down, a lock of curls flopping over his eyes.

The first brush of his palm against my tit is nothing like it was earlier. That one had been harsh and painful, full of contempt. This one is testing, his thumb grazing curiously over my nipple, which I can feel pebbling beneath the oversized shirt I’d stolen from Remy that morning. I hear more than see Sy wetting his lips, shoulder shifting as his palm gives my breast a squeeze. It’s soft at first, almost…considering.

And then it’s harder.

At some point, my breathing began to calm. But he has done the opposite, the gusty sound of his breaths loud in the space between us. It gets louder and deeper with every press of his cock into my thigh, a vestige of the undulating from before, hips rolling against me.

My vision begins sharpening when he rolls on top of me. That’s how I know he’s only half awake himself, eyelids heavy as he parts my thighs and begins rucking up my shirt. There’s some distant part of my mind, too trapped by the pull of sleep to fully surface, that’s thrashing and snapping and still afraid. This might not be the chest, but it’s not safety, either.

It’s Simon Perilini, fist of Forsyth, surging into the cradle of my thighs.

My eyes track the ridges of his pecs and abs as he braces himself above me, quietly thrusting his massive cock against my crotch. The quiet of it—no barbed words, just quick, hushed panting—is so incongruous to the Sy I’ve come to know that I can almost deceive myself into believing I’m still asleep. There’s no hatred here. No glares or slurs. Just the tight curve of his jaw as he braces on his forearms and… uses me.

That’s what he’s doing.

I’m a warm body for him to position how he likes, one of his big palms wrapping around my thigh and hitching it over his hip. I’m an opponent without a weapon. Here in the dark, it could even be a secret. Something that happens in the thin void between oblivion and wakefulness.

“You’re sleeping.” His voice is barely a whisper, and his eyes are drooping heavily. I don’t know whether he’s speaking to me or himself. The crush of his brows as he thrusts against me, muscles tense and coiled, is too deep and desperate to be anything but unconscious.

His eyes close, lips parting, and every rolling press of his pelvis against mine makes the tip of his nose drag against my temple. Instinctively, I know he’d never show this distressed urgency if he were completely awake. There’s no dignity or power here. Just pure, lizard-brained lust.

He’s hunched over me, his warm, spearmint-scented breath washing over my face, when I begin to feel the stirrings. His cock dragging over my clit sends a cascade of electrical pulses deep in my belly. I chase them, these fiery sparks of life leading me through the dark and into the light. Somehow, I know they’re the way back.

My first free movement is a small twitch of my hips.

Sy freezes, chest jumping with his short breaths, and god, I can feel him. His erection throbs against me like a living thing.

The next movement he makes is a hard jab of his hips that jolts my whole body. His cock stutters against me. It’s how I know he’s still wearing his boxers, and I’m still wearing my leggings. It doesn’t feel nearly as messy as it should, because my next moment of awareness is that my panties are soaked.

At some point, my jaw has eased, meaning my breaths are less of a whistle and more a series of increasingly eager gasps. My toes curl, and then I gain movement in my knees, my thighs, and I could probably find a way to wedge a foot between us and kick him off, but instead I’m wrapping them around his hips, pulling him close.

Sy makes a sound into my cheek that’s ragged and torn and damn near inhuman, and the instant I regain movement in my hands, reaching blindly for his shoulders, he’s shoving them back down, pinning my wrists to the mattress. I know I’m awake when the pain hits me. It’s not the sharp shock of hurt I’m used to. This one is bone and flesh, his pelvis grinding so tightly into mine that it’s painful. It’s the pressure of his weight pinioning my arms to the bed. It’s the drag of his chest against my sensitive nipples, the flash of his body heat that fills my veins with fire.

Through it all, I can see him, dark curls swaying against a creased forehead as he slams his body into mine. In that barely cognizant way of being too swept up in the pleasure to think of a good reason why I shouldn’t, I lift my neck to watch. It’s dark in the room and even darker between us, but I can still see the edges of a body that’s carved from stone. The flex of muscles beneath Sy’s warm, brown skin.

Briefly, I’m fascinated by the art of it—and that’s exactly what it is. Sculpture made flesh. All those muscles, all this power, all the raw, unrestrained hunger in his lurching movements, fixed on me like a burning thing. If Remy could see this, he’d probably have something horrifically poetic to say about it, and I’m taken by an urge to know what it’d be.

Even when his breath begins punching from his chest in these strained, agonized grunts, it’s still so strangely quiet, as if the dark has made the two of us evanescent and hidden. The rhythm of the friction doesn’t make me any better, my gasps coming faster, sharper, fed by the electric pulse that’s building in the apex of my thighs. I tighten my legs around his hips, my heels digging into the tight, muscular curve of his ass, and I can’t look away.

The tip of his massive dick has escaped the elastic of his boxers.

It’s horrifying to look at in the light of day—to think of it ripping into me—but here, in our odd sleepy trance, it’s just like his body. A monument of masculinity. I’m too far gone to flinch away from the fleeting thought of my wet, aching cunt falling prey to that monster.

My orgasm rips through me in a flash of white-hot sparks that are swallowed by the darkness. My soft cry folds itself into the cadence of sound around us. The creaking mattress. Sy’s frenzied panting. But I know he feels it in my body, my feet slamming to the bed as I dig up against him, savoring the pressure of his thick cock rutting against my clit.

He takes in a ragged gulp of air and seizes, pelvis crashing painfully into mine. “Oh, god,” he groans. “Oh, fuck.”

I feel his cock erupt.

Warm, sticky cum surges between us, coating my belly with wet heat. The tips of my fingers prickle with numbness because he’s still holding my wrists, cutting off the circulation. It’s the only thing that keeps me grounded as I soar, throwing my head back to take in more air, more air, more air.

It feels like we float our way to a slack collapse, like a pair of autumn leaves fluttering to the ground. My shirt, I realize, is tucked up over my breasts, wedged beneath my armpits. The weight of his chest against mine is almost too much—too heavy, too warm, too slick with sweat and cum to be comfortable—but without it, I might just float away.

There’s a long moment where we just breathe into each other, my chest caving with his exhale, his chest dipping with my inhale, and I get a lungful of his scent. It’s delivered to me by the softness of his curls as he turns his head.

His mouth brushes against my jaw.

It’s as if he’s falling back into slumber in the cradle of my body. It’s a slow, uncoordinated gesture that probably isn’t a gesture at all. It’s barely even damp, hardly fit to be accused of tenderness.

But it’s almost…

It’s almost like it could have been a kiss.

I wrench myself away from him. I don’t know how, with his body being so heavy and limp, but I jolt from under it as if I’d just been electrocuted.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” I smack my palm against the light switch by his door.

Sy is up in an instant, but he’s off-balance, hastily tugging his boxers up. I watch it in perfect detail, the shift from his half-asleep trance to the towering mess of hatred I’ve come to know. It’s a miracle that all that tension and contempt snapping back into his posture doesn’t knock his sorry ass right over. It bears down on me through the force of his glower. “You planned this,” he snarls. “You fucking—I was asleep and you—you made me!”

Frantically, I tug my shirt down, torn between outrage at the accusation and disgust at the feel of his cum cooling on my skin. “You’re the one who—!”

But he barrels right over me, teeth clenched as tightly as his fists. “You think you can come in here and pussy whip us, don’t you?” His wild blue eyes jump to the bed, and I don’t know how to process the flash of panic I see within them. “You laid here and waited for me to fall asleep, and then you fucking baited me!”

“I couldn’t even move. You saw me, I was—” What’s the term he used? “Paralyzed! You knew I couldn’t move! If anyone got violated here, it’s me.”

But he’s tugging at his hair, looking about two seconds from losing it. “That was all your fault! I knew you liked that night at the Hideaway!”

I gape at him, utterly at a loss. “I bet people think you’re the stable one, don’t they? Normal, respectable Sy, the only Duke who has it together.” I give a low, bitter laugh. “I thought Remy was the insane one here, but he’s the only one out of three of you who doesn’t bullshit himself.”

Sy doesn’t stop me when I wrench the door open, fleeing back to my cold nest in the loft.

Nine days.

The next afternoon, I’m standing awkwardly outside of Remy’s door. The never-ending, pulsing music vibrates from the room, and I’m hesitant to interrupt him on account of it being impossible to know which version of the guy is going to open the door. The rich, entitled Duke? The rapey, artistic prodigy? Or the brain scrambled maniac that rambles on about stars and colors and forces me to be his canvas.

Inhaling deeply, I lift my fist and rap on the wood, hoping it’s loud enough for him to hear over the thudding bass. The music lowers a beat before the door flies open, making me take an instinctive step back. He stands there in a dark gray button-down shirt, although the actual buttons are conspicuously missing, revealing a swath of his tattooed torso. My eyes drop to a pair of black leather pants molded to fit his lithe, long body like a glove.

A gust of weed hits me in the face like a physical force.

He looks me up and down with heavy, bloodshot eyes. “Did you come to yell at me for not catching you?” The question is asked with a sour tilt of his mouth, as if such a motive were plausible but inconvenient.

I blink at him for a second. It’s ten in the morning and after what happened between me and Sy twelve hours ago, I’m too exhausted to bother untangling Remy’s enigmatic comments. I cut to the chase. “Do you have a paintbrush I can borrow?”

His head snaps upright, some of that weed-fog draining from his expression. “Type?”

Blankly, I repeat, “Type?”

“Round? Flat? Fan? Mop? Filbert?” he asks, eyebrows rising with each word. “There are a dozen different styles. Glaze? Angle?”

I shuffle my feet uncertainly. “Uh, something that I can use for dusting in tight spaces? I won’t be painting with it.”

Even though he doesn’t look away from me, his eyes go unfocused again. I think it might be whatever passes for pensive when it comes to Remy. Without answering, he abruptly turns on his heel and crosses to his worktable, picking through cups of brushes. He plucks one out and stares at it pensively, running his thumb over the bristles.

He returns with a slow gait. “This work?”

“Yeah, it should.” I reach for it, but he holds it up, out of my reach, nodding to my hip.

“Let me see it.”

Pausing for only a moment at the unexpected request, I hook my thumb in the waistband of my leggings and tug it down on one side, revealing the star. It’s still red, irritated at what happened last night with Sy, and coated in a thick sheen of ointment. But the lines are stark and clean.

Frowning, he reaches out to graze his thumb over the northernmost point, counting them in a clockwise motion. His touch is gentle, sending an unwanted shock down to my core. My goal had been to give him a literal touch point—something to help him navigate the lines of reality—but now I’m wondering if that was such a good idea. Shit’s getting really confusing here.

He trails his touch away from the star, glancing quickly across my pubic area before pulling away. “Here it is.” Bracing a palm against the doorjamb, he hands it to me, eyes tracking my fingers as they take it. His chin falls in a nod. “Good brush, nice and thick. Fucked a redhead up the ass with it last year.”

My hand freezes, suspended in the air between us. “Fucking seriously?”

“No.” His impish grin is the thing of wet dreams, I’m sure of it. He’s probably pulled that out and leveled a whole room full of girls with nothing but that evil twinkle in his eyes.

I really need to get a fucking grip. “I’ll return it when I’m finished.”

“Keep it.” He shrugs. “I can buy more.”

As if having conceded that I’ve been tortured enough, he vanishes back inside; the door closing with a click. The music begins thumping to its original, migraine-inducing volume.

I turn around and find Nick sitting on the couch, those blue eyes fixed on me like a laser over the distance of the large, open space. If Remy’s stare is mischief personified, then Nick’s is the embodiment of intensity. He’s in a black T-shirt that pulls taut across his chest, arms spread indolently along the back of the couch. I didn’t even know he was home, but I’ve come to realize that’s how he is.

Invisible when he wants to be.

Inescapable when he doesn’t.

I start toward the kitchen, and he makes a sharp sound.

“Where are we, Lavinia? What am I doing?”

I stop short, scowling, with my back turned to him. “I just need to look for something in the kitchen real quick.” When I get no reply, I glance over my shoulder, catching the way he’s looking at me—dark and full of warning.

Mother of all fuckers.

Deflating, I turn and cross the distance between us, insides flaring angrily at the way his face transforms into a stony smugness. This asshole is like a needy hellhound.

When I drop into his lap, he hooks his arms around me, arranging me how he likes. I guess the two brothers have that in common. Nick’s not happy until I’m turned to the side a bit, his growing erection beneath my upper thigh. Like this, I can’t avoid his stare. “What was that about?”

“What was what about?” I ask, locking my eyes onto his face tattoo. Two-three-seven. It makes me remember seeing him in that dream, the numbers an indistinct blur.

“You’re not the right type of pretty to pull off that level of dumb.” He tugs down my waistband, revealing the star. The muscle in the back of his jaw twitches when he lowers his gaze to it. “Remy said you made him do this. Why?”

I squirm. “I just liked the design.”

“You’re lying, but I’ll let it slide. For now…” Nick is exactly pretty enough to pull off ‘dumb’. I wonder if I should take it as a compliment that he never tries it on me. “Why were you at his door just now?”

“I needed something.”

“Of course you did.” He raises an eyebrow at the paintbrush and then clamps his hand around my wrist—which is still sore from last night. I do a pretty good job of hiding my wince, tightening my grip around the thick wood of the brush’s handle. “What were you going to look for in the kitchen?”

I give a resigned sigh, leaning into his body. “I need a wrench and a screwdriver.”

I can feel his patience fading. “What for?”

“The clock,” I relent, voice sharp enough that his eyes narrow. “I wanted to knock around up there, see if I could find out what’s wrong with it. That is,” I add bitterly, “if it’s alright with you.”

His eyes flick up to the cables overhead, forehead furrowing at the lifeless clock face. “Jesus, girl. That piece of junk hasn’t worked in decades. I don’t know if there’s anyone living who’s ever seen the hands turn.”

“So you’re saying there’s no wrench or screwdriver?” I roll my eyes, tugging against him. “Is it so fucking hard to answer a basic question?”

He wrenches me back. “Apparently. You’ve been skating around all of mine.” His arms are like steel around my waist, crushing me close. “You let Remy touch that ink on your hip for a paintbrush. What will you give me for the tools?”

“How about a working clock?”

A sardonic punch of air escapes his lips. “I don’t give a shit about the clock. I want something else. Something worthwhile.” His eyes travel down my body, like he’s pondering the possibilities. But I know the moment he smirks at me, meeting my gaze through his lashes, that this is something he’s had in mind for longer than the span of this discussion. “I want a blow job.”

“I bet you do.” I snort, but it’s easy to slip back into the push pull of negotiation. Lifting my chin, I offer, “You can touch my tits.”

A wave of defiance crashes into his features, which is all the warning I get before he plunges a hand up my shirt, grabbing my tit. “I know I can,” he says, voice hard. I shrink back at the menace in his stare, but he follows me, his palm unrelenting. “I can touch your tits anytime I want. Morning, afternoon, night. These?” He gives my breast a squeeze that’s aggressive enough to make me wince. “These are mine. If I need to offer you something so I can stick my dick in your mouth without the risk of you biting me, I’ll do it. But it doesn’t make you in charge of this.” Pointedly, he pinches my nipple. “A man has needs and you’ve been sorely neglectful of your duties as Duchess. Maybe having that library card—reading all those goddamn books—is a distraction from what you’re meant to do here.”

It makes me recall waking up last night, convinced he’d thrown me in the elevator for spurning him. With all of his ‘gifts’ and barters, it could be easy to forget what Nick is, but he’s never slow to remind me. There’s a small part of me that flinches against a sense of hurt and I look away, refusing to let him see it. The library card had been such a big gesture, it almost made me believe he wanted to give me something big. Something important. Something thoughtful.

He’s just building something he can tear down later.

God, he really is like my dad.

One mention of that elevator and he could make me give him a blow job—hell, a dozen of them, every day. But instead, he’s doing this. Making me cave to it, bit by bit, step by step, in ways that only I’m to blame for. With every boundary I barter away, I begin to wonder which is worse. The blunt certainty of powerlessness, or the gradual, escalating supplication to it.

Tonight, I’ll have to sleep in his bed. Maybe it’s better to set up the expectations first. “I’ll… give you a hand job.”

A satisfied smirk tugs at his lips. “That’s more like it.”

“But I don’t need another paintbrush. I need everything on this list.” I reach into the narrow pocket down the side of the sleek athletic leggings Sy got for me and pull out a scrap of paper. “Not just the screwdriver and wrench. Everything.”

If we’re going to barter, then I’m going to get something worthwhile.

He takes my list and skims over it, muttering the supplies out loud. “Oil, large s-hooks, cable, wire…” His eyebrow shoots up. “This is going to fix the clock?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, with an understanding of the mechanics. I’ve been doing a lot of reading.” Not appreciating the dull cast of skepticism in his gaze, I burst, “I need to do something! I’m stuck here every day with fuck-all in the way of stimulation, and it’s going to drive me up the wall. The last thing this tower needs is another mental health crisis!”

If he’s taken aback by my outburst, then he hides it well enough. “Fine.” He tucks the paper in his back pocket, hips bucking into my ass as he lifts. He gestures at his crotch, the bulge already pronounced. “I’m ready when you are.”

I give him a sullen look. “Now? Seriously?”

He grins, dark and sadistic. “It’s called a ‘job’ for a reason, Little Bird. Show some work ethic.”

We stare at one another for a long moment, and it becomes obvious that he expects me to do the work of unbuckling his jeans and getting this started. I refuse to let him see my nerves, although I don’t keep the revulsion off my face. Rolling my eyes heavenward, I grab his belt, gingerly unbuckling it. The skin of his lower belly, and the rough trail of hair beneath it, is warm against my knuckles. I lower the zipper and pause, waiting for his hips to lift before reluctantly inching down his pants and boxers. His lower abdomen dips as I make contact, and he reacts by spreading his arms across the back of the couch again, getting nice and comfortable.

The light thatch of hair nestled above his cock greets me first, but just below I can see he’s already erect, the hard length of his cock straining against the crotch of his jeans. If it weren’t for the fact I’ve seen his brother—I can still feel the tender bruise on my pubic area from Sy’s sleepy, late night railing—I could say Nick’s the most hung cock I’ve ever seen.

After a couple aborted approaches, I finally woman the fuck up and tuck my fingers into his pants, touching his hard, hot flesh and pulling it out.

“You really are turning this place into your whorehouse.”

I turn and see Sy standing in the middle of the living room, jaw clenched so hard that it looks painful. Nick’s cock twitches against my palm and I recoil, snatching my hand away.

“Hey, hey, Little Bird. No need to stop.” Nick grabs for my hand but I shift away, cheeks flaming. The last time I saw Sy, he was looking a lot like he did now—pissed off and a few seconds from hitting something—only this time, his abs aren’t covered in his cum. Nick looks between us, probably noting the simmering tension. “My brother’s a raging prude, but he can handle it. He’d probably jerk off to it later.”

Sy’s fists curl. “This has nothing to do with being able to handle something or not. It’s time for dinner and Mama will kick our asses if we’re late.” He stalks over to Remy’s door and pounds on it. As soon as the music inside halts, Sy barks, “Time for dinner! We’re leaving in five minutes!”

“Dinner?” I ask, looking between the two of them. Nick winces as he stuffs his boner back into his jeans, spitting a low curse. “No one told me about a dinner.”

“Family dinner,” Sy hostilely informs me, “is every Thursday night at the gym. It’s so we can carb-load for Friday Night Fury.” He gives Nick a pointed look. “Everyone knows that.”

Remy’s door flings open. He’s still in the leather pants, but he’s put on a clean shirt, and this one even has buttons—although they don’t start until halfway down his sternum, revealing his toned, inked chest. He shrugs a jacket over his shoulders; the bottom flaring at his hips. He seems more alert than he has in days. His eyes instantly dart to me and Nick on the couch. “Something going on?”

“Nothing that can’t be postponed,” Nick says, dragging his fingers under my hair, against my neck. “A deal’s a deal.”

I don’t bother leaning away from him, because it’ll just make his grip on my neck tighten punishingly. “I keep my word, asshole.” I still need the tools, and I know better than to think he’d just give them to me.

“Tonight.” He dips forward lightning quick, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the pulse point on my neck. My body clenches with the struggle of hiding the shocked shudder that ripples down my spine, but he lingers long enough to feel it, his words fluttering a hairsbreadth from my ear. “For the best, really, since you’re sleeping in my bed. That way you can take your time, do it up right.” Suddenly, my whole life narrows down to the closeness of the moment, his breath and scent, and I get this vivid image in my mind of Sy on top of me, face contorted with desperation.

My eyes flick to his.

Sy stares back.

Whatever spell I’m under is rudely broken when Nick rises from the couch, holding my head long enough to thrust the bulge in his pants against my cheek. It’s a crude, half-joking gesture that makes my stomach swoop in humiliation. It doesn’t get any better when he chuckles, giving my head a patronizing pat. “Go change into something acceptable for a Duchess. Tonight is your first real appearance in front of the club. You need to make a good impression.”

“Show off those pretty tits,” Remy says, spinning a marker between his fingers. “Something with cleavage.”

Scowling, I jog up the stairs to my loft, depressingly grateful for the scant distance to collect myself. There are times when I feel a little bit of control and it seems like I can do this—I can handle them—but then there are other moments when I realize I’m just an object for them to put on display, to use for their pleasure, to possess.

It’d be no different with the Counts.

Sometimes I wonder why I’m fighting it at all.