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

Old habits die hard.

It turns out that even a night filled with murder, gunshot wounds, a high-speed getaway, home-cooked triage, and loaded confessions aren’t enough to make me sleep past five in the morning. I wake up before the sun does, the fire in front of us slowly dying. Killian is still on his back, forehead creased with a frown even in sleep. Story is resting against his shoulder, her hand limp and curled on the center of his chest. Rath is pressed up against her back, his arm tucked around her waist.

Fucking idiots, telling her to leave. To start a new life. A life without the three of us.

I get a pot of coffee started for them—tea for myself—and do my pushups over by the couch. The mornings are always my favorite time of the day. Getting lost in the routine, making plans inside my head, preparing for whatever bullshit is spread out in front of me for the day.

I’m working toward my three hundredth pushup when Story begins stirring. I watch, arms pushing me up and bringing me down, as she turns into Rath, sleepily nuzzling her head in beneath his chin. I can tell when everything comes back to her, because she lets out this long sigh and begins the arduous process of extricating herself from them.

Sitting up, she gives her arm a little shake—must have fallen asleep—before turning to look for me. Her brow furls when she sees my part of the mattress is empty, gaze swinging around the room.

When her eyes land on mine, something in her shoulders eases.

“Morning,” I huff out, almost done. “Coffee’s in the kitchen.”

Usually, I’d try to put her off drinking it, but now I’m not sure if that’s my place anymore. Are we still her Lords? If we are, then for how much longer?

Once again, I’m reminded that this whole ‘letting her go’ plan is bullshit.

She carefully rises from the mattress, bringing a blanket with her. It drags along the floor as she shuffles to the kitchen, following the scent of the brewing coffee. We can’t wait much longer to get Killian somewhere, but I don’t have it in me to wake them up just yet.

Two ninety eight.

Two ninety nine.

Three hundred.

I hop up, feeling hot and restless, like my skin’s too tight. This cabin is far from being my favorite place, even at the best of times. I want a hot shower and something organic to eat.

Story walks back into the main room with a mug in each hand, looking rumpled, face drawn. “I brought your tea,” she says, going to set it on the table. She freezes when she remembers what happened on it. The enormous blood stain probably helps remind her. “Uh, I’ll just…”

I swoop in and take it from her, perching on the edge of the couch. “Thanks.”

She gives a tight-lipped nod, taking a seat. “His pulse is good, and he’s warm, but not too warm.” Her eyes are fixed to Killian as she says this, raising her mug for a slow sip of the coffee. “How long do you think?”

“Until we call Daniel?” I run my fingers through my hair, struggling through an exhaustion that both makes sense and doesn’t. “I don’t know. A few hours, maybe.”

She hums and her blanket slips a little. Just enough that I catch the edge of a scab.

I put my mug onto the table, not caring about the blood. Lacing my fingers together, I look at my knuckles and gently command, “Let me see.”

There’s a moment of still silence, and then, “See what?”

I slide her a dark look. “You know what.”

Her eyes go shuttered and blank, but with one shrug of her shoulders, she lets the blanket fall away, exposing her bare chest to me. I can really only look at it from the corner of my vision at first, having to take it in incrementally, facing this ugly thing I’ve helped inflict on her in stages.

Full-on, it makes my stomach turn.

It’s scabbed and red around the edges—Irritated. But someone’s seen to it. The skin is a little oily, like it’s had ointment applied at some point. Heaving a breath, I look away, my eyes landing on the first aid kit at my feet.

I bend over and pop it open. “Come here.”

There’s ointment inside the kit. Bandages. Antiseptic. I start with a sterile wipe, tearing the paper-lined foil and plucking it out. It still takes a moment to face it again, mouth twisting sourly when I finally do.

Story’s turned her body to me, one of her legs curled beneath her. But she won’t meet my gaze.

I adjust, scooting closer as I inspect the letters.

K

T

R

She flinches when the wipe touches her skin, which makes me flinch, too.

“Does it…hurt?” I’m pretty sure that’s an idiotic question. Nothing about being mutilated like this is painless. But she just shakes her head, remaining still as I gently run the cotton down the marred skin.

“Is it…” She works her jaw, eyes fixed to the floor. “Does it look…bad?”

It sure as fuck doesn’t look good.

I consider the question before answering, wondering why she can’t just take a peek herself. Then it hits me. “You haven’t seen it yet.” She shakes her head and something inside of me thrashes around, banging painfully against my ribcage. I think it might be whatever sorry excuse is standing in for a soul. I clear my throat, dabbing around the ‘T’. “It’s scabbed over well, but it’s a little irritated. Probably from sleeping with—” My words cut off, because I can’t.

I can’t pretend this is okay.

“Story.”

She presses her lips together, looking everywhere but at me. “I know. You don’t believe in regrets or forgiveness. You were in a bad place. I pushed you too far. You’re sorry.” She finally looks at me then, and even though she has every right to, she doesn’t even look bitter when she says, “I remember.”

Well, fuck.

Why not just put a bullet in my gut, too?

For a while, I think there’s nothing I can say to that. It’s an accurate summary of the apology I gave her for that first night, years ago. I’d said all of that. I’d bought her flowers. Clothes. Baked goods. When she was upset about the tracker, I’d bought her a car.

What do you buy someone after carving your initials into their flesh, jacking off onto their cheek, and then fucking them with the hilt of a knife and leaving them on the floor in a puddle of come, blood, and their own tears?

Hallmark doesn’t exactly make a fucking card for that.

Since it already feels like she’s buried a blade in my chest, I might as well give it a nice twist. “You didn’t send those messages about the twins, did you?”

Just as I expected, her brow pulls together, head shaking. “What did they say?”

It came to me last night, right after she told us about this Ted fucker. Story wouldn’t involve my sisters in her shit. It’s just that all the videos went missing, and she knows—she fucking knows how badly I never want my sisters to know the truth about me. It would have been the perfect revenge.

But she’s too good for that.

She’ll hurt us because we deserve it, but she’d never put our beef on two innocent kids. I feel like a goddamn fool for not realizing that sooner.

“Nothing.” I clean around the cuts and lie, “Probably just some internet troll.”

Obviously, it was Ted.

And if Story knew she’d put them in danger by setting this guy loose on me, she’d never forgive herself.

“But it means I did this for nothing,” I add, feeling my jaw go tight. I make a promise to myself then, that whoever this guy is, this crime is partly on him—and he’s going to fucking pay for it. “So yes, I owe you an apology.”

She looks away, expressionless. “I knew what I was getting into. I knew what might happen if you—”

“No.” My voice is hard and firm, and when I wrench her chin forward, forcing her eyes to mine, I make sure she understands. “I made a promise to take care of you, and I bailed at the first sign of doubt without asking any questions.” Reaching for the ointment, I add, “I don’t know how Killer and Rath feel about it, but it makes me fucking sick.”

It’s not a lie. The thought of my initials being carved into her skin as proof of ownership makes me want to scoop her up and take her back to that mattress to flex some of it. But the fact it was done in anger, to inflict pain as a goddamn punishment, makes me physically ill.

“You’re wrong,” is what I say, gently applying the ointment. “I do regret it.”

I can feel her eyes on me as I work, wishing I could mend this skin and start over. But I can’t. The damage, as always, is done.

“You’re a good brother,” she says.

“Yeah.” I give a quiet scoff. “I’m just not good at being anything else.”

“You could be.” When I raise my eyes to hers, she’s wearing a sad expression. “I mean, this is clearly despite all evidence otherwise. But I think you could be. When you care about something…” Her teeth tug at her lip as she thinks her words over. “When you let yourself care about something—really care about it—then I bet you could be amazing.” That sadness coalesces into a small, somber smile. “I just don’t think it could be with me.”

“You don’t know that,” I argue, even though I know she’s right.

There’s no coming back from what I’ve done to her.

As if to drive the nail in the coffin, she takes a steeling breath and lowers her eyes, taking in the letters scabbed in her own blood. She reaches up to run a fingertip over them, expression turning contemplative.

“R,” she breathes, touching Rath’s initial.

Because she looks confused by the choice, I say, “It had to be Rath. You know why, don’t you?” When she just gives me a curious look, I explain, “Because Dimitri never would have done that to you.”

He never talks about it, but he doesn’t need to. He couldn’t stomach seeing the ‘D’ on her chest—not carved in deep and angry like that.

At her silence, I go on, “He didn’t use to be like that. Dividing himself up into two versions of himself. The second you started calling him Dimitri….” I give her a look. “Or maybe more accurately, the second you took it back—that’s how he began seeing himself.”

“Oh,” she breathes, glancing over at the man in question.

I don’t tell her this, but I tried it, too. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work for me. I’ve never been good at lying to myself like the other two. I can’t pretend I didn’t do this. I can’t act like I was just in a bad place and forgot to give a shit.

Maybe I’m just not that great a person.

Sighing, I pull the blanket back up around her shoulders. “We need to talk about Ted.”

She picks up her coffee. “What’s there to say?”

“Anything,” I press, sliding the first aid kit away. “Everything you know about him.”

Looking into her steaming mug, she gives a heavy nod, beginning, “He was nice at first.”

Over the next few minutes, she spills it all. How he’d tell her she had a nice smile. How he’d ask about her being a virgin, subtly pressuring her for a meeting here and there, but never seeming put off when she refused. Then, the letters at boarding school. The escalation. The photos he sent to her in Colorado—guys with their eyes crossed out, ‘whore’ scribbled on the back. She tells me about Jack and his gentle disposition. About the way he looked the last time she saw him, lifeless and dead-eyed.

Then she tells me about the photo she sent after Killian fucked her for the first time.

“I just knew it’d get a rise out of him.” She says this without apology or shame, and I don’t blame her. “He never wanted anyone else to have me.”

We’re silent for a long while as I take it all in, making plans to hunt down who owns this email account. Daniel has resources, and failing that, few options are closed to a Mercer.

“It’s kind of weird,” I muse, taking a sip from my tea. “First Daniel, then Ted, then Killer.”

She gives me a confused look. “What do you mean?”

I shrug. “Just all these guys obsessed with your virginity. I mean,” I shift, gesturing to the mattress. “With Killer, it makes sense. The way he grew up—the kind of women he grew up around—I get that it’d be a big feature for him. But the others?” Shaking my head, I joke, “Just didn’t realize it was that big of a deal to so many people.”

“Yeah,” she says slowly, eyes roaming to Killian. “Daniel and Ted. Weird.”

She strangely quiet after that, no longer bothering with her coffee. There are a lot of things I still need to say, but it doesn’t feel like I deserve to. I want to tell her to stay. To keep being our Lady. To trust us to keep her safe this time.

From Ted.

From ourselves.

Instead, I rise from the couch and run a hand through my hair. “I’m going to get cleaned up and see if Killer’s ready to call his dad.”

She nods, eyes following me as I walk to the bathroom.

When I come out ten minutes later, she’s gone.

So is the car.