“You were right.” I glance over at Lavinia as I shift gears, her eyes tracking a raindrop’s descent on the passenger window. It’s barely more than a sprinkle now, my Trans-Am rumbling like an animal beneath us.
“Of course I was,” she says, turning to blink at me. “But what specifically was I right about?”
Trying to keep my attention on the road, I answer, “The pill bottles being orange. I’ve been putting them into a white organizer, and I think it’s helping.” Remy never told me he was struggling with it, and just because I’m determined to let him stand on his own two feet doesn’t mean I haven’t been keeping tabs. He’s taken his medication every day, faithfully. But some days he’s been lingering in the bathroom longer than others.
It’s hard not being the shadow looming behind him all the time. Two straight years of schedules, check-ins, and hovering is a hard habit to break. It’d be a lie to say I don’t lay awake some nights, wondering where he is, how he’s faring, when he’s going to need help next.
“Good.” Her mouth tips up into a pleased grin. “That’s… good.” She tugs down the hem of her skirt, seeming distracted, but I can’t really blame her. I’d sprung this trip on her from out of nowhere, catching her just after class. “Where are we going?” she asks, surveying the landmarks.
“Do you trust me?” I glimpse at her, knowing it’s vague and pushy. She might think it’s a fun surprise and then get really fucking disappointed.
Although her eyebrows pull together in curiosity, she replies with no hesitation. “Yes.”
My chest thuds harder at the easy agreement.
So I keep on the path, heading to the outskirts of town, toward the grassy hill that overlooks Forsyth. She shifts in her seat, drawing my eyes to her legs. The bandages on her knees are gone, but the wounds are still a vivid, half-healed pink.
When she realizes where we are, she looks from the window to me.
“You brought me to the cemetery?”
I don’t answer, turning into the narrow drive. Like the rest of the town, it’s divided into four quadrants, with the crypt looming ominously in the middle. In some ways, it’s safe to say the roots of the Royal houses start here, running deep from the decayed bones of our ancestors, generations of Royalty, to the rest of the town. The ropy vines run like a current, spreading down the streets, connecting businesses and communities, all leading to a breeding ground at the University.
I drive slowly, passing the different sections, marked by stone walls or wrought iron barriers. I come to the junction of north and west and stop, idling. To the north, it’s impossible to ignore the large marble Lucia family stone in the distance marking her ancestors’ plot. It’s too far away to see from our foggy windows, but I know from my earlier visit that her mother’s name is engraved in the white surface, along with dozens of other distant relatives.
To our left, on a slight hill, is an arch made of iron, the name ‘Bruin’ curled across the top. Next to me, Lavinia is uncharacteristically quiet. I turn, the leather creaking under my movements.
“I know what it’s like to think I’ve lost a brother,” I begin, remembering there was a time I’d stay awake worrying about someone other than Remy. It was both better and worse with Nick. I didn’t see him enough for certain fears to take hold, but the unknown was almost harder, the possibilities of what he’d be doing in South Side endless. “I didn’t—but if I did, I know I’d want to bring him home.” I look out at the gravestones. Some are tall and regal, monoliths to honor Royalty like her. Others are simple and squat, some just flat and flush with the earth. There’s no equalizer greater than death. “Or as close to it as possible.”
“This is about Leticia,” she guesses, following my gaze.
“This is about you.” I take my hand from the gearshift and place it over hers, resting on her knee. “You don’t have to be a psych major to know there are five stages of grief. You really didn’t get a chance to process your sister’s death, and we can’t—” I stop, not wanting to make this moment about Leticia’s murder. “I don’t know who killed her, but I can do this for you. I can help you lay her to rest.” I look between the family crests. “If that’s what you want, you can pick which ground you want to lay her in.”
A flicker runs across her expression. I’ve seen it before. It’s the panic of having a voice. Whenever Lavinia is given a choice, she freezes for a moment, uncertain of how to decide.
I wait patiently.
“That’s not her home,” she says quietly. “Leticia wasn’t a Bruin.”
“No,” I agree, thinking of my old friend. “But she was Tate’s, and Tate was ours. Her parents took mine up on the offer to have her buried here, so she’d be with friends.” I grip the steering wheel with my left hand, knowing this must be overstepping. “If you think that’s what she was to Leticia–a home–then we can bury her there. But, if you think it’s what your sister would want, we can place her next to your mother instead.” I look to the North, knowing it’s a bit riskier, disturbing Lucia soil. Not that it matters. I might not belong in that section of the cemetery, but Lavinia and her sister do. I’ll fight for their right to be there if I have to.
She thinks for a long moment, eyes focused on the marble headstone signaling the short life of Emily Lucia. “No,” she says with an exhale. “You’re right. She deserves some peace. Something my father could never give her. This is…” Her fingers wind in mine. “This is right. Isn’t it?”
I gaze into her questioning eyes, giving a nod. “I think so.”
I’m prepared. While Lavinia is wrapping her sweater around herself, I get out and round the back of the car, removing a small, watertight box from the trunk. The skull, the only remaining part of Leticia we have, is securely sealed inside. I pluck out the bouquet of flowers resting next to it, and when Lavinia appears, I hand them to her.
She takes the flowers, pressing her nose to the petals. “Blue again,” she notices, eyes soft and somber.
I scratch my neck, gesturing to them. “Remy said I should.” Idly, I wonder how long it’s going to take him to realize that blue means something more to him than just calm and trust.
Last, I grab the shovel.
“So we can just… dig?” she asks, looking around. We’re alone, the sky gray and wet, casting the cemetery in a cold shroud of mist. No funerals or visitors today.
“You can if you pay off the caretaker.” I close the trunk, assuring her, “The family knows. Dad, Pops, and Mom are all good with this.”
She frowns, hugging herself against a gust of wind. “They’re really okay with a Lucia crashing your family’s eternal life?”
I tighten my hold on the box tucked under my arm. “They’re okay with Tate being with someone she loved,” I venture, which is mostly the truth. The other part is that they know Lavinia must be more to us than a mere Duchess if I’m willing to go to all this trouble. I gesture toward the iron gate in the distance, ducking my head as I walk. “My parents don’t buy into this bloodline thing the way other Royals do, Lavinia. Tate was our family, just like Remy is.”
When we arrive at the graves, I find her there. Tatum Grady. Her headstone is a smooth black granite, etched with the date of her birth and death. I stare at it for a long moment, thinking of the last time I was here, six months after her funeral. Nick was gone. Remy was barely himself. I was bruised and swollen from the fight I’d just won at a random bar, drowning my misery in a bottle of shitty malt liquor. Everything was so fractured and hopeless back then, and I find myself wanting to tell Tate everything.
This is Lavinia, I want to say. She put the parts of us we couldn’t find back together.
But when I glance over, she’s staring at Tate’s grave with a pale, drawn expression. “This is her?”
I nod, nudging the ground beside her grave with the tip of the shovel. “I was thinking here. They’d be close.”
Lavinia’s throat jumps with a swallow and she crouches, fingers plucking a single blue flower from the bouquet. I watch silently as she places it on Tate’s headstone, the mist clinging to her powdery blue hair like glitter. “Thank you.” At first, I think she’s thanking Tate, but then she looks up, meeting my gaze. “And thank them for me, too. Your parents.”
Clearing my throat, I shrug. “You’re welcome.” I don’t tell her I’m doing it for Tate as well, because I’m not sure how to explain it. Tate and Leticia had something. Maybe she felt the same way about Leticia as I feel about Lavinia, and it cuts at my mind that Tate hid it from me–from us. Whatever she needed, some facet of trust that wasn’t there, I figure I can give her this. Some small, ultimately meaningless gesture of acceptance.
She’s silent as I dig, my shovel cutting into the earth. I’d waited until a day like this, the ground wet and soft after a night of rain, to finally come out here. It helps that things back at the tower are more settled, Remy attending his classes and support group, while Nick tends to higher stakes DKS duties. This is exactly what I’ve needed. Something real. Something useful.
It’s been a long time since I didn’t have someone else to worry about.
The mud clings to my boots, and halfway through, I strip off my jacket and overshirt, handing both to Lavinia before returning to the task. I’m hit with the sudden curiosity of what they may have been like–Lavinia and Tate–if they’d ever met.
The thought is both tragic and terrifying.
When I’m done, I stab the shovel into the mound of upturned dirt, turning to her.
“This should be deep enough.”
She hasn’t said one word and I search her eyes, wondering if I’m fucking this up. It’s still a mystery to me how Nick and Remy can just… be with her so easily. Every time I try something like this, my palms sweat. My chest feels too tight. My mind runs a mile a second, always questioning.
So when she begins trying to open that box, I jolt. “You don’t have to–”
Her eyes fly to mine. “It doesn’t make sense, does it? She was such a bitch to me, but… I can’t do it.” Her fingers unlatch the box, revealing the skull inside. “I can’t just leave her in this box.”
My heart falls into my stomach as I watch her crouch down, placing the box on the dirt. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” A fucking cemetery. Really? Bring the girl with pathological claustrophobia to a place where all the bodies are in boxes. Real smooth, shithead. Sighing, I offer, “You’re giving her something she never gave you. But…” I hold her eyes, almost unable to bear the strange, panicked misery swimming within them. “Boxes aren’t always bad, Lav. It’ll protect her.”
She glances down at the skull, teeth worrying at her lip. “You don’t think it’s cruel?”
“The things that were done to you…” I stall, trying to find the right words. “Leticia probably had her own demons.”
There’s a moment where she just stares at the skull. And then, “Leticia had the chance to take her freedom. Maybe if she’d had someone to protect her like I do, she would have kept it.” Slowly, she closes the box. “You’re right.”
Still, she springs up, like she might change her mind at any moment. That’s the only reason I act swiftly, lowering it into the hole.
Brushing my hands off, I ask, “Do you want a minute alone? I can go wait in—”
“Stay.” Her hand clamps on my forearm. “Please.”
Like there’s any fucking way I could say no to her. “Of course.”
“When I was ten,” she’s staring down at the box, clutching the flowers to her stomach. For a second, I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or Leticia, her face so set and blank. “Dad put out two tables across from one another. Each filled with duplicate weapons. Pistols, revolvers, shotguns, and a box of mixed-up bullets. He stood at the end, set the timer, and told us the first one to get each one fully loaded with the right bullets would be the winner.” Her voice catches, eyes sliding away. “You won. Of course, you won. And I spent the next twenty-four hours in the chest.” Her brows pull together, eyes beginning to brim with a shiny wetness. “For a long time, I thought that was your fault. But now I understand that, like me, you were just trying to survive. While he was breaking me down, he was building you up for a life just as miserable.”
When a tear finally spills over, she angrily swats it away. I pull a handkerchief out of my pocket, pressing it in her hand, and she stares at it in surprise before going on.
“With all the lies and secrets and competitions, we never had any hope of being sisters. Real sisters. I always figured that made us less like family, but here’s the thing, Tish. No one in the world could ever understand what it was like to grow up as a Lucia but the two of us. Maybe that’s the realest sisterhood of all.” She chuckles darkly. “It took me a long time, but I realize now that’s why Dad pitted us against one another. Because he knew that together we were stronger than him.” She shifts, her shoulders squaring. “But what he didn’t understand then, and doesn’t understand now, is all the abuse, the challenges, the belittlement… it did make me stronger, Tish. Strong enough for the both of us.” Her hand finds mine, cold fingers threading through mine. “I’m sorry I never got to meet Tate. I’m sorry you had to run away and didn’t feel like you could come to me for help. I’m sorry that our father is a sociopathic monster who cares more about money and power than his own family.” Her tears fall faster now, and she makes no attempt to stop them. When she speaks next, it’s full of resolve. “We will find out who killed you and Tate, and we’ll make them pay. But I promise you, big sister, Dad is going to find out just what kind of Lucia girls he’s raised.”
She inhales deeply, and I press a kiss to her temple, my own throat feeling tight. “That was perfect.”
In the middle of the graveyard, a murder of crows surveys us from the crypt as we cover the box with layers of dirt, their caws setting our rhythm. When there’s nothing left but a mound that doesn’t quite fit back in, Lavinia bends, resting the bouquet of flowers on the soft soil. When she straightens, she leans into me, and it doesn’t matter that I was the one who did all the physical labor.
She’s the more exhausted of the two of us.
Wrapping my arms around her body, I tuck her into me, ignoring the way her little body is shaking. “You’re right, you know,” I say, watching as the crows depart, their wings flapping in the mist as they fade into the distance. “All that pain and suffering made you strong. Probably the strongest woman I know, and hell, I know Mama B.”
She takes a deep breath, her back expanding against my forearms, and then tips her head back to meet my gaze. “Thank you for doing this for me,” she says, eyelids fluttering when I thumb away her tears. “I’ve been trying to find out how I could forgive her, and now…”
“I know,” I say, thinking of Nick and all the hurt he’s caused. “Family can feel like that sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” she agrees, ducking her head as she wipes her face.
I take her hand and lead her down the path to the car, clutching my jacket and the shovel awkwardly in front of me. The mist is lifting now, a single ray of anemic sunlight limping through the clouds overhead as I open the door for her.
I have a stern talk with myself, jaw tight as I stand over the trunk, breathing hard. Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror when I slam the hatch, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt so bare, my nerves zinging as I hobble toward my door, wrenching it open. When I drop into the driver’s seat, Lavinia turns to me with shrewd, assessing eyes.
“You know, you’re not too bad at this boyfriend thing,” she says, giving me a soft, tired smile.
I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the emotional upheaval of the last hour, and trying so hard to hold it together. Maybe seeing Tate’s grave dug up too many memories. Maybe when Lavinia looks at me like this, it just makes me feel like scum.
Either way, I can’t hold it in anymore.
“I’m fucking terrible,” I burst, fisting my jacket as I lift it off my lap. I point to the obscene bulge hiding beneath. “Would a good boyfriend get a fucking boner at a funeral?”
Her eyes drop to my crotch, narrowing. “Well… I’ve read that emotional stimuli can–”
I don’t let her finish. “I lied to you, Lavinia.”
A little of the reclaimed brightness fades in her eyes. “About what?”
I open my mouth, but the words are lodged in my throat. It’s a struggle to speak, not for any physical reason, although I’d blame it on that if I could. No, this is something I’ve held onto for so long that saying it out loud—acknowledging it—admitting it, feels like pushing a boulder up a mountain.
Clutching the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white, I train my eyes ahead, too cowardly to look her in the eye. “I talk about being in control all the time, feeding you that bullshit about not being able to stop myself once it gets past a certain point.” In my periphery, I can see her watching, her gaze like a painful point of heat on my face. “But it’s all a lie. The truth–the real truth I haven’t had the guts to face–is that I like how it feels to lose control. To punch someone in the face. To win. To claim.” I finally turn, finding the courage to meet her confused stare. “I could have stopped that night, Lavinia. I just didn’t want to.”
It sounds bad when I’ve spoken the words, somehow worse than the revelation felt in my head, and that’s saying a lot. It’s the reason I left that night, turning my back on her, Nick, Remy, and DKS. Running away. I couldn’t face the truth of it, which is that I had something so fucking good and I ruined it with this creeping, writhing selfishness inside of me.
A shudder runs through her, and I stiffen, preparing myself for the tears. The screams. The slap. The kick. I’d deserve it.
Instead, she laughs.
It’s a quiet, mirthless sound, her mouth twisting into a wry purse. “Yeah, Big Bear. I know.”
“You… know.” I repeat.
She shrugs. “Did I ever for one second buy that you have some uncontrollable beast inside of you?” She gives me an obvious look. “Not even remotely. I guess I was just waiting for you to figure it out yourself.”
Lamely, I say, “Oh.”
That’s the response to my big confession? The open admission to my greatest flaw? She knows?
Quieter, she adds, “I can see it in your face, Sy. I can feel it on your skin when you give in, sparking like electricity. You do have control, but you love losing it. Being selfish, letting go, taking something for yourself… it’s a rush.” Her eyes drop to her lap. “It’s how you escape your box.”
It’s probably the most scared I’ve ever felt, realizing Lavinia Lucia knows more about me than I do myself. “Well, shit.” I run my hand through my hair. “Guess that wasn’t such a revelation then.”
Now I feel like both an asshole and an idiot.
“But it’s a revelation to you,” she says, reaching out to curl her palm over my strained knuckles. “I don’t need an apology, Sy. Trust isn’t built on expensive dinners and pretty words. Those aren’t what I’ve been waiting for. All I’ve needed is this.”
I swallow thickly, hypnotized by her flowery scent. “Really?”
She looks at where her thumb is stroking over my fingers. “It’s easy to blame your weaknesses on something you think is unchangeable. A sickness. A biological flaw in how your brain is wired. But Sy, you’re not Remy. There’s nothing wrong with you that can’t be changed.”
The words strike a chord that guts me, because she’s more right than she knows. Watching Remy these past two weeks has made it painfully obvious that it wouldn’t matter anyway. Even with his disorder, he still fights, and anyone who fights still has a chance of winning.
I have no excuse.
“And you believe I have?” I ask, heart thudding hard. “Changed?”
She doesn’t answer.
Not with words.
Suddenly, she’s climbing over the gearshift, my hands flying up as she straddles my lap.
“What are you–?” My words are cut off with her kiss, lips eager and demanding against mine.
My dick is hard—it has been since she kissed me. With one hand I push her hair back over her shoulder, thumb stroking the column of her neck, and with the other I extend the seat, making room for the two of us. Her hips rock forward, and I groan. We’re so close, noses an inch apart, and I see the want in her eyes. The need. But…
“Lav.”
Two spots of color rise on her cheeks, tongue licking out to wet her lips. “I can’t fuck you right now, because it’d probably take a lot of time and practice and patience.”
“I know,” I say, grimacing from the feel of her pressing down on my cock. “I’m not–you don’t have to–”
She plucks another long, wet kiss from my lips, whispering against them. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want you.” But she takes it further, grabbing my fingers and pushing them between her legs, beneath her skirt. I go where she leads, following far enough to reluctantly tuck my fingers beneath lacy elastic.
I bite out a low, “Fuck,” chasing her mouth when she leans back to give me more room. My girl is wet, slick under her cotton panties. Shuddering, I yank them aside and finger her folds, asking, “Like this?”
She lets out a hitched breath, nodding, and I surge forward, capturing her lips with mine. Our tongues slide together, and I feel it, burning beneath the surface like napalm.
God, I just want to let go.
I settle for pushing stiltedly at her sweater, asking in a gravelly voice, “What are the rules?” She helps me lift the sweater over her head, brows crushing inward when I begin palming hungrily at her tits, daring to hook my fingers in the top of her bra, fisting. My breath comes so quick and loud that I feel the tips of my ears burn in embarrassment. “You have to tell me. How far?”
She pauses for a second, staring at me with heavy, sex-fogged eyes, and it just makes it all so much worse.
But also so much better.
“I want to ride your cock,” she finally tells me, pushing higher on her knees. Her eyes are dark and full of want, and when she tugs at my shirt, I’m powerless to do anything but tear it over my head. “I want to feel you against me.”
I reply unthinkingly, breathlessly. “Yeah, baby, I want that, too.” It takes me a long moment to realize why she’s hovering there, and I jolt in surprise as I get with the program, reaching down to tear my belt open. I watch her carefully as I pop the button, shoving my jeans down my hips, but she doesn’t look afraid.
She glances down at it and licks her lips.
“Shit.” My cock jerks eagerly in my hand, and I grip the base, hissing as the tip grazes her inner thigh.
It isn’t until she contorts herself, working her panties down her legs, baring her pussy beneath her skirt, that I realize where this is going. It’s an agonizing tease. Even the radiating heat of her is enough to make my cock give a surge of precum.
Her lips fall to my shoulder, hot and unbearably sensual, but it’s the scrape of her teeth that sends a wave of blood to my cock.
I pull aside the cup of her bra and drop my mouth to her nipple, licking and sucking, tugging at it until her back arches, driving her pussy down. She said against, not in, and despite the tease of it, I’m more than willing to make that happen. I guide my cock across her folds, spreading her wetness from front to back.
Her shoulders jerk with a shudder, voice low and strained. “Do that again,” she says, and I rut up against her, realizing my dick is long enough that it nudges at her backside. She mewls. “Yes, that. God, Sy, your cock.” She gasps, looking overwhelmed and almost as tortured as I feel. “I can feel you everywhere.”
Her praise spurs me on, and I grab her ass, spreading her cheeks wide enough to bury the sensitive tip in her soft, sweet flesh, hitting her clit to tail.
Fuck.
Her cunt is like slick, liquid fire against my cock, and I grip her hips hard just to keep her still.
“Wait,” I urge, mouthing against her warm cheek. “Let me feel it…”
If I were a better man, I’d look back on that night at the party–my first time being inside a woman–and feel nothing but disgust because of the way I behaved. I’m not a better man, though. With my cock nestled in her folds, her hips making these little hitching rolls against it, all I feel is disappointed that it couldn’t be good. Our breaths have fogged the windows, her forehead tipping to rest against mine, and I can see how we’re supposed to be. Me and her, not her and Remy, or her and Nick.
Lavinia and I were made to be like this. Tender and careful, her hips rolling against mine in a slow rhythm. Her tits rock with every thrust and her nails tug at the hair at the base of my neck. There’s a sense of inhibition, something that’s never transpired between us. Trust? Grief? Abject horniness? There’s no lesson here. No justification. I want her and she wants me. Whatever emotion she’s riding, I chase it, matching her pace, her movements, her desire.
Do I want to fuck her?
Hell yes.
So badly that my bones ache from holding back.
But more than that, I want this to last. I want her in my bed every night. I want her warm body pressed against mine. I know if I hurt her again, I’ll lose her forever, so everything I do is about making her feel good.
Making her mine.
“Jesus, I’m not gonna last,” I say, dropping my forehead to the crook of her neck. “You feel too fucking good.”
She tugs my hair, forcing my eyes back to hers. “Don’t hold back. Let go, Big Bear.”
The command to unleash ripples through me. My hands clamp around her hips but it doesn’t still the shudder running down her spine, or the muscles in her thighs from clamping around mine. I fall with her, exploding in the narrow channel between her legs, the hot, sticky cum binding us together.
The air in the car is hot. Sweaty skin. Shuddering breaths. It should be stifling but I feel like I’m gulping in fresh air for the first time in my life.
It’s the result of letting go. Revelation.
It’s the embodiment of us.
