Lords of Mercy: Royals of Forsyth U (Royals of Forsyth University Book 3)

The pain begins sometimes during the night; a dull, pulsating throb, deep in my lower belly rousing me more than once. It’s joined by a sharp ache in my lower back and followed by what feels like my uterus trying to strangle itself. By the time the sun comes up, shining harsh and too bright through my curtains, I’m a tired and tragic specimen of a woman.

When Tristian knocks, I’m still in a fetal position.

“Ms. Crane says if you don’t get downstairs for breakfast, she’s going to come serve it on your floor with a side of—” Tristian stops in the doorway, blue eyes blinking at my form beneath the blankets. He lifts a hand to gesture at my general state. “You’re not dressed. Are we doing the whole rebellion thing again? Because I thought we’d moved past that.” When I don’t answer, peering miserably up at him, his eyes narrow. “Oh, Christ. You’re sick, aren’t you? I knew you shouldn’t have eaten the meat in that lasagna last night.”

“It’s not food poisoning.” I bring my knees to my chest and hug them. “And the only thing rebelling is my uterus. You can tell Ms. Crane it hurts worse than she could. She’d appreciate the gravity of that.”

“Wait, you mean…” His forehead scrunches as he pulls out his phone, frowning down at the screen after a few taps. “No, you can’t be on your period. It’s not for three more days.”

“Tristian.” I stare at him, already knowing the answer, but needing to ask. “You track my cycle?”

He gives me this long-suffering look, like this is the stupidest question ever asked. “Of course I track your cycle. It’s an excellent indicator of how efficiently your body is working. You know, you women have it good. If one of our bodily functions got out of whack because we were too stressed, or didn’t eat enough, or had some kind of imbalance, we’d have a much easier time monitoring our health.”

“Yeah,” I grind out, teeth clenching against the next wave of pain. “I feel really lucky right now.”

To his credit, he does grimace. “I just mean this isn’t a good sign. You’re usually so regular. Are you too stressed? Is it Killian? Or school? Or maybe your diet is fubar. Your body is trying to tell you something.”

“I think it’s telling me I’m not pregnant,” I argue, feeling suddenly annoyed. “I got the birth control implant, okay? Spotting and cramps are common at the beginning.” Or so said the gynecologist at the student center. The Lords had me on the pill, but part of the new terms of my contract is that I get to choose what I put into my body—and that isn’t limited to food and dicks. “But after a while, my period could disappear altogether.” This, plus the fact I don’t need to take a daily pill, had been big draws.

Tristian looks horrified. “When the hell did you do that?”

“Before Thanksgiving holiday,” I explain, pulling my blanket up to my chin. “It was a simple procedure. I was in and out before lunch ended.”

He reaches up to tug at his hair, eyes tight. “What brand is it? Did you research it? Because hormonal changes can be—I mean, shit. Why didn’t you tell me? I would have gone with you, helped you read up on the side-effects, told you what to choose.”

The smile I give him is sharp and sarcastic. “Gee, Tris, I was going to, but you know… I figured you’ve put enough implants in me.”

His mouth pulls up into a cool grin. “I’m going to let the attitude slide on account of your womanly troubles.”

“And on account of me being right.”

He ignores this, sighing as he looks me over. “So what are we going to do with you?”

“I’m fine,” I insist, my wince belying the words. “I just need a few hours for the cramps to go away. Maybe I can meet you at school a little later, or—”

Turning on his heel, he says, “I’ll be back,” and sweeps out of the room. A moment later, Dimitri appears in my doorway, taking a bite out of a bagel.

“What’s he doing?” His dark eyes take me in, jaw pausing mid-chew. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not feeling great,” I explain, shivering. It’s getting deeper into winter, which is evidently when the brownstone shows its age. Drafty windows and a subpar boiler have pushed me to add more blankets to my bed. “Is it okay if I have the morning off?”

His mouth forms a line. I know I don’t technically have to ask him for permission because we worked that out in the new contract. And even if I did, Dimitri’s never been the type to control my comings and goings. But I’ve come to realize I’ve developed some habits while living here. Survival instincts, I’m sure.

“I dunno.” He rests his hand on the doorjamb, taking another bite of the bagel. “What’s wrong?”

“Girl stuff.”

The look of confusion doesn’t go away, jaw working as he chews.

“Female stuff.” I wave my hand around my uterus. “You know…”

Comprehension dawns on his face. “Oh, shit. That.” He stares at me for a long, pensive moment, like he’s trying to work out what that looks like, and god, part of me really wants to know what he’s thinking, but the other part doesn’t. Dimitri has a taste for blood, and I have no idea how deep that runs. He swallows, straightening. “Do you, uh,” and then cringes, “need anything?”

Did he just offer to assist me with my period? This is all just too weird.

I blink. “No. I think I’ve got it under control.”

“I got a guy who’ll sell me Percs for dead cheap,” he offers. “Or I can go get Ms. Crane.” He leans back to peer down the hallway. “Although, I doubt she’d make you feel better.”

I laugh, and then wince as another cramp attacks. “Please do not bring her up here. She’d probably just tell me I’m a wimp, and that real fucktoys don’t get their periods.”

He raises an eyebrow, but before he can respond, Tristian appears behind him, giving his shoulder a shove. “I’ve got this, Rath. Get the fuck out of the way. You’re making things worse.”

“I’m just standing here.”

“In the way.” After pushing his way past Dimitri, Tristian enters the room with a large serving tray. From this vantage, I can see there’s a mug, a teapot, an assortment of snacks, a bottle of pain reliever, and a large glass of water. It isn’t until he carefully places it on my nightstand that I see the heating pad tucked beneath his arm.

“From my reading,” he begins, bending to plug the pad into the outlet, “although you’re probably craving something salty, you should stay away from sodium because of the bloating.” Without any fanfare, he tugs my blanket down and starts tucking the warming pad against my stomach. “But I also know that cravings are your body telling you what you need, and since our bodies are temples—”

Dimitri snorts. “Ancient and crumbling?”

Tristian pointedly ignores him. “—I have a few snacks here to take off the edge. Sweet, savory. Crunchy, chewy. Got you covered.”

“Er…thank you?” I look behind him, past Dimitri, noticing Killian has stepped into the doorway. Great.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Your sister’s on the rag,” Dimitri says, gesturing to me with his half-eaten bagel, “and Tristian’s doing his most nauseating impression of a Prince.”

“Ah.” There’s no mistaking the hint of amusement on my stepbrother’s face. “Gotcha.”

“Ignore them,” Tristian says, immediately pouring a cup of tea. “The tea is hot, so don’t burn yourself. The health food store had a variety of teas for this time of the month, but I settled on the one with the best antioxidants. Make sure you drink the water, though, because it’ll help flush out the toxins, which, from my understanding, is what causes most of the bloating. I’ve also added a protein bar, a banana and a cup of berries.” He fusses with the heating pad, looking unbothered when I swat his hands away. “This should help soothe the cramping. If it gets too hot, you can adjust the temperature.” He tilts his head, scrutinizing me. “Do you find your cramps settle more in the stomach or lower back?”

“Jesus Christ, Tristian,” Killian grumbles, “She’s been having her period since she was fourteen. I’m sure she’s got this under control.”

All eyes in the room swing to him.

“Fourteen?” Dimitri repeats. “That’s awfully specific.”

“We shared a bathroom,” Killian says defensively. “You’ve seen her. She’s a slob like you. Left her shit all over the place.”

Tristian visibly shakes off that information. “Story is our Lady, and my job as her Lord is to see to her health and needs. Just because you monsters don’t appreciate her superior reproductive functions doesn’t mean I’m going to ignore it.” He turns back to me, stroking his hand tenderly over my hair. It’s really starting to creep me out. “You take the day to yourself, sweetheart. Text or call me if you need anything. I told Ms. Crane not to be such a major league bitch today, but it turns out she’s spending the morning at the doctor. Lucky you.” He frowns, forehead creasing. “I’ll need to clean up the broken plate she threw at me before we head out.”

It’s weird and overbearing and a little scary, and I must be a hormonal cesspit, because all I feel is strangely touched.

I look at him in bafflement. “That’s… uh, really nice of you, Tristian.”

When he leans down to kiss me, he keeps it light and chaste—sweeter than the chocolates he’s left for me.

And then he ruins it by saying, “I know.” Not catching my eye roll, he adds, “And I downloaded some movies for you. Rom-Coms, tearjerkers, whatever helps you feel better.”

“This is pathetic,” Dimitri groans, throwing his head back. “Chick flicks aren’t going to make her cramps go away, moron.”

Tristian throws him a dirty look. “She might need an emotional hormone purge.”

“There’s only one thing she needs,” Dimitri argues, licking the cream cheese from his finger. “I can have you that Percocet in thirty minutes flat. Say the word, baby girl.”

“No, but thank you,” I say, meaning it. After all the manipulation and revenge, it’s nice to just have someone want to take care of me.

Tristian hesitates and then bends, kissing me on my forehead. “Take it easy, okay?”

“I will.”

The guys leave the room, Killian giving me one last look before he shuts the door.

For a long time, I doze, the heat from the pad lulling me into a comforting stupor. Every time the cramps twist me up, I roll over, readjusting the heating pad until I repeat the cycle. The sounds of morning traffic contrast with the stillness of the house, making it appear as though I’m ensconced in a bubble. It’s easy to close my eyes and disappear inside it, if only in small snatches of time.

It’s been a long time since I felt this normal.

The next time I stir, I resolve to sit up and down the glass of water. The berries and banana are eaten more for the benefit of not taking the pain reliever on an empty stomach than any real sense of hunger, but the more I eat, the more I feel like I can actually get out of bed.

There’s a few minutes in the bathroom spent staring at the empty stretch of wall where my mirror used to be. Killian and I don’t talk about the night I cut my wrist, but sometimes—over dinner, in his truck, every time I hand him a drink—I’ll catch him looking at my wrist cuff, as if he’s imagining the thin scar that’s hiding beneath it.

He’s never mentioned having my mirror replaced.

After a long, hot shower, I twist my hair into a loose braid and decide to take my dishes downstairs.

That’s when I find the box.

It’s small and sturdy, wrapped in a shiny gold bow, and sitting on the floor right outside my door. I pause before stepping on it, backing up to consider the gift. God only knows what Tristian’s left me now. Organic, hand-woven tampons?

Oh, no.

Did he find out about menstrual cups?

I bend to pick it up, knowing whatever’s inside is going to be embarrassing, and—let’s face it—probably hilariously off-mark. I haven’t watched a rom-com since I was thirteen. Not drawing it out, I hastily untie the ribbon and open the box.

It takes me a moment to parse the contents—something beige and red, laying on a bed of fine, white satin. It isn’t until I see it rolling on the floor that I realize I’ve flung it away, mostly because my heart’s in my throat, pulse thundering so loud. So loud.

The hallway tilts a little.

Slamming my door, I throw myself back so fast that I fall, landing hard against the corner of my bed. It’s odd how moments can move both fast and slow. It feels like it takes me hours to find my phone, hand flapping out wildly, blindly, without consideration to the teapot I send crashing to the floor. But it’s as if the phone is suddenly in my hands, time rushing and pausing in these tiny, confusing stretches.

I keep my wide, panicked eyes fixed to the door as I thumb up the first contact.

Lady: cone hime

Lady: come hum

Lady: COME HOME

My thumbs are as spastic as my breaths, ears straining to hear any disturbance within the stillness of the house. But it’s just like it had been before, when I’d been lying in bed. Empty. Silent.

Deceiving.

My phone lights up before the tone rings out and I frantically swipe to answer it, knowing who it is. “Someone’s here,” I rush out, and even though I try to keep my voice low, it still emerges in a high, panicked screech.

Killian doesn’t ask who. “Where are you?” he asks, sounding almost as clipped and tense as I feel.

“In my bedroom.” But after saying it, I bolt to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

“Did you see him?”

“No,” I answer, knowing he means Ted. Frantic, I add, “But I saw the severed finger he left outside my bedroom door, and it’s pretty convincing!”

Killian spits a low curse, a flurry of sounds penetrating the static. “I’m pulling out now.”

“Tristian and Dimitri—”

Killian interrupts, “It’d take too long to get them. I’m crossing the lot.” I try to inhale, wondering how insane it’d be to climb out my bedroom window. I look around for something, anything, that might help me defend myself, but all I come up with is a curling iron. As if reading my thoughts, he asks, “You know where my piece is, right?”

“Across the hall, under your bed,” I lament, wishing I’d tried harder to demand a gun. After what happened with Ugly Nick, the thought of holding one in my hands again made my chest tight and heavy, something dreadful roiling away at my insides.

“It’s loaded, so if you can just get to it, then—turn a little slower, you piece of shit!” The last part is shouted, followed by the ear-piercing sound of his horn.

“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I can run for it, right?” I ask this uncertainly, peeking out of the bathroom before I creep across to my door. “Stay on the line, okay?”

“You, too,” he grinds out, clearly indulging in a little road rage as the horn blares again. “I’m about five minutes out.”

I try not to think about what’s on the other side of the door, out in the hallway, waiting for me. It’s only a few steps from my door to Killian’s room. A straight shot. I can do this.

Every muscle in my body is strung as tight as Dimitri’s piano wires as I turn the knob, easing the door open. My heart batters in my chest as I peer out the crack, sprung and ready to retreat. But all I see is an empty hallway. The sound of distant traffic mingles with the grandfather clock ticking at the end of the hallway, my thin, shallow breaths joining them. But even straining my ears, I hear nothing else.

I swing the door open and dart across the hall.

There could be someone in Killian’s room, poised and ready to catch me, but I don’t think about that. I dive for the floor, reaching for the box I know holds his gun.

“I got it,” I rush out, thrusting the barrel toward the hall. “I’ve got the gun.”

“Good,” he responds, the word sounding assured and very deliberate. “Now here’s what I want you to do. You listening?”

“Yes,” I reply, panting. My hand trembles, but the gun is solid in my hand, easing some of the rushed panic. I can shoot a gun. I’ve done it before. I’ve taken a life, bullet after bullet buried into a man who would have killed us first. Sometimes I still see his face, nightmares filled with the sight of the hole in his cheek and his dim, lifeless eyes staring through me.

“Go and close my door. Lock it.” He waits until I obey to go on. “Put the phone on speaker and set it somewhere. I want you to check the bathroom. Make sure it’s clear.”

“Okay,” I answer, tightening both hands around the gun, just the way he taught me, as I inch toward Killian’s en suite. “I’m going in now.” My voice is shaky, but he doesn’t draw attention to it. After flicking on the light and checking the shower, I announce, “It’s clear.”

“Now, the closet.”

I repeat these tasks, making sure every nook and cranny of Killian’s bedroom is empty of anyone but me. After, he demands, “Go to the corner—the one by the window—and wait there for me. Back to the wall, got it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m almost there.” After a stretch of silence, he adds, “Don’t stop talking.”

“Okay. Yes.” It feels like that’s all I’ve said. Yes. Okay. Yes. Okay.

He seems to understand. “Tell me about what happened.”

As I wait, I relay to him the details of the box. Of almost stepping on it. The golden bow. How I thought Tristian had left me something. I tell him about opening it and realizing what was inside. A slender finger, chopped clean at the knuckle and nestled in a bed of satin.

By the time I’m done, he’s pulling up to the house.

“I’m coming through the door,” he says, sounding rushed.

“Be careful!” I try to keep my shout to a whisper, but the thought of Killian walking into an ambush makes my lungs constrict. “He could be out there.”

“I’m coming straight to you,” he says, disregarding my worry. “Don’t freak out, I’m running up the stairs.” I can hear him, his footfalls quick and heavy and drawing near, and I dart across the room to meet him at the door.

The first thing he does when I let him in is take the gun from my hands and tuck it into the back of his jeans.

The second thing he does is haul me into his chest.

I breathe in the clean, masculine scent of him, amazed at the way my chest loosens. I wonder when that happened. When did I stop seeing Killian as a necessary evil, and start seeing him as someone I felt safe with? Was it the cabin? Was it afterward, the night at the Velvet Hideaway when he shot his own father to protect me? Or was it right now, right here, his concise, collected orders to protect myself?

Either way, I feel it—this tight, panicked prey-instinct unwinding at the pressure of his powerful arms around me.

He pushes his nose into my hair, inhaling. “You’re okay.”

“Yes.” Yes. Okay. “I mean, I’m…I’m fine.” Now that he’s here, arms folded around me, my cheeks heat. There’s a severed finger out there in the hallway, but I can’t shake the feeling I’m overreacting.

When he pulls away, he cups my face, searching my eyes. “You want to wait here while I check the rest of the house, or—”

I shake my head. “I’ll come with you.”

His mouth forms a grim line. “Why don’t we start upstairs, work our way down, get an extra gun, huh?” He gives me this little chuck on the chin that should feel patronizing, but instead just makes my mouth twitch.

“Lead the way.”

I follow him for the next hour as he painstakingly clears each room of the massive house. I watch the muscles beneath his shirt flex and coil at each corner we round, every door he pushes open. It’s different from how he is on the field, as if he’s slipped on another skin. This one is precise and deadly, a stark contrast to the raw, uncontrolled fury of Killer Payne, star quarterback.

In the end, it’s almost a disappointment to find nothing.

“He had to have had a key,” Killian says when we reach the den. He dumps the box with the finger on the table and glares at it. “We locked this place up like Fort Knox before we left.”

Shivering at the sight of the ‘gift’, I ask, “Cameras?” Tristian had sworn they were all disabled, but a part of me doubts that’s the case.

So when Killian looks me in the eye and says, “Zero,” I admit to being surprised.

“Oh.” I balk at the remorse I feel for making the demand, resentful that—in this house, certainly—security and privacy run in counterpoint.

Just then, I’m hit by a wave of cramps, and Killian must notice the grimace on my face, because he jerks his head to the couch and says, “Sit. Tristian and Rath will be back in a few.” He crosses the room, fiddling with something over by the fireplace, and returns with a glass of amber liquid. “Loosen your nerves a little,” he says at my skeptical expression, setting the gun on the table.

The whiskey burns going down, and for a second, I miss being upstairs, in bed, feeling so normal in my little fake bubble. But this isn’t so bad, Killian sinking onto the sofa beside me. He’s warm and solid, and lets me lean against all that strength, his shoulder firm beneath my temple.

I don’t even realize I’m falling asleep.

“It’s old.” Dimitri’s voice is distant and quiet.

So is Tristian’s. “There aren’t even any wrinkles.”

“No, I mean, it’s old. As in ‘not fresh’.” There’s a beat of silence, and then Dimitri adds, “Probably refrigerated. It doesn’t have that much decomposition.”

Tristian suddenly hisses, “Don’t touch it! That’s disgusting.”

“It’s just a finger.”

“It’s a dead, decomposing finger,” Tristian argues.

“With a red painted nail.” Dimitri’s reply is pointed. “Are you guys thinking what I’m thinking?”

“If you’re thinking that’s Vivenne’s pinky?” Killian answers, voice a strong rumble beneath my ear. “Then yeah.”

“She’s been dead for weeks,” Tristian responds, voice dripping with disgust.

Dimitri says, “Read the note again.”

I try to swim through the barrier of slumber. A note? I didn’t even realize there’d been a note, too panicked and freaked out to bother looking.

Tristian recites, “Dear Sweet Cherry. It’s been a long while since we last spoke. Digital correspondence is so lacking in intimacy, don’t you think? I thought it better to write to you personally, like the old days, but you’re so hard to reach. Those barbarians you live with actually believe they can keep me from you. Quite silly of them. Consider this gift a small example of what happens to whores with inadequate security. Be seeing you soon. Forever and faithfully yours. Ted.”

My eyes open, taking in the expanse of Killian’s chest. At some point, he’d pulled me down to lay on the couch, and now I’m wedged between it and him, my leg thrown over his knees, nestled up into his body’s warmth.

His fist is massaging a slow, firm rhythm into the pit of my lower back. “We need to lock our shit down. No more guests, not even LDZ. Not until we find this motherfucker.”

“Agreed,” Tristian says, folding the note and placing the lid over the box. It’s then that he notices I’m awake, peering blearily up at him. There’s a softness in his eyes that I’m always surprised to find there. “You need a less exciting life, sweetheart.”

“I really agree.”

“I was in a lecture.” Tristian comes close enough to stroke his knuckles down my cheek. “You good?”

Nodding, I exhale at the way Killian is massaging that spot in my back. “I’m good.”

Dimitri clears his throat, plucking the box up. “I’ll go find somewhere to put this. We should keep it on ice for a bit, just in case.” He looks between the other two. “Beer freezer?”

Tristian looks horrified. “Gross! I don’t want that thing mingling with my beer.”

Dimitri arches an eyebrow. “Would you rather have it ‘mingling’ with your food? Because the ‘severed appendage freezer’ is in our other house.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, giving the box a disdainful look. “Just put the box with the finger in something airtight. Like a Ziplock.” He pauses, face screwing up. “It’s always the weirdest shit around here, I swear to god.”

“I know the feeling,” I say, shivering. Guns and intruders. Attempted murder and actual murder. Rotting fingers and threatening notes. It doesn’t feel as though things are getting any better. That’s why I force myself to say what’s been on my mind ever since Killian rushed home. “I think we need to turn the cameras back on.”

Tristian’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Is that so?”

“Not all of them,” I clarify, even though the enthusiasm in his voice makes my lips twitch. “Just the ones in public areas. Don’t you think so?”

“It’s a good idea,” Killian says, abandoning my lower back to rub some warmth into my arm. “Foyer, hallways, front and back door. Get the one in the garden, too.”

Dimitri goes to stash the finger while Tristian heads upstairs to handle the security from his laptop. Even after we’re alone, neither of us moves. It’s just so comfortable here, Killian’s body is warm and safe—another thought I never expected to have.

It’s weird. There’s no anger, no manipulation. Just two people comforting one another. It can only be one of two things: either Killian genuinely cares about me, or he’s just as freaked out about everything that happened here as I am.

Either way, I owe him this.

“Thank you,” I say, looking into his eyes when he turns his head to face me. “For getting here so fast, and talking me through it. I just—”

The kiss is broadcasted in a million ways. He hooks a finger under my chin, lifting it. He tips his face down and pauses for a millisecond, eyes heavy. I meet him there in the middle, ready to feel his tongue against mine, but unprepared for the gentle way he strokes our mouths together. I’m used to his hard, angry kisses. Kisses that are meant to claim and conquer. Kisses that leave me weak-kneed and breathless and vaguely embarrassed.

This kiss is slow and luscious and achingly tender.

“Little sister,” he says, lips brushing against mine, “we protect what’s ours.”

There’s not much time to dwell on what happened over the next few days.

Life, I’ve noticed, with these three, is a rollercoaster of peaks and valleys. They have one foot in and out of two worlds. There’s the first world, where intruders break into your house and leave decomposing fingers, and then the other, comprising football games, exams, and the daily monotony of college life.

More and more, I wonder how I’m a part of either.

As December crawls on, time unwilling to pause for the sake of catching our breaths, my Lords grow increasingly restless about it all. I can see it over dinner, snarky comments and arrogant smirks replaced with somber discussions about Kings and their crimes, brothels and informants, frats and their legacies. Despite the tension, they play nice, and with each of their lingering glances they think I don’t see, I suspect it’s because they want to keep me calm. I don’t hate them for it. In fact, I might just love them for it.

Such an odd notion.

Love.

It wasn’t very long ago the idea of anyone loving these three—let alone me—would have been outright laughable. These men aren’t made to be loved. They’re made to be hard and cruel, and avoided at all costs. Only now I’ve seen their softness. It’s there when Killian looks at me at night, just before we go to bed. He wants to ask to be let inside, but he doesn’t. I’m not stupid. He still paces the hallway, waiting. But he tries to hide it now.

The same softness is there when Dimitri sits beside me on the way to school, mouthing sweet, dirty words into my neck as he covertly composes a melody on my thigh. It’s there in the evenings, if I ask, because he’ll take me up to his room and play it for me on the piano, his dark gaze just as heavy with meaning as the music he plays. It says, Stay.

And Tristian.

Well, in some ways, he’s the easiest of all.

I curse when I see the laundry basket pushed into the corner of my bedroom. I’m wrapped in a towel, wet from the shower. I’d gone through all my clean underwear the day before and forgot to take the hamper down, so naturally Ms. Crane is going to kill me.

“Shit,” I mutter, rummaging through one of the drawers in the dresser. I’d worn them all. Even the basic cotton ones I arrived with got used during my period.

I pick up my phone and shoot off a text.

Lady: I need something.

Tristian’s response is immediate.

Lord T: Anything, sweetheart. I’m at your service.

I bite down on my lip to restrain my smile. The thing is, sometimes I think it’s completely genuine, as if I could ask him to walk in here on all fours and lick my toes. It’s an odd feeling, wondering if I should take advantage, test the bounds of it.

Lady: You wouldn’t happen to have bought me any bras or panties that you didn’t give me?

Lord T: Did Rath finally take them all?

Lady: Mine are all in the hamper. Dirty. Including the ones Dimitri returned when he cleaned his room. This week has been kind of crazy and I for—

The sudden knock interrupts my typing. I secure the towel with one hand and reluctantly pull the door open with the other. Tristian is standing on the other side, posture loose and casual as his blue eyes sweep up and down my body.

He holds up a pink bag with familiar lettering on the side. His favorite lingerie shop. “I bought this before the new rules were made. I’d been saving it. For something special”

“Really.” Unlikely. I take it from him, anyway, just grateful to be saved. “Thank you.”

He props a hand against the jamb, gaze fixed to the top of my towel. “Need any help getting it on? I’m a master with a bra clasp.”

When he reaches out to finger the edge of the terrycloth, I bat his wrist away, giving him a sweet smile. “I’m sure you are, Tris, but I think I’ve got it.”

He lets out a deep sigh. “Very well. But I’ll be in my room if you get in a bind.”

“I’ll remember that.”

I let him step away before closing the door, refusing to fall prey to the wild flip in my belly at his heated stare. I haven’t forgotten that day in the living room. I’d never admit it to him—I can barely admit it to myself—but in some ways, he was right. Those long, lonely nights spent on the phone with Dimitri as we brought ourselves off. Thanksgiving in Daniel’s office, Killian’s hips punching into me. My going to Dimitri’s room that night, ready to give in.

I might just be the horniest person in this house.

A moment later, I have the new set laid out on the bed. It’s beautiful. The fabric is a pale blue—almost silver—with delicate lace and a tiny bow in the center. The back crisscrosses in a layer of intricate straps. The panties aren’t what I’m used to finding in my drawer, especially from him. Those are mostly thongs that are barely worth wearing other than covering my pussy for the tiny skirts they like me to wear. These are far from being the trashy underthings I’m used to suffering through.

This is the kind of lingerie a classy woman would wear.

The kind expected of a woman a Mercer would date.

Wondering what Tristian might have been saving this for, I dry off completely and put the bra and panties on, glancing at myself in the mirror. I’m stunned at how good the color looks against my complexion and how it feels almost painted on—like a second layer of skin. Somehow, Tristian knows every part of my body.

My phone buzzes on the bed, and blushing irrationally, I reach for it.

Lord T: How does it fit?

Lady: Perfectly.

Lord T: You sure you don’t need me to come check?

Lady: You wish.

Lord T: Sweetheart, you have no idea.

I stare down at my phone, the last message from Tristian left hanging, because yes, in some ways Tristian is the easiest.

But in others, he’s the most difficult.

It’d be so easy to fall into him. To let him steer me, control me. He’s not like Killian. Even if it’s at times misguided, Tristian only wants to take care of me. But there’s something about the way he’s always in control that makes me feel I’m teetering on the edge of a cliff. One false move and I’ll fall. The way he guided me and Killian the other night, drawing us from the edge of hot, rageful anger to the darkest, sexiest seduction…

That’s powerful.

He’s not physically imposing like Killian, or broody and dangerous like Dimitri, but he’s insanely confident, ridiculously rich, and absolutely in control, even when he’s holding a match in his fingertips, seconds from lighting a fire. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been under his heel before. That I’ve seen what he’s like when he crosses over the boundaries of sense. That I know what it feels like to be on my knees for him—because of him—forced by him. Tristian Mercer still seems almost too good to be true.

He makes me want to stop worrying about all that so I can just take and have, and that may be the scariest thing of all.

I just need to hold on to my own control here—at least a little. I look over at the skull on my dresser. It’s covered in rhinestones and glitters in the light. It’s also equipped with a camera tucked in the eye socket. Even after turning all the cameras back on, there are no open feeds in my room.

Not unless I enable it.

I feel a knot unwinding in the back of my neck as I pick up the skull. It’s a testament to how twisted this thing between us has become that turning off the cameras and locking Killian out hasn’t been an easy decision to endure. I don’t think I’ve allowed myself to admit what Dimitri had been trying to get me to face all those long nights on the phone. I might have secured my privacy and exercised my control.

But I miss them.

Navigating that with Dimitri has been simple, and Killian might be harder—more turbulent and unpredictable—but it’s still a certain kind of familiar. The other day in the living room, I realized that I miss the weight of Tristian eyes. The sense that he’s watching. The knowledge—no, the anticipation—that any one of them could walk through my door and touch me. I miss the way Tristian’s hands make me feel, because he’s not rough like Killian, or cunning like Dimitri. He’s unexpected, pushing me to explore my limits over and over again.

I flip on the camera and settle it back on the dresser, pointed at the bed. Then, reaching for my phone, I take a picture of the skull with my camera and type: He’s watching. Are you?