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

Two days.

I walk out of the bathroom into the cool air of the tower with my hair still wrapped in a towel. The house is quiet, which puts me on edge. Nick’s been insisting that someone be with me all the time. I should feel relief at the rare moment of privacy, although now that the tracker is back under my skin, I know that’s untrue.

I peek through Remy’s open bedroom door. The papers bearing yellow painted flowers are still covering the bed, which means he hasn’t been home since he left me up in the belfry, eyes wild and body vibrating like he had an electrical current running through him. Part of me is grateful he took off. The last thing this tower needs right now is his instability. Plus, maybe the way Nick and Sy have been fretting over it all morning, heads bent as they discussed their friend, means we can skip the Barons’ equinox party tonight.

I haven’t told the others about what happened in the belfry. They just woke up this morning to find him gone. For one, I’m not on speaking terms with Nick. For two, telling Sy about our second belfry drama would probably necessitate telling him about the first one, and that’s a bigger can of worms than I’m equipped to handle right now.

“Fuck them,” I tell the Archduke as I scoop him up. I take the first step up the spiral staircase, whispering impossible words into his fur. “Maybe tonight we can leave.” I can see it now, riding away from the harsh lights of Forsyth with Archie in my lap. My agreement with Nick is over. That means if he catches me, it’ll be bad.

But if he doesn’t?

“Oh good,” I hear from behind me, “you’re finished.”

The scream almost escapes my throat and I clutch the kitten to my chest as I spin toward the voice. Sarah, Nick and Simon’s mother, stands in the kitchen entryway with a pack of paper towels in her hand. Over on the counter is a pile of canvas bags filled with groceries.

“You scared me,” I say, heart pounding. I look over at the locked door, eyes narrowing. “How did you get in?”

“I have a key,” she says. “I made the boys make a copy for me when they first moved in.”

“So you could be their housekeeper?” I nod at the towels.

Grinning, she answers, “Mother, housekeeper, therapist. Sometimes it’s all the same thing.” She doesn’t look offended. I learned the other night that their mom is a kind, intelligent woman. It’s hard to believe someone like her created two men like Nick and Sy, but what do I know? My father created me. After a moment of awkward silence, Sarah explains, “I’ve been helping them track down Remy. We’re all very worried, but I worry less when I can do little things like this.” She wiggles the paper towels. “I know it’s not necessary. They’ll survive on their own, but it’s hard to stop.” She gives me a sympathetic smile. “You’ll understand one day.”

God, I hope not.

“Also, I brought you something,” she says, resting the towels next to the bags of food. She walks over to the couch, and I see a dress bag draped over the edge. A square box sits next to it, tied with an old-looking ribbon. She lifts the bag and offers it to me. “Something for the equinox. It’s tonight, if I’m not mistaken? Admittedly, my Royal calendar is a bit dated.”

I place the Archduke on the couch and he immediately springs on the ribbon, his little tail twitching excitedly as he clutches his kill. Although I take the hanger, I don’t move to look at what’s inside. There’s something discomfiting about all of this. The mother of my captors having me over for dinner was one thing. There was a veil of deception there. But acknowledging the ins and outs of Royal life, what’s asked and expected of me—both in and out of her sons’ beds—is unnerving.

I wonder what she’d say if she knew what they’ve done to me.

She steps forward and unzips the bag herself, revealing a long dress. The fabric is completely sheer, dyed an earthy rust color. Felt leaves in the warm colors of fall cover the halter of the bodice. The bottom of the dress is breathtaking, a skirt that continues the theme of fallen leaves flowing to the ground. It looks like the embodiment of fire—yellow, orange, and red.

“This is amazing,” I say, struck by the craftsmanship. “I’ll have to find something nice to wear underneath it.”

She slides me a slick look. “Oh, Duchess…”

My jaw drops. “Seriously?! Everything is going to show.”

She flicks a hand. “Just wear some nice panties with it. The leaves will cover your breasts. This may even be one of the more conservative outfits.” She smoothes out the leaves, a wistfulness taking over her features. “It was when I wore it.”

“Wait.” I look between her and the dress. “This was yours?”

She nods. “Oh, yes. The Barons’ Equinox was a big deal, even back when I was Duchess.”

I give her a quick look. The dress is sexy. Fantasy driven. It’s designed to drive a man wild. Or in my case—our case—men. “I feel like Freud would have something to say about this.”

She throws her head back and laughs. “I’m sure he would, but I assure you, neither of my boys knows this exists.”

I don’t know how you’re supposed to discuss something like this with a mother. I didn’t really have one, but I can’t imagine her handing me a dress designed to seduce someone.

But in no world do the Royals operate like normal society.

“We didn’t get an opportunity to speak privately the other night.” Her smile dims to a tense line. “I was going to give this to you then, but you left so abruptly.”

“Sorry about that,” I say, although I have nothing to apologize for. Her son is the one who cut the evening short when he decided to assault me in the bathroom.

Her eyes grow solemn as they rise to take in the tower, roving over the guys’ things. “Their fathers and I left this tower twenty-two years ago. It looked a lot like it does now, to be honest.” She runs her fingers over the back of the couch, nodding toward the clock face. “It happened up there.”

My head springs up to stare in horror. “What did?”

God, please don’t tell me you conceived someone in the same spot I sleep at night.

Luckily, she doesn’t. “Our agreement to leave the Royalty. It was easiest for Davis, because he’d lived under the expectations of being a Bruin his whole life. It’d lost its shine for him before he ever had the chance to experience it. It’s one reason we chose not to raise our sons under that pressure. I think you can relate.”

Swallowing, I zip the dress back into its bag. “Yeah, I know a thing or two about that.”

“It was harder for me and Manny,” she confesses, surveying the gallery of Dukes on the wall. “Perhaps by now you realize how seductive the Royalty can be—for men and women.”

I don’t answer, but the truth is, she’s right. I glance at the Archduke, knowing that I’d chosen the name out of a misplaced sense of kinship, as if he and I fit snugly into this tower’s vacant spaces. There for a moment, I’d seen myself as the Duchess of this Kingdom. I’d seen an army of fists behind me. I’d felt a part of something, and it didn’t matter that it was incidental—that I wasn’t chosen by anyone except Nick and his depraved entitlement. Briefly, I felt powerful. Important.

And god—I wanted it.

I doubt I could ever speak the words aloud, because they’re shameful, dark things. But the plummet back to reality—the reminder that I’m helpless, an intruder, a pet—hurt as badly as Nick’s palm. It stung as sharply as the betrayal, burned as hotly as the knowledge that Pretty Nick Bruin’s tender touches would always be accompanied by hurt.

She turns, watching me closely. “My sons put on a good show the other night, but I’ve done my homework. I know a little about your circumstances, Lavinia. Enough to know you aren’t here of your own free will.”

Something inside of me unwinds at the declaration. I don’t have the energy to pretend anymore. “Yeah, well…then you probably also know there isn’t anything I can do about it.” I can feel the tracker, like a bug burrowing under my skin.

Two days.

And then it might not even matter.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and the odd thing is, she actually sounds genuine. “I’d like to think my sons have you here for chivalrous reasons, but I’m not stupid. Nick has grown restless and secretive. Simon has grown ambitious and powerful. And both of them have always been very physical creatures of habit.” She perches on the couch, eyes beseeching. “They’re far past a mother’s influence, Lavinia. It’s why Royal men need a woman to guide them, to help temper their need for domination—for bloodlust. They’re chosen too young, before their prefrontal cortex is fully formed. They’re impulsive and risky and aggressive. Fueled by hormones and the drive to conquer. It’s all the stuff that makes a young man perfect for war, but stupid about life, and stupider about love.” She gives me a look. “It’s why my son thinks he can abuse you in my bathroom without me noticing.”

I swallow, taken aback by this woman’s bluntness.

She responds with a sad smile. “I know you were too young to remember your mother when she died, but I knew her. We weren’t friends, but… equals of sorts. At least, in the way that Royal women have to work together to manage this system. She knew what she was getting into with your father. She thought she could control him, keep him balanced. And for the most part, I believe she did.”

I flash back to the day she died. It’s blurry and most of the lines have been filled in by Leticia, her memories becoming mine. But I remember feeling frightened, as if something inconceivably catastrophic had happened—and it wasn’t just because she was gone. I didn’t really understand the enormity of death yet—the permanence.

It was because I was alone.

“If she knew he needed controlling, then why did she kill herself and leave us alone with him?” I instantly regret the words, wishing I could absorb them back into the dark, secret place I’ve been hiding them all these years. This woman is psychoanalyzing me and I fell right into her trap.

Gently, she says, “No one can answer that, Lavinia. But I think your mother would have wanted me to tell you that it wasn’t your fault.”

“It’d be a lie.” A hot tear builds in the corner of my eye, and I will it not to fall. “My father wanted a boy. An heir. Instead, she had me.” She felt like a failure. Even Leticia said so. That’s all Lionel knows how to do, tear down the women in his house and drive them away, by whatever means necessary. “Why are you here, Sarah?” I look at the dress, so well preserved, as if this woman had anticipated passing it on one day. “Why did you bring me this? So I’ll control your bastard sons with my pussy? Keep them from becoming the next Daniel Payne or Saul Cartwright, or worse, Lionel Lucia? Trust me; I have less control over these three than any of the Royal women before me. I can’t help them, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t want to.” I look her in the eye. “You seem like a nice woman, but you need to know this. Your sons are fucking terrible.”

Her face falls in a slow, gradual way, but she nods, averting her eyes. “I was afraid you might say that.” She touches the bag with the dress, frowning. “It’s a strange thing, being Duchess to the fists of Forsyth. People expect you to be tough as nails the second you walk up those stairs. But that’s not true of any of us.” She lifts her gaze to me, setting her jaw. “We fight—every day. But unlike our Dukes, we don’t win or lose. The hard truth is that the fight never ends. I walked out of this tower two decades ago, but I’m still fighting. It’s why I’m here today. It’s why I’m having this discussion with you. We don’t get trophies, Lavinia. There aren’t any spoils for us.”

“Then why bother?” I ask.

She tilts her head, giving me a dark look. “What on earth would we do otherwise? Give up? Give in? Settle for something easy?” Standing, she straightens her pant suit. “Passion, Duchess. It’s not all roses and orgasms. Sometimes it’s pain and despair. I’d understand if that’s not something you’re looking for, but my sons? They’re going to chase it to the ends of the earth. I don’t know if it was nature or nurture, but that’s just who they are now. I’d like to think they’re doing it for someone who’s willing to make them work for it.” She dips her head, giving me a meaningful look. “If they’re hurting you, then there’s only one thing you can do about it. Make them pay.”

She grabs her handbag and leaves. I stare at the locked door long after she’s left, flush with the realization. Sarah may have left the Royals and everything that comes with it, but deep inside, she’s still a Duchess.

I guess that means I am, too.

I ride to the party with Nick, who’s aggressively silent as he drives, the soft light of the dashboard barely enough to illuminate the hard lines of his face. He’d arrived back in the tower with a stony expression that just got stonier when he saw me in the dress.

He hasn’t touched me.

Not once.

I’m wearing a pair of black lace panties beneath the sheer fabric, and it doesn’t matter that their mother just basically gave me her implicit blessing to fuck their shit up. I’d rather be almost anywhere else than at his side.

The party is in a field, deep in the woods. Baron land, owned by their King. We meet in a clearing designated for parking. I haven’t spoken to any of them all day, and I have no plans to start now, so Nick shuts the car off to a long moment of strained silence.

The new distance is both welcome and discomfiting. I suppose I should be grateful he hasn’t chucked me into the elevator yet, and I’ve spent the better part of the last two days internally preparing myself for the eventuality that he will. Every time I’ve seen him on the couch, at the table, and not lowered myself dutifully into his lap, I’ve built another layer of armor around myself, anticipating.

I almost wish he’d just get it over with.

“You’re pissed at me.” His voice cleaves through the silence, fingers tightening pointlessly around the steering wheel. “But I want you to know that I tried.”

I say nothing.

In my periphery, I can see his head turn. “I’ve been good to you, Lavinia. I was as good to you as you’d let me be. And you—” His whole body clenches angrily. After a second of his fuming silence, he quietly adds, “I’ve earned it. You know I have.”

When I turn, I find him staring at my thighs through the sheer dress. “Earned what?” When he just raises his eyes to mine, face impassive, I squawk a disbelieving laugh. “You think you’ve earned sex with me? Are you fucking insane?! Your brother’s more entitled to my pussy than you, and considering how much he openly despises me, that’s saying a lot.”

His low, chuffed laugh oozes ridicule. “You want my brother’s monster cock? Good luck with that, Little Bird. Sy Perilini has never lost anything.” Through the darkness of the car’s interior, a distant pair of headlights catches the smirking curve of his cheek. “Virginity included.”

Even though Nick is already climbing out of the SUV, I sputter, “You can’t mean…”

His slammed door is the only response I get.

Outside, Nick and I stand in a pool of tense silence amongst the cars, waiting for his brother’s arrival as I turn this piece of information over in my mind.

He can’t be serious, can he?

A matte black, older model Camaro whips into the lot, loud music thudding against the windows, and it surprises me when Sy steps out, all grim faced and tense. I know before he says anything that he didn’t find Remy.

“I don’t have time for this,” he says, walking over to us. It takes me a long beat to reconcile this new knowledge of him. Sy. A virgin. I suppose it shouldn’t come as a surprise he’s never found a willing hole for that beast. “I need to be out there—looking for him.”

I break my silence with a bitter murmur. “Maybe you should have put the tracker in him.”

Both of them ignore me.

“Did you call his dad?” Nick asks.

“Not yet, but if I don’t find him by morning, I’ll have no choice.” He frowns toward the torches lighting the path through the trees. “Best case, he’s here. Worst, he’s just holed up with some cutslut fucking the pain away like usual.” He looks over the top of the car at his brother. “You sure we can’t get away with skipping this?”

It shouldn’t bother me—the casual way he says it—the reality of Remy maybe being with someone else to ease his pain. Royal men aren’t loyal to their women. God, it’s part of the whole appeal. And maybe he left me up in the belfry with a gentle kiss and searing fingertips, but he’s not mine. I don’t even want him to be.

But something burns in my chest at the thought of Remy finding comfort in one of those girls. Shouldn’t he have wanted to mark my skin? Shouldn’t he have taken me into his room and made me strip bare for him? Shouldn’t he have wanted to make art out of me?

Or have I already lost my shine?

Maybe I never had any at all.

Nick rakes his fingers through his hair. “Not if you don’t want to offend the Barons. And after that shit with Felix, we can’t afford to be on their bad side.” There’s a crevice in Nick’s brow that’s been present since I told him about the deal between Daniel and my father. It’s a hardness that never leaves, and it makes him look oddly worn. “We need to curry some favor here.”

Sy snaps back, “And whose fucking fault is that?”

Nick looks away, saying nothing.

And then he takes off his shirt.

The skin over his lean muscle and intricate tattoos shifts and pulls as he lifts it over his head, tossing it into the opened window of the car. On the other side of the SUV, Sy does the same thing and I quickly avert my eyes from the hard, curved lines of his biceps and forearms. Royals and their stupid fucking dress codes. I reach into the backseat and open the box Sarah left for me—the one with the ribbon. Inside is a crown made of thorny vines and antlers. I place it on my head just as Sy walks around the back of the car. His eyes fall on me and he pauses, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

He lifts his chin toward the field. “Let’s get this over with.”

Bonfires glow in the distance and I lift my skirt as I follow the shirtless men down the path. It’s late and the nearly full harvest moon hangs brightly overhead. Without realizing it, my eyes rise to the sky, and not for the first time, I wonder what Remy saw last night that spooked him so badly.

Because that’s what I saw in his eyes; naked, icy terror.

For the first time, I’m hit with an awareness that if what happened up in the belfry might help find him, I’d probably speak up.

Somehow, I just don’t think it would.

I’m so lost in the realization I might actually care that I stumble over a tree root, my toe catching the bottom of my dress. I throw my palms out to catch myself on the leaf-littered ground below, but two strong hands grasp my waist, yanking me into a hard body.

“Careful,” Sy tells me, his skin hot through the lacy fabric.

I’m caught in a strange mental loop of wanting to both apologize and thank him, and I bite down on it like a bone as he leads me the rest of the way. I think of his mother’s words from earlier—chivalrous reasons—as Sy steers me around a downed tree limb, and I’m not sure what I want to do more: laugh or cry.

Maybe my father would have been easier to endure.

Far less confusing, certainly.

“Stay close,” Nick says quietly as we approach the revelry. A shirtless man in a black mask approaches with a tray of drinks. Nick grabs two, and I don’t even realize he was speaking the words to me until he hands me one of them, advising, “This is the perfect opportunity for Perez to make a move.

I reluctantly take the cup, completely aware of what he’s doing. He’s trying to convince me all of this is necessary—the tracker, the locked doors, the incessant hovering—all of it. It makes him feel justified. Chivalrous.

Well, he can call it what he wants, but it’s all just an excuse to take away autonomy. He never wants anything more than to possess me, and the fact I could be at risk has only made him double his efforts. I never should have told him about my father’s deadline.

“Do you see him?” Sy asks, searching for Remy. His movements are strained, bare shoulders filled with tension. He hoped that maybe Remy might have shown up here on his own, but this is the last place Remy would be. I could have told him that.

“No,” Nick replies, frustration etched in his features. “I know you’ve got this whole mother chicken thing going on with him—”

Sy corrects, “You mean mother hen.”

“I mean motherfucker,” Nick snaps. “Remy is a grown ass man, and he’s not our only obligation. It’s our first inter-house event since becoming Dukes. It’s bad enough Remy isn’t with us. I’m not letting that fuck up our showing.” When he flings out a hand, adding, “He’s probably off getting high and defacing public property,” I see the edge of desperation in his eyes and realize that he’s trying to convince himself just as much as his brother.

Like Sy, I scan the small fire pits scattered about the field, each surrounded by plush seating. I’m not just looking for Remy, but trying to get a handle on what this whole event is about. There seems to be one area for each House, a metal icon burning in each pit: a viper for the Counts, a skull for the Lords, a crown for the Princes, the Duke’s bruin, and in the middle…

It’s more of an altar, the Baron’s signature pentagram etched into the side, and thick pillared candles stacked across the top.

Thirty feet away, a half naked Prince is fucking his Princess, right up against a tree.

“Jesus, what is this?” I mutter aloud. Nick looks down at me, surprised to hear my voice.

Blandly, he answers, “Orgy.”

“You brought me to an orgy?” I hiss, watching as another Prince strolls up and stands there. Waiting for his turn with the Princess. No wonder Nick was going off about him ‘earning’ the right to my cunt. This absolute son of a bitch was hoping he could bang me here, in front of the entire Royalty.

He replies, “The fall equinox is when the Barons unveil their Baroness. They like making a big show of—”

“I know what the Barons are,” I say, sneering. “And I don’t think the person who won their Duchess by cutting off his opponent’s finger has any place to cast stones about big shows.”

At least Sy seems to share my distaste, curling his lip at the debauchery. “Can we just make this quick?” He growls, looking across the field toward the bar. “Look, let’s split up and do one sweep for Remy. If we don’t find him, we’ll meet up at our fire pit so we can play nice and get the fuck out of here as soon as possible.”

“Fine with me,” I say, lifting my dress so I don’t trip over it again. I point to the opposite direction of the bar. “I’ll be over there, checking that group.”

I start toward them, realizing it’s mostly women. Royal women. Fuck, not exactly the crowd I want to mingle with at the moment, but who knows, maybe they’ve seen a six-foot-four, devastatingly handsome, mentally fragile Duke roaming around. I steel myself and take a step toward them, but a hand grabs me by the elbow and pulls me back.

“I wouldn’t bother with them,” the female voice says. I spin and see a woman. Her dark hair falls in a cascade of big, shiny curls, bunched at the neck and hanging over a shoulder. Her dress is a gorgeous, pale tan, the color of a doe’s skin, with fur lining the edges. It comes mid-thigh, revealing her long legs. The straps of her sandals wind around her calves like vines. She’s striking, dark smudges of charcoal around her eyes giving her a wicked appeal.

“I’m Story,” she says, thrusting her hand out. “The Lady.”

She’s more than that, I know. The Royalty has been abuzz about Daniel Payne’s stepdaughter since the moment she returned to Forsyth. Her lover and stepbrother, Killian, is now a King. That makes her his Queen.

I take her in slowly. “So you’re the reason I’m a Duchess.”

She gives me an excited look, as if I’ve misunderstood this whole thing, and the reality is so much more appealing. “That honor belongs to Pretty Nick, actually. He’s had his eye on you for a long time.” I take a sip of my drink, trying to decide how to navigate this. The Lady isn’t my equal. All I know about her is that she’d played a part in Nick’s machinations. I suspect she’s expecting gratitude, and from the way her smile slowly deflates, that’s probably the long and short of it. “I know you’ve been through a lot,” she begins, but I cut her off with a tense smile.

“Yeah, being imprisoned in the basement of your boyfriend’s whorehouse was sure something. Not quite as impressive as him offering me up as damaged goods after being sullied on his watch.” I reach out to pat her arm. “You must be so proud.”

She frowns and looks over her shoulder, casting a glance at a handsome blond. Tristian Mercer. He gives her a smug smile and a wink. “It wasn’t right for Daniel to hold you captive like that and…” A wince. “Maybe I should have pushed harder for them to release you, but—”

“It’s complicated. I know.” I take a sip from my glass. I can’t fault Story for any of it—not now that I’m in the position she was once in. I understand now how little power there is in this. “Trust me, I get it.”

“I wanted to get you out the second Rath told me about you,” she insists, eyes beseeching. “But they said we had to be smart about it, because your dad—”

I shake my head. “There’s no doubt Killian Payne is powerful, but up against the likes of my father?” I laugh. “My fate was sealed a long before your Lord took possession of me.” I look over to where Tristian is standing, warming his hands over the Lords’ fire pit. The other two now stand next to him. Killian and Rath. They pretend they’re not watching us, but if my Dukes are any indication, I doubt she’s ever fully free of surveillance. “But I guess you get points for actually giving half a shit. That’s a lot more than anyone else around here.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and I don’t need a device to know that Nick is nearby, keeping tabs.

Story notices my discomfort, following my gaze to where Nick is creeping on us from a cluster of trees in the distance. “How are they?” she asks. “I know it can be… challenging. At first.”

“Well, I didn’t have to sign a contract like you did.” I give her a tight smile. “Or so the rumors say.”

“Oh, I signed a contract,” she admits. “I gave up my rights to everything. But I went into it knowing—well, mostly knowing—what I was getting into.” She twists the cuff on her wrist, pushing the skull facing out. There’s a daisy tattooed on her arm, and I realize it’s Remy’s work—one of the only other females he’s ever relented to ink. The sight of it makes my stomach twist unpleasantly. “Don’t get me wrong. It was hard—I had a lot of dark times. For a while there, I didn’t know if I’d make it through.”

“But what? Now you just comply?” I scoff disdainfully. “Give in to them? Be the perfect little pet?”

Looking unbothered by my judgment, she answers, “Someone who didn’t understand the situation might see it that way. If I’m ‘compliant’,” she curls her fingers into air quotes, “then it’s only because I have no reason not to be. And if I’m not compliant?” She grins. “Then they don’t mind. The last thing they want is a mindless servant.”

I narrow my eyes at Nick across the distance. “Can’t relate.”

“The Lords and I… we went through some crazy shit, but we stuck together. It’s the only way any of us survived.” She tilts her head. “They take care of me, and I take care of them.”

Nodding, I surmise, “So that’s the draw. They keep you safe.”

To my surprise, she laughs. “Honey, if anyone looks sideways at one of my men, I will shoot them dead.” She lifts up the hem of her skirt and I see the glint of a gun strapped to her upper thigh. “I love them and they love me, and I know it’s not… conventional.” She glances at them over her shoulder, a muted excitement sparking in her eyes. “It’s not the easy love we’re taught about in storybooks. It’s so much better than that.”

 I know the look I give her is incredulous, but I can’t help it. Falling for three abusive assholes… “They must be really good in bed,” I finally say. We’re at an orgy after all. “If they ever let you out of it.”

 She offers me a solemn nod. “When we get along, it’s every day. When we’re not getting along,” she smirks, “it’s every three hours.” Before I can wrap my mind around that, she pushes her cup against mine in a subtle toast. “What about you? I hear Sy has a huge cock.” At my blank stare, she clamps a hand over her mouth and laughs. “God, don’t tell anyone I said that. I can’t even look at another man without one of the Lords humping my leg. It’s just all the other Royal women have been talking about for weeks.” She leans forward and whispers, “But I am curious. How big is he?”

There’s this tight ball in my chest, the one I carry around all day that expands and deflates whenever I think about sex with these guys. But Story is so casual about it, so earnest. And again, we’re at a fucking orgy. Do I admit I haven’t had consensual sex with any of them? Do I tell her about the negotiations Nick and I have—how he’s easing away my boundaries, layer by layer? Do I explain how being with Remy is like riding a roller coaster in a lightning storm? Or do I tell her that Sy is hung like a horse, but has so many hang-ups about using it that it’s terrifying to be around him? Finally I relent, “It’s fucking huge, like…” I approximate length and girth with my hands and her jaw drops.

“Wow…” She gives me a long, impressed look. “Have you taken it?”

“No.” I’m grateful for the dark and flickering firelight, because my cheeks are humiliatingly red. “He actually hasn’t tried.” Virgin, my mind screams. Sy is a virgin. No one’s had that thing inside of them. Ever.

“Huh.” She purses her lips. “Well, word to the wise, make sure he lubes it up good. My men are big—although not like that—but when they fuck me together, it’s a lot. We had to work up to it.”

I nod politely at her useless advice, trying to figure out how we got to this conversation—to this place. My stomach flutters anxiously. I have no interest in having Sy’s cock inside of me, lubed or not, but I can tell that Story wouldn’t understand. She’s too fixated with the notion of having three dickheads lust after her.

I’m saved from responding when an arm snakes around her waist. When she tilts her head back, Tristian captures her mouth in a kiss, tongue licking out obscenely. His hand slides under her top, cupping her breast, and I clear my throat, averting my eyes. I’m wondering how long they’ll go at it, and whether I can just walk away, when a loud gong clangs, vibrating through the field. Everyone looks toward the altar, including Story and Tristian. He wraps his arms around her and rests his head on her shoulder, saying, “Finally. You’ve been taunting me in that skirt long enough, sweetheart.”

“Patience,” she says, rolling her eyes at me, “this is the Barons’ night.”

“Well, the Barons need to hurry the fuck up before I pull that skirt up and get the orgy started without all their theatrics.”

Story laughs, nodding toward the tree I’d passed earlier. “I think the Princes have already kicked things off.”

But everyone’s turning toward a path in the trees, and a hush falls over the party as a figure draws nearer. The three Barons, shirtless but hidden by their intricate bronze masks, stand at the mouth of the path. The branches hanging overhead rattle in a passing breeze as their Baroness appears. She’s wearing a long, antique-looking black gown that’s thin enough to show her dark areolas. A black veil covers her head and I find myself so curious to know what’s underneath that I walk forward in anticipation.

A Baron stands behind her, folding her into the masculine curve of his shoulders as he fingers the bottom of the veil.

“Royals of Forsyth, be still!” he loudly begins. Everything seems to heed his order. The people around me grow impossibly more silent. Even the breeze seems to understand, the brittle leaves motionless on their branches, the flames in the pits standing rigid. Distantly, it reminds me of Sy’s victory tattoo. The reverence. The respect. The ritual. “On this night,” he says, the bronze of his mask reflecting the firelight, “we welcome our sinister sister. Daughter of death. Wife of the wicked path.” There’s a long, solemn beat of silence, before he yells, “Know her name!”

The other Barons announce, “Regina Thorn!”

“Know her face,” the Baron behind her demands, lifting the veil, “and know what the shadows will show you.”

Regina Thorn’s dark eyes stare out over the clearing, and the sudden flicker of wind makes the reflection of fire dance in them. This is, I know, a face that will be seen before some men’s last breath. So I suppose it’s a plus that she is breathtaking. Regal. Sinister. Wicked.

And then she lets out a shrill whistle. “Let’s get fucking wasted!”

“Daughter of death, indeed!” Tristian says, raising his cup to her.

As the crowd erupts in cheers, I take a step back, saying, “I need to… uh, go find my Dukes.” I haven’t even turned before Tristian’s hands travel up her skirt.

I make my way through the crowd, heading over to the Duke’s fire pit. I have to pass the other Royal women to get there, which is when I hear it.

“… probably can’t even get it hard,” someone is saying. It isn’t until I get closer that I realize who. Sutton. “I don’t even know why he came. He’s never even fucked one of his cutsluts. Everyone knows Simon has two modes when it comes to pussy. Complete disinterest or hair-trigger.”

Another girl I recognize as last year’s Baroness laughs. “He’s so dull. I bet that thing shoots out water.”

Sutton snorts. “No, Simon is a robot. I bet it shoots out receipt paper with dirty talk printed on it.” Her voice changes to a mocking monotone. “Oh, Duchess, your bosom has stimulated the pleasure center of my brain.”

My jaw clenches at their laughter, and I find myself searching for him. Sy is already at the Dukes’ fire pit, sitting on the ground, back leaned against one of the intricately carved, aged wood logs. It’s like as soon as the Baroness spoke, everyone started humping each other. Across from the Dukes’ pit, the Princes are having another go at their Princess, and beside him, a couple of ex-Counts are already getting their dicks out for the ex-Countess Sutton was talking to earlier.

Perez is nowhere to be seen.

Sy studiously avoids all of this, keeping his eyes trained on the fire as he waits for Nick and me.

Nick, who’s standing at the entrance to the parking path, blue eyes fixed to me. It’s odd how being under someone’s heel can make you so in-tuned to them. Right now, I know precisely the thought running through Nick’s head.

“I’ve earned it. You know I have.”

I tip my drink back, swallowing it in three long gulps, and then gather my skirt up, reaching beneath it to shimmy off my panties. The crispness of the air caresses my thighs through the dress, but when I march over to Sy, I don’t feel the chill. He hears me coming, my feet rustling the dry leaves below, but he doesn’t acknowledge me.

Not until I step over him and then drop, straddling his lap.

His head snaps back in shock, but his expression instantly morphs to confusion. “What are you—”

I grab him by the back of his hair. “Shut the fuck up,” I say, and then crush my mouth to his.

The people around here need to learn a lesson about how things work between a Duke and Duchess.

Nick most of all.