Lords of Wrath (Dark College Bully Romance) : Royals of Forsyth University

I have this dream about the basement.

There’s the taste of Killian, bitter on the back of my tongue, the penetrating heat of watching eyes, voices. But there’s also the sense of stinging needles, of being held down and made still, of being helpless and hopeless, just like that day with Ray and the tracker. It’s strange to think about—places with a sinister nature.

Like that laundry room, which has always lurked in the depths of my brain, this menacing throb of memory. Although I think if I could go back, being the person I’ve become, it’d be a lot different. I think I’d get on my own knees and swallow Tristian down until his face collapsed in agony. I’d arch back into Rath and revel in his surprise. I’d look my stepbrother in the eye while I did it and show him he can’t touch me. Not like they can.

No, the laundry room isn’t so scary anymore. But the basement sticks with me. Some days, it’s unbearable just knowing it’s below my feet, a dead stack of bricks that I can still hear breathing. That’s what I dream about. The heavy breath of it below me, bellowing my name, dragging me down.

Let him in…

I wake like that, trembling and cold and far too vigilant, considering the way my head feels. “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” I reach out and slam my hand down on the phone alarm, accomplishing nothing but knocking it to the ground. “Oh god.”

The raspy sound of my own voice stabs in my ears like an ice pick. My eyes are crusted over, head pounding that heavy-breathed basement rhythm, and Jesus Christ, why is it so bright in here? I roll over and bury my head under my pillow, trying to hide from it.

What the hell happened last night?

I burp, and the taste of cherry rolls up my throat. Oh. Right. I got fucking hammered with Tristian. The last thing I remember is sitting with him downstairs, cheek resting on his shoulder as I complained about Killian and his pregame bimbos. Someone must have brought me up to my room.

Not Killian’s, not Rath’s, not Tristian’s. Mine.

Well.

For a given value.

I hang off the bed, fumbling a few more times before I finally turn off the alarm. Sitting up, I look down and see my clothes are still on, and it’s really saying about the state of my life that my first reaction is surprise. But the neck of my top is stretched out, and when I touch my itchy chest, I go eerily still.

I don’t even have to look to know what the dried crusty, sticky substance is. This is definitely a fat load of semen. Maybe it should, but this doesn’t surprise me. If anything, it’s a bit of a relief. It’s part of the reason I’d gotten so hammered last night, sick of wondering if he was going to go for the bimbos or come for me, a shiny new pregame ritual.

I’m getting better at anticipating their moves.

In front of the dresser mirror, I take in the way I look. ‘Rode hard and put away wet’ seems an apt descriptor. My hair is a tangled mess, eyes red, skin splotchy and clammy-pale. The top is a lost cause, stretched beyond repair. Sighing, I pull it over my head and toss it aside.

And then I freeze, an aborted inhale lodged painfully in my lungs.

My breasts are a cream canvas of blue and purple.

It’s not as bad as last time, but only just, and if I weren’t busy feeling nauseous and violated, I might be able to appreciate Killian’s consistency with this. Apparently, leaving his fingerprints in the soft parts of my flesh is part of the ritual. How did I not see this coming?

I can’t decide if it’s better or worse that I can’t remember it.

The water to the shower spits to life and I crank the heat, stomach roiling at the thought of what’s happened. Where did he do it? Was it here, in my bed? Were the lights out? Did he kiss me the way he does when I’m sleeping?

I’m standing under the steamy spray, palms pressed to the tile, water battering the top of my head, when something penetrates the surface. A memory, murky and indistinct. Hands on my head, pushing my hair away. Fingers on my jaw. A voice, gentle and coaxing in my ear.

Open up for Killer, sweetheart…

Let him in…

That’s our good girl…

I start shaking again, hands curling into fists against the wall. Tristian had been there—probably Rath, too—watching and touching and taking.

Every time I think I make some progress, get back a little control of my own, it’s made perfectly clear that I have none. Each kind gesture one of them makes is negated by the next. The hard truth is that the basement isn’t a scary place. It, just like every other room in this house, is just dead bricks and empty space.

Until one of them walks into it.

I scrub the semen from my chest mechanically, uncaring of the ache of my breasts, the bruises sore and tender. It’s been days since I contacted Ted. He was supposed to be here by now. He was supposed to stop this. He was supposed to blow everything up and make it new. But maybe I’m the fool, always running and waiting and leaving my fate in the hands of small, awful men.

For the first time in a long while, I realize that I’m sick of waiting.

After all, if you want something done right, then do it yourself.

The scent of bacon and eggs makes my stomach flip almost as miserably as the thought of facing them, but I walk into the dining room, anyway.

Rath glances up from his food, mouth frozen mid-chew at the sight of me. The shower likely has done very little. I still look like hell warmed over. Killian doesn’t meet my eyes whatsoever, the avoidance so skilled and effective that it’s as if I never walked in.

Tristian is the only one who speaks. “There’s our soggy Lady,” he says, pushing a smoothie in my direction. “Best hangover cure you ever had. Give it a try.”

I eye the foamy green drink, and my stomach gurgles in revolt. Ignoring the glass, I emotionlessly announce, “I need to go see Daniel this afternoon.”

Killian’s eyes finally jump to mine, eyes flashing dangerously. “Excuse me?”

I don’t bother sitting, arms hanging limp at my sides. “It’s on my list of duties for the homecoming carnival. I need to ask him for permission to use the property, and then get the permits.”

“I can do it,” is Killian’s flippant reply. He looks back down at his phone, discussion over.

“No, you can’t.”

Again, he looks up. This time his nostrils flare, a warning clear in his response. “Did you just tell me no?”

“Yes.”

He puts his phone down, never breaking my gaze. “Tell me again that I can’t speak to my own father. I dare you.”

I wait for the swell of indignation and hatred. Instead, all I can hear is Tristian’s voice, asking me to open up for Killian. The only thing I feel is cheap. “You guys are the ones who told me this is my job, as your Lady. It’s my responsibility to take care of this.”

“She’s right,” Tristian says, giving the smoothie another small nudge in my direction. “If the Royal women let their men handle everything, the fundraiser would just turn into another pissing match. Things are done this way for a reason.” Lower, he tells Killian, “Don’t make this into a thing. We’re all tired.”

“Well, you can’t go alone,” Killian says to me. “And I’m too busy to drive you this week, so it’ll have to wait.”

“I already called and made an appointment at his office for late this afternoon.” I look over at Tristian, unable to directly meet his eyes. I wonder what he did to me. Was that Killian’s spunk, or his, too? “Can you take me later?”

“Sorry, Cherry, but the twins have a dance recital this afternoon.” He shakes his head, insisting, “I can’t miss it.”

“I can go with her,” Rath says. “All of my studio hours are in the morning this week, and since she has a car now—” I don’t miss the snide tone, nor the look he stabs at Tristian. “—I can just ride along. We’ll go after classes are over today.”

Now I wonder what Rath did to me last night. Tristian and Killian both get off on control—I expect it out of them. But it doesn’t seem like Rath’s style. “That would be great. Thank you.”

“Now that that’s settled,” Tristian says, pushing the glass back in front of me, “drink.”

Stiffly, I lift the glass, taking a tentative sip. It tastes like someone dug up grass and dirt in the backyard and blended it together with the very essence of sadness. I choke it down, willing myself to be strong. If I’m going to take their game into my own hands, then I’ll need to start collecting all the favor I can get.

As soon as we get into Killian’s truck for the ride to campus, Rath draws me into his side, massaging the back of my neck with a firm hand. I find myself unable to fight it, melting into his deceptively gentle warmth.

“You okay?” he asks. It surprises me, because he’s been far kinder ever since I got the tracker and we spent the night together, but quiet and still a bit distant. At my silent nod, he just tucks me closer, smelling like laundry detergent and the vague hint of an early morning cigarette. He presses his mouth to my ear to whisper, “I can smoke you up after we go see Daniel.” His hand is wandering up my side, knuckles skating across my breast. When I stiffen in response, he releases a low, dark chuckle. “I’ve been hard as fuck ever since you laid that kiss on me last night.”

There’s a loaded pause, like he’s waiting for me to offer something up. A hand job on the way to school, in front of the others. A quickie after we see Daniel, stoned and sloppy. A blowjob during lunch.

I sit still and say nothing.

He shrugs, moving his hand back down to my hip. “Yeah, hangovers suck.” He sounds disappointed.

From the expression on Tristian’s face when he opens the back door and helps me out, he knows Rath was looking for something. Tristian throws his arm over my shoulder and says, “Why don’t you give the Lady a break?”

“Me? Why don’t the two of you?” Rath lobs back, eyes dark and cutting. Halfway to my building, he stops and mutters a curse. “Shit.”

“What?” Tristian asks.

“I forgot I need to take my biography write up to my professor’s office. It’s due today by three.” He looks at me, pulling a face. “Actually, I wanted to see if you’d read it over. I meant to ask last night, but…”

He lets the words fall where they may.

“Of course,” I say, feeling some of the life seep back into my bones. I use it to square my shoulders. “What is it?”

He pulls his phone from his pocket, giving it a few taps while explaining, “It’s the bio for the programs—the ones handed out at the homecoming performance. Nothing important.” It doesn’t sound unimportant. My phone chimes with a notification—a shared file. “Fuck, but I’ll be in the studio until three. Then you and I are going to Daniel’s office.” He runs his fingers through his hair, looking away, face sulky and pensive.

I give it a quick skim on my phone. “You can’t email it or submit it online?” I remember Lockwood well enough. That day in the studio, the Counts and their Countess—Lockwood’s TA—had offered to get Rath a pass in exchange for Ms. Crane. I suppose Lockwood is handling the programs for homecoming, too.

Tough luck.

He scoffs. “Lockwood is some hipster fuck who hates anything sent with a signal or a wire. Emails, texts, flash drives—all are a no-go. I still need to find a printer.”

I consider this, noting how crudely written the text is, and try on a smile. “Okay, how about I look it over in my first class, retype it in my second, print it out in the student center, and then drop it off at Lockwood’s office? We can meet at the parking lot right after that.”

“Yeah?” He gives me a rare, genuine grin. “You’d really do all that?”

I hope my smile looks authentic. “Well, I’m your Lady, aren’t I?”

He hooks two fingers in my waistband, pulling me in. “Hell yes, you are.” The kiss he gives me is slow, sweet, and sensuous enough that I can tell he’s still hoping for something to happen.

And something definitely fucking will.

Rath’s writing is bad.

It’s not completely unreadable or anything, just rough and riddled with phonetics. Punctuation is nonexistent. There are some sentences that make me see how he’s gotten by for so long, because the errors could easily be waved away as someone in a rush. But there are other sentences that barely scrape the surface of coherent. I spend my second class typing up a fresh and improved version, and each new word pressed into my phone’s keyboard is like manna from gods, invigorating something I hadn’t even realized was lost.

I see her in the student center, while I’m printing the biography out.

She walks into the administration lobby holding a stack of folders, eyes scanning the space. She zeroes on the pair of scanners beside me and marches right over to them, setting her bag and purse between us.

I watch her for a long moment, not believing my own eyes.

What are the chances?

She meets my gaze for only a split second, giving me the kind of bland smile that’s meant for strangers who are staring at you, before opening the lid to the scanner and getting to work.

“Excuse me,” I say, plucking my printout from the tray. “Aren’t you…uh, Genevieve?”

She gives me a longer look. “Have we met?” Genevieve Carter is even more gorgeous than I remember, with her long blonde hair and sharp blue eyes.

Sliding the paper into my bag, I explain, “We actually went to high school together.” After a beat, I add, “I mean, not that you’d have ever given me the light of day. I was a grade lower, plus a total nobody.”

She looks me up and down, gaze flat and disinterested. I’d dressed more for Rath today than Tristian, which is probably why he was hoping for something on the way to school. Even the tiniest thing can be read as a gesture when their dicks are involved.

Genevieve hums, looking away. “No, I don’t think you would have been in my circles.” The words have a hint of snottiness to them, which seems in-character for the popular girl I remember.

She and Tristian were a vision back then, but it was also a little creepy. With their matching fair hair and blue eyes, they could have been related. Their features and mannerisms are even similar—the firm jaws, straight postures, and obsessive diets. To most people, it probably looked like the perfect match, but I had an entirely different, and given how well I know the man, much more accurate read on it.

She’s him, but with long hair, tits, and an extra fuckable hole.

Tristian was basically dating himself.

“I didn’t realize you went here.” I doubt Tristian does, either.

She looks like she’s barely paying attention to me as she scans page after page. “Just transferred down from Vassar. Hence the copious photocopying of my transcripts.”

My eyebrows climb my head. “Wow, talk about a downgrade. Sounds like some drama.”

She finally pauses then, turning to regard me. “Yeah, it is.” Girls like Genevieve are so easy. They walk over the nice girls, the sweet girls, the friendly girls, but the second a bitch walks up, they want in on it. “My dad just got diagnosed with cancer, so he and my mom made me move back.”

Well, now I feel shitty.

She rolls her eyes, flicking her hair back. “As if I’m going to be able to do anything about it, right? What do I look like, a cancer doctor?”

“Oncologist,” I supply.

She ignores me. “So now I’m stuck in this hellhole, again.”

“Didn’t you used to date Tristian Mercer?” I ask, keeping my voice friendly and curious. “It’s so funny to think of all that high school drama.”

Her reaction is so fast that I might have missed it if I hadn’t been watching so carefully.

She tenses, motions growing more rapid. “Yeah, Tristian.” She snorts, glancing over at me. “Oh, my god, that name, right? I can’t believe I used to think I’d marry him after college. I’m on to greener pastures, trust me.” She gives me this smile that’s cracking at the edges, and holy shit, she’s lying.

She’s bald face lying.

“Hm,” I twist to leave, “maybe I’ll see you around sometime. I can show you around campus, point out the biggest bitches, the hottest guys…”

She gives me a look like she’s sizing me up, wondering if I’m someone she wants to bother with, curious about my social standing and if I’ll even be useful. She must not come to any conclusion, because she keeps it intentionally vague. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

If I have my way, one person in particular is going to see.

And I want to be there when he does.

Killian drops us off at the brownstone so we can take my car. As we’re getting out, he gives Rath a long look and a cryptic nod. “Remember what we talked about.”

Rath flips him off and slams the door.

The ride to Daniel’s office is quiet, and my heart twists anxiously at the silence. Rath has a way of looking past my façade, to who I really am, like the night in the laundry room when he knew how, despite my terror, what they were doing to me—what I was doing—turned me on. We’ve always had an inexplicable connection, but he can’t know the truth about me now. What I know, or what I’ve done.

“Did everything go okay with turning in my biography?” he asks, touching all the dials on my sound system.

“Yes.” I watch him from the corner of my eye, feeling strangely territorial about the way he’s fiddling with my car. It isn’t really yours, I keep reminding myself. “Well, other than having to see Sutton, but she kept her whore mouth shut.”

He finally gives up with the stereo, putting his hand on my thigh instead. “Did you have to edit much? I know it was probably a mess.”

“No,” I lie, remaining still as his hand slides up my thigh. “You did pretty good. You’ve really made some progress.”

“What can I say?” He props his wrist on the headrest behind me as his other hand dips between my legs. “I have an excellent tutor.”

I open my thighs, keeping my eyes on the road. “Sometimes you just have to find the right motivation.”

“Damn right,” he breathes, those dark eyes watching his hand rub me through my tight black jeans. “We can make this meeting quick, you know.” He leans in to whisper hot and low into my ear, “Go somewhere and finally fuck.”

When his fingers dip lower, pressing hard, I wince.

He pauses, easing his hand back. “Still sore?”

“Yes,” I lie, clearing my throat. “Sorry.”

He flops back to his seat, face shuttered and stormy. “Jesus Christ, it’s been days.”

“I know.” I give him a quick look that I do my best to fill with dread. “But hey, whatever you want to do.”

“Forget it. I can wait.” Looking out the window, he mutters, “I think.” With nothing more than an outfit and passive rebuffing, I’ve got him so frustrated that there’s a large, obscene bulge pressing at the front of his pants. He puts his hand in his lap and gives it a squeeze, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge it.

The drive to the South Side is familiar, but we go to an unfamiliar area—this one a little nicer. Rath directs me where to park and I peer out at the nondescript building. “Is this Daniel’s office?”

“Yeah. You’ve never been down here?”

“No.” I don’t tell him that most of my short time living with Daniel was spent avoiding him. Getting caught with him alone, in a hallway or an out-of-the-way space? It just always seemed too dangerous. “I never really understood Daniel’s job when I lived with him. All I got was ‘real estate’, but now I’m thinking that’s underselling it.”

The building is huge and modern, towering over South Side like a bleak sentry.

“He is involved in real estate,” Rath says, “but yeah, it’s bigger than that. He’s kind of got his fingers in everything down here.”

“And you think one day Killian will work with him?” I give him a look that shows my skepticism. I just can’t see my stepbrother in a suit and tie, sitting at a desk in some nondescript office.

Rath smirks at me. “I think Killian wants to play for the NFL, get a massive paycheck, and tell his dad to fuck off.” We exit the car and meet on the sidewalk. “But Daniel isn’t going to let something like a professional football career get between him and Killian. I don’t see a way out of it for him.”

I’ve always viewed Killian and his father as two sides of the same coin. One quiet. One cruel. Both dangerous. I’ve sensed the tension in them before. There were fights I’d make it a point to ignore, holed up in my room as the sounds of banging and cussing penetrated the walls. Shouting over dinner. Long weeks of chilly silence. But I’d never known a father and a son before, so I just figured that was natural machismo bullshit.

The grim look on Rath’s face makes me wonder, though.

“Their relationship is complicated, huh?”

He grabs the handle to the large glass door, hauling it open. “Fucking understatement of the year,” he mutters, guiding me in with a hand on the small of my back. “Only half of it is on account of you.” At my startled expression, he snorts. “Please. Like this is news to you.” He leads me into an elevator, pressing the button for the top floor.

I sigh, shoulders slumping. “Let me guess, my mom is the other half.” Because that’s what the Lords are all about. I see that now. They collect territory and lord over it accordingly. My mom had met Daniel, and then she took a piece of that territory and gave a little chunk of it to me. “He hates her, too.”

Casually, Rath says, “Only because she’s a whore. It’s nothing personal.”

My head snaps back in shock. “Don’t call her that!”

Rath’s head snaps back in shock, too. “Why not? She literally is.”

“No, she isn’t!” Turning to the doors, I will the crawling sense of wrongness to dissipate from my skin. “She’s a good mom and a good wife. Whatever she used to do to survive—so I could survive—it shouldn’t matter.”

“It shouldn’t,” he agrees, his hand heavy on my back. “But it does.”

“I can’t believe Killian would hold that against her, and then turn around and make me—” My voice clips off into a frustrated growl. It’s just so goddamn typical.

Rath lets out this low, slow laugh. “Story, I’m going to tell you something. It’s going to be vague and you can’t ever fucking mention it, but it might help you out.” He curls his hand around my hip. “Consider it me returning a favor for your editing work earlier.”

“Okay,” I hedge, feeling apprehensive.

“You ever want to get on Killer’s good side—you know, like soften him up or whatever?” When he sees my attention’s been piqued, he arches an eyebrow. “Just choose him over his dad, for fucking anything. You feel me?”

My forehead scrunches in confusion. “I’m not sure that’s an opportunity that’ll ever arise, but uh…” Uncertain, I offer, “…sure?”

He shakes his head, looking away. “You’re so twisted around about this shit, girl.”

Before I can ask what that means, the elevator opens to a large, bright lobby. It’s empty, and I’m about to sit down when a woman walks into the lobby from a side room. She’s pretty, young, and busy straightening her pencil-thin skirt.

She beams when she sees him. “Dimitri! Twice in one week! You boys are going to spoil me silly. Look how handsome you look today.”

“Vivienne,” he greets, nodding more at her cleavage than anything else. No way those things are real. “I’ve got a live one for the boss man.” He pushes me forward encouragingly.

I give a nervous laugh. “I have an appointment…?”

Vivienne’s eyes light up. “Oh gosh, you must be Story!” She heads toward us and before I can react, I’m engulfed in a cloud of perfume and this woman’s skinny arms. The press of her ample breasts against mine confirms my earlier suspicions as to their authenticity.

I glance at Rath, and he shrugs.

The woman pulls back to say, “I’m Vivienne, Mr. Payne’s secretary. Daniel and your mom have told me so much about you. I already feel like we’re practically family! It’s so nice to finally meet you in the flesh, instead of just the picture in his office.”

It’s a lot to take in. Daniel talks about me to this woman? He keeps a picture of me? Fighting down a shiver, I respond, “It’s nice to meet you too.”

She laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he’s never mentioned me before, but he’s been so worried about you for the last few years. I know he’s glad you’re back.” She nods to the door. “You can go right in. He’s expecting you.”

Rath moves to come with me, but I shake my head. “Official business, remember? Wait out here.” His eyebrow quirks, but he takes a seat on one of the leather chairs and reaches for his ear buds.

I open the office door and there he is. Daniel is sitting at his desk, phone pressed to his ear. He’s dressed in an expensive suit and shoes, a perfectly folded handkerchief is tucked in his pocket. If he’s any kind of indication of how well Killian will age, then my stepbrother is lucky. The hair near Daniel’s temples is going silvery-gray, but the rest is a dark, muted brown. He and Killian share a powerful jaw, but Daniel keeps a short, tidy beard where Killian prefers a ‘three days of stubble’ look.

I guess I’ve entered at just the right moment, because he’s saying goodbye and hanging up.

I can’t help but stare dumbly at the LDZ ring on his finger.

“I thought I saw your name on my calendar.” He leans back in his chair—some big, plush, tall, lordly thing—and looks me over. Despite all of Vivienne’s gushing before, Daniel isn’t looking at me like a happy, doting father. His eyes are blank. Almost cold. “What brings you down here? Is something the matter?” His gold watch flashes on his wrist as he rests his cheek on a knuckle and thumb.

“No, um…everything’s fine.” I dig for the form in my purse and hold it out. “I just need a minor favor.”

When I make no move to come closer, he stands, smoothing down his tie as he rounds the desk, taking the form. His gray eyes skim over it. “You need to use the empty lot off Elrod street? Homecoming preparations, I assume?”

“Yes,” I reply, feeling a bit off kilter at the cool reception I’m getting. “For the carnival. We’ll also need a permit.”

Nodding, he pulls a gold pen out of his breast pocket and, without question, signs the papers and folds them back. “Take this down to the city office. They’ll approve.”

“Thank you.”

He holds out the paper, but just as I reach for it, he pulls it back, just out of my reach. He pins me with a long stare. “I can’t help but notice that this is typically a job for the Lords’ Lady.”

Blood rushes to my face so fast it almost makes me dizzy. “Yes,” is my answer, barely a breath.

I’m so rigid that I don’t even move when he reaches for my wrist, lifting it to inspect the cuff. I catch the hint of Vivienne’s perfume on his slow sigh. “To be a Lady is a privilege, indeed. They’ve been part of the institution long before my tenure at Forsyth. Proper Royal women are the spoils of war.”

“I applied for the job,” I reply stiffly. “They were just doing me a favor by giving it to me.”

“A favor.” He gives me a bland smile, clearly unimpressed by my lie. “Of course. You ought to be careful how many of those you’re racking up.”

My skin crawls, but when I go to pull my wrist back, he holds it, those gray eyes never breaking my gaze. “You know what they tell men about their sons, Story? They tell us they’re special, coveted above all else, necessary to carry on one’s legacy and lineage and such.” He sighs, eying the cuff again. “Personally, I always wanted a daughter. Sons are defiant little creatures from the first step, and then they grow up, just waiting to take everything you’ve built and make it their own. But daughters…” He tilts his head, thumb rubbing over the skull. “Daughters need their fathers. They’re a warm patch of light in a dark and dreary world. If I’d had a daughter, things would be so much simpler.” Meeting my stunned gaze, he quietly asks, “Don’t you agree?”

The knock on the door makes me flinch. Daniel is the first to break our strange standoff, glancing over my shoulder at the intruder.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise!” my mom’s voice rings out. “My two favorite people.”

I turn to see her standing in the doorway in an elegant suit and soft leather heels. Even though it’s been years since Daniel ‘saved’ her—us—I’m still not used to seeing her like this. Her face looks fresh, ten years younger than her age. Her legs are still outstanding. I mean, she paid the rent with that body, after all. But in this outfit, with the gold earrings and fashionable scarf, no one would ever guess she made her living lying on her back.

Her eyes skim over Daniel’s hand, still holding my wrist, and skitter to a stop.

“My darling,” Daniel says, squeezing my hand before dropping it and crossing the room. He kisses her on the cheek. “What are you doing down here?”

“Thought I’d stop by and let you take me to dinner.” She looks at me, her smile beaming. “I saw Dimitri in the lobby. What are you doing here, honey?”

I hold up the slip of paper, hoping my hand won’t shake. “Just getting some paperwork taken care of for homecoming.”

Daniel nods. “Story’s helping the boys with some of the fraternity’s charity work. Isn’t that so generous of her?” With that smile, you’d never know he just had my wrist trapped in his grip, going off about sons and the daughters they’re fucking.

“That is wonderful!” She smiles, clasping her hands together excitedly. “I love that you’re helping them out. They do such good in the community.”

She says it without a trace of irony or concern, so I suppose my mother doesn’t understand the inner workings of the Lords like my stepfather does. “I should get this to the permit office before it closes.”

“Oh, no,” my mother pouts. “You can’t do dinner with us? Please?”

I shake my head. “Sorry, mom. Not today.”

She flaps a hand. “Ah well, it was good to see you, anyway.” She walks over and gives me a hug. “I just love having you in town like this again.”

“You too, Mom.” I give Daniel a tight smile. “Thank you, Daniel.”

“Any time, Story.”

I step back into the lobby, where Vivienne sits at her desk. I study her for a moment, assessing the short skirt, the tight blouse, the obvious lack of a bra. There’s a clunky bracelet on her arm with what looks like an initial etched in the gold. She looks up at me and gives me a friendly grin, but I don’t feel warmth. I feel an icy shiver running down my spine. I may not be the only one who’s being controlled by a Payne, but I just may be the only one with the guts to do something about it.