I’m not sure where Sarah is taking me, but I know better than to push back when my boyfriends’ mother wants me to go with her. Although, the abrupt way we left when talk about the poker game came up gives me a clue.
She leads me to the back of the house. At the jagged turn of the hallway, I get the sense a few walls have been knocked down. That’s confirmed when she enters a large ensuite, which is beautiful, but out of place in an older home. I hesitate outside the door, but she beckons me in, stopping at an antique apothecary chest. While she opens drawers, pulling out a small box and a bundle of dark blue satin, I survey the space.
The room is a nice size, with the bed taking up the majority of the space. It’s massive, and for a second, I get caught up in imagining the three of them in there, all wound around each other like my Dukes were with me this morning.
I’ve heard of some Royal women whose relationships with two or more of her guys extended past their tenure in house leadership. Story and her Lords weren’t the first, and they won’t be the last. But that’s usually just horny college stuff. Guys getting off on the thrill of sharing a girl. Girls getting off on the thrill of being shared. I’ve never seen a relationship like theirs last this far into adulthood. Marriage, houses, kids, careers.
I think about how Sarah sleeps with two men—and I sleep with three.
How did they make it work?
She passes the bed for a set of French doors, opening them to reveal a deck that overlooks the sloped backyard. “Let’s get some air,” she suggests, beckoning me through the doors. Once we’re out there, the space illuminated by a string of lights, she gestures to a couch, eyes wistful as she stares out over the yard. “Manny built this about ten years ago. I’m sure you’ll come to see that Perilinis are very handy.”
The cushions are soft and I sink into them, feeling awkward. “Oh, I know. Sy’s been helping me with a project.”
She takes the bench seat across from mine. There’s a table between us, or what I think is a table until she flips a switch and fire ignites from the top. “It’s a little chilly. Do you need a blanket?”
“No.” I warm my hands over the firepit. “I’m good.”
She sets the two items she’s retrieved from the apothecary chest on the seat beside her and flips open the box, removing a rolled joint. Sarah’s eyes assess me carefully. “I hope this is okay.”
I straighten. “Sure.”
“Usually I just take an edible, but when the weather is nice, I like to sit back here and relax.” She flicks the lighter and burns the tip. The red ember glows when she takes a drag. “Want a hit?”
“God, yes.” I lean over and take it, securing the thinly rolled joint between my fingers. I take a drag, feeling the burn in my chest, and my slight cough makes Sarah grin.
“First time?” she asks.
“Sarah.” I stare at her. “I’m North Side.”
She laughs, watching me take another hit. “I guess you’d know a thing or two about it then.”
Inspecting the joint, I say, “Ironically, growing up, my father didn’t allow drugs in the house. I guess after my mother OD’d, he figured he’d keep me and Leticia away from the garbage that killed her.” I arch an eyebrow. “Until we’d eventually need to organize the mass sale of it, that is.”
Sarah nods, bending to take the joint from me. “But you kids always find a way, don’t you?”
Shrugging, I exhale, watching the plume rise into the evening sky. “I know the guys used to keep weed and stuff in the tower, but ever since Remy got clean, so have we.”
“Ah.” She gazes at the joint thoughtfully before taking another drag. “That’s good to hear.”
As she passes it back, I take the chance to say what’s been on my mind for a while. “Can I ask you a question?”
She doesn’t even pause. “Of course, but let me warn you. If you want to know how to balance the sex drive of three young men, I may need a glass of wine to go with this.”
“Um…” That is not what I wanted to ask, but fuck, maybe later. After two glasses of wine. “Actually, I was wondering about Saul. Did you ever… love him?”
“No,” she says with zero hesitation, barking a harsh laugh. “We had some good times, and I accepted him as my third Duke, but I’m not sure it’s possible to love a man like Saul. I know for certain he’s incapable of loving anyone but himself.”
I think about how bitter Sy was when they first won me from the Lords. He loathed me. He was terrible to me, but I saw his love for his brother and Remy. I knew he had the capacity for it. We just had to tear down those walls.
Sarah takes another slow drag and hands the joint back to me. “Not that any of it was easy. Back then, Davis and Manny wanted two things: to fight and fuck. It was fun, but later, they saw I wanted more. To have a career, to build a family.” There’s a dread in her eyes that startles me to see. “Saul always wanted one thing: Power, by any means necessary.”
“Sounds familiar,” I say, thinking of my father.
She lifts her feet, resting them on the edge of the pit, warming them. “But we tried to make it work, and for a while, we did.” A nostalgic smile pulls at her mouth. “Saul was handsome and a strong fighter. On campus and at the gym, we made it seem like everything was fine. We put on a show. But back at the tower,” she waves a hand, “he wasn’t involved in our relationship at all. After a while, he didn’t require much from me—sexually speaking. Turns out, he had incredibly specific desires, and I didn’t check the boxes.”
“Wait.” I pause with the joint suspended halfway to my lips. “Is Saul gay or something? Is that why he doesn’t have a Queen or any kids?” Saul has always been a strange Royal outlier. Ashby doesn’t have any blood heirs either, but that’s a special circumstance. To have a child and lose it so young…
But she shakes her head. “Oh no, not Saul. He’s bolted very firmly to the zero on the Kinsey scale.” Her expression turns pensive. “It might even be one of the reasons I specialized in sex therapy. I suppose you could say his predilections fascinated me. I wouldn’t call Saul deviant, just… very particular. Nothing about me fit what he wanted.” She spins her wedding ring around her finger. “Specifically, I wasn’t a Royal daughter or a sweet, compliant virgin.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? Saul’s forever alone because he’s just a big, throbbing Royal cliche?” But then I think about what Story’s told me about the Kings’ plans for her. She was meant to be their asset until she ran away, leaving me in her place. She was it. A sweet little virginal Royal daughter–not by blood, but who knows? Maybe she was close enough. I look up at Sarah in shock. “God, he really is, isn’t he?”
She shrugs. “I thought we’d reached an agreeable place in our relationship. He had the status to get ahead. I had two men that I loved and who worshiped me in return.”
I take another drag before passing the joint back over the table. “I hear a ‘but’ coming.”
She gives me a tight smile. “It was little stuff at first. He was dismissive to me. Demeaning. He wanted me to treat him like a god while he acted like I was dirt on the bottom of his shoe. He trivialized my academic drive. While Davis, Manny and I were taking classes and partying, Saul was making plans.”
My muscles ease, the cannabis seeping into my bloodstream. “What kind of plans?”
She tips her head back, exhaling a long stream of smoke. “Business plans. Social plans. Setting the frat up for his takeover. For instance,” she says, giving me a significant look, “the alumni poker game.”
A shiver runs up my spine. “Oh. That.”
Nodding, she explains, “Gambling and tradition have always been West End vices, but it was Saul’s idea to turn the annual poker game into a networking opportunity. Suddenly, it wasn’t just a fun night to catch up with everyone and lose all their money. He’s the one who came up with the idea of having the cutsluts provide entertainment.” Barking a sour laugh, she adds, “Hell, he’s the one who came up with cutsluts. Him and Mama B.”
“Really?” For some reason, a part of me had always figured the cutsluts were an institution as old as the clock tower itself, only now that I think about it, it makes sense.
“Oh, yes,” she says, flapping a hand. “Of course, there were always gym girls milling around. They just gave them a name. An identity. A purpose. I’m sure he pitched it to Mama B as the most feminist thing she ever heard.”
I give her a doubtful look. “And now he basically wants me to be one.” Leaving out everything relating to the blackmail, I explain that Saul wants me to be the entertainment.
“He wants you to perform,” she clarifies, going quiet. I don’t like the sting of pity in her eyes, but even worse is the tug of confusion in her brow. “I doubt Saul’s ever ordered a Duchess to do that before. You understand that, don’t you? It’s not your duty.”
Shifting uncomfortably, I say, “He’s my King now. My duty is whatever he says it is.” She knows this is smoke and mirrors, surely. I’m Lavina Lucia. I don’t take orders from just anyone.
Not unless they have something on me.
“Lavinia…” From her pause, I get the impression she’s choosing her words very carefully. “You’re a Royal daughter. The exact thing he’s always wanted.”
“I’m not sweet or virginal,” I point out, scoffing.
“Still,” she says, reaching out to place her hand over mine. “You’re not safe with him. From one Duchess to another, I need you to know that.”
I raise an eyebrow. “It’d take a truly stupid girl to think she’s safe with any King, let alone one who’s competing with her father.” More thoughtfully, I add, “I don’t trust Saul, but I trust Remy and your sons. They’ll protect me.”
There’s a light in her eyes that dims with each passing word, until finally, she leans back, taking a steeling breath. “I have a question for you, too. Normally, this is something I’d ask them directly. I don’t like secrets, Lavinia.” Her mouth flattens to a tense line. “Unfortunately, Nick does.”
Squirming under the weight of her gaze, I already know I won’t betray Nick–not even to his mother. Still, I answer, “What do you want to know?”
She watches me intently, her words quiet and solemn. “Does my son intend to take Saul’s crown?”
I lock up, feeling foolish. If she brought me out here and got me stoned just to interrogate me about Nick’s plans… “I don’t know,” I answer, unable to blame her. “Maybe.”
She gives a slow, heavy nod. “I was afraid of that. Maybe I’ve always been afraid of that.”
“Would it be so bad?” I wonder, searching her expression. Pretty Nick Bruin, King of West End, the way it should be. Yeah, Nick has issues, but he’s no Saul Cartwright. He’d do right by our house. “To the victor go the spoils,” I remind her. Nick would have power, prominence, opportunity. There’s not a lot of that out there for a guy with his background. Men with facial tattoos don’t become CEOs.
She gives me a slow, sad smile. “And to the defeated go the casket.”
I feel my face harden. “My Dukes don’t lose.”
“I hope you’re right,” she says, eyes tired and damp as she reaches for the bundle of blue silk beside her. “But just in case you’re not…” She flips the fabric up, revealing a curvy, silver spike. No–not a spike.
A snake.
It’s about ten inches long, and I’m so enthralled by the glint of the fire catching on the scales that it takes me a long moment to recognize what it is.
A hair pin.
“It was your mother’s.”
My eyes fly to hers, heart skipping a beat. “What?”
Sarah extends it to me, explaining, “I guess you can say she loaned it to me. It was after one of Davis’ matches.”
I reach out, fingers hovering over the pin, before plucking it from the satin. It’s heavy and solid, shiny and– “Shit,” I hiss, pricking the pad of my fingertip on the spiked edge.
Sarah nods. “It’s a weapon just as much as an ornament.” She gestures to my hair, which I’d pulled up into a loose bun for the night. “She wore her hair like that a lot.”
I’ve seen photos, my mother’s long, blonde hair twisted up into a bun, usually with one of these stabbed through it. The hair pin is an ornament, delicate and feminine, and I feel my world reorient itself as I imagine her having held this in her hand.
“She loaned it to you?” I press, trying not to sound accusatory.
She winces. “I meant to give it back, but it wasn’t too long after that we left the belfry for good.” Sarah nods at the pin. “The night she gave it to me, Davis was fighting her Count. Not your father,” she’s quick to add. “But it was a rowdy crowd and some of the Kappas were out for blood. I’m sure you can appreciate that the wardrobe of a Royal woman isn’t always conducive to concealed weaponry.” She smirks at the comprehension dawning on my face.
“This is a weapon a woman can wear with anything,” I realize.
“Yes,” she agrees, watching me intensely. “Or nothing.”
I shudder to imagine the situations my mother–or even Sarah herself–must have found herself in back then.
I guess I won’t have to imagine for long.
Reluctantly, I confess, “I’ve… never had anything of my mother’s before. Anything worth handing down went to my sister, and Lucias… well, we aren’t much for sharing.” Tearing my eyes away from the silver, I look up, meeting Sarah’s gaze as I spear the pin through my hair. “Thank you.”
She responds with a tight smile. “I know my boys would do anything to protect you. I also know they’ve been one of the things you’ve needed protection from.”
Frowning, I say, “Things are different now.”
“I’ve seen.” She doesn’t look relieved. If anything, the crease of worry in her forehead deepens. “But Lavinia, some things about my sons will never change. I promise you, I’ve tried. These… personality traits might make them good Dukes, but I suspect they don’t make them easy to love.”
I hesitate, unsure I can tell her what she wants to hear. The way I am with my Dukes… it’s still new. “What are you getting at?”
“I just hope,” she says, eyes dipping down to her wringing hands, “if you’re ever put in the position, you’ll protect my sons the same way they’d protect you.”
When it finally hits me, I jolt. “Of course I would.” As much as I want to feel insulted by the implication I’d let them die, I know Sarah couldn’t understand. She looks at me and sees the same broken, bitter girl who was sitting in the clock tower before the Baron’s equinox party.
“I can’t help them, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t want to.” I looked her in the eye that day, telling her nothing but the bare truth of it. “You seem like a nice woman, but you need to know this. Your sons are fucking terrible.”
In the glint of the string lights, I can almost imagine Sarah as she used to be. Young and commanding, beautiful and strong–just like my mother. Her eyes sparkle as she smiles. “You really are the perfect Duchess,” she muses, the praise warming me in a way I’m not expecting. “Sometimes I think that’s why they keep the families competing, you know. A Lucia girl in West End? No one would have entertained it, but here you are, getting ready.”
I blink. “Getting ready for what?”
“To become a Queen.” Her eyebrow arches meaningfully. “Maybe.”
The words bring me up short. I’ve thought about it before, back when I was nothing but a prisoner. The thought of using Nick’s position as Bruin to climb my way to a place where I’d have the power to fight back was enticing. But now the reminder makes my stomach flop uneasily.
If Nick becomes King, that’s what I’ll be.
His Queen.
I’ve spent my whole life trying to escape a box–my father’s chest, the Hideaway, the elevator. Maybe Sarah managed to make it out, but I’m not a Bruin. I’m a Lucia. I’m North Side.
Where I come from, Royal women always end up in a box–dead or alive.
“Killian called me into his office after we broke into the Hideaway and tagged Lavinia.”
I freeze just outside the kitchen, overhearing Nick’s words. Sarah had sent me down to pilfer a couple pieces of birthday cake, the weed making us maudlin and hungry, but I pause, straining to hear the conversation.
He goes on, “For a second, I thought I was busted. Fuck, part of me is still surprised I walked out of that whorehouse alive. Killian might be a jock, but the guy isn’t exactly stupid.”
“And these are the Lords,” Sy stresses. “Not exactly forgiving of being double-crossed.”
“But you’re still alive,” Davis says in a confused tone.
Nick explains, “Saul and the Lords have massive beef. Something major went down, but Killian Payne wasn’t in the position to handle it himself. Not when he was newly anointed and scrambling to get a foothold in his father’s Kingdom. He needed someone he trusted–more than Saul, at least–to head up the Dukes and take him out. I’m a Bruin. Killer knew I had a ticket in, and he wanted to use it.”
Manny sounds incredulous. “You’re saying you manipulated Killian Payne–a rival King–into giving you their asset?”
Nick’s voice rings out defensively. “I didn’t manipulate. I just… maneuvered things. Strategically.”
“Jesus Christ, Nick,” Davis groans. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“He wasn’t,” Sy mutters, but Nick cuts in.
“Saul wanted revenge on the Lords. The Lords want revenge on Saul. I wanted Lavinia Lucia.” There’s a long pause–probably all of them figuring out what I already know. Nick’s problem isn’t that he fails to think things through. It’s that he’s so good at thinking things through, he can turn bad ideas into weirdly brilliant ones. He scoffs. “Guys. It was a win-win-win.”
“And now it’s a cluster fuck-fuck-fuck,” Remy says, voice garbled in a way that suggests he’s in the middle of eating something.
“Let me get this straight,” Manny says. “The Lords gave you Lavinia in exchange for your position in the belfry, which would be beneficial to them.”
“Yes.”
“But they only did that in light of your… uh, initiation ritual,” Manny stutters, which is reasonable. Not many initiation rituals include breaking into the basement of a whorehouse and assaulting their prisoner.
Then again, this is Forsyth.
Maybe they do.
Davis says, “So this video…” and I feel my face instantly flare with heat. I’m definitely not stoned enough to survive hearing their fathers talk about that video. “It’s hard, indisputable proof that you knowingly, deliberately betrayed the Lords.”
“And,” Manny adds, “if Saul were to show it to Payne, they’d come after you.”
Sy’s the one to answer, the words low and harsh. “Best case, we’d start a massive war with the only house who’s ever shown a willingness to ally with us. Worst case, they’d hunt us down like dogs in the street.”
There’s another beat of silence, and then Davis speaks, the words full of defeat. “Then Remy was right. He’s got you by the balls.” There’s an anger in his tone that surprises me to hear. It’s not anger directed at Nick, nor does it seem directed at Saul. Davis sounds more angry with himself than anything. “I should have–”
Ding!
I stiffen, fumbling my phone from my pocket to silence it, but I know it’s already too late. The kitchen has gone pointedly silent. I read the text notification without really intending to, my face burning in embarrassment at being caught.
And then I see the message.
It’s only four words–barely a sentence–but it might as well be a sledgehammer with the way my chest caves.
“Vinny?” Remy calls out. “You out there?”
Swallowing, I tear my eyes away from the screen, shuffling slowly into the kitchen. Davis and Manny are on the counter, Remy and Nick at the table, Sy standing in the middle of it all with his hands buried in his pockets. The birthday cake is a gruesome carcass, but even if it weren’t, I’ve lost my appetite.
“Story just messaged me.” I hold my phone up, clearing my throat. “It’s the Countess.”
All of them are staring at me, but Sy’s the one to speak, lip curling in distaste. “Let me guess. Another depressing revenge scheme is brewing in North Side.”
“That’d be red.” Remy’s up in an instant, searching my eyes. “This is green.”
Clutching the phone, I explain, “She OD’d this morning.” The words fall with all the grace of a boulder. “She’s dead.”
The car ride home is quiet. Remy sits next to me in the backseat, strangely still. He’s not moving at all, other than to rub his thumb in an idle circuit against my knee.
“Are you okay?” I ask him, after meeting Sy’s eye in the rearview mirror.
“Yeah.” His inked fingers lift my chin. “Are you?”
It’s not like I have the right to be anything else. Sutton was an enemy. Her boyfriend was killed by one of my boyfriends. My family did this to her. My father’s Viper Scratch. His Count’s recklessness. My Duke’s revenge. It’s like my name is all over this, but in all truth, I barely knew her–never wanted to.
Still, something dark gnaws at my chest as we arrive back at the tower, and by the time we reach the main floor, it hasn’t gotten any lighter.
It’s not just about Sutton.
It’s about my sister’s skull, the only part of her that this town spat back out, sitting in an unmarked grave. It’s about the woman who sat across from me an hour ago, asking me to save her sons. It’s about the woman who once loaned her a weapon, even though they were rivals, because my mother knew something I’m only just figuring out.
Royal women are women first and Royal second.
Remy and Sy both disappear into their rooms, but I stand beside the couch, watching as Nick methodically unties his boots. I’m not sure what makes the question break free. I just know that it emerges like a hiccup, unstoppable.
“Would you let me leave?” I ask.
His back is curved into an exhausted bow as he leans down, forehead creasing. “What?”
“If I tried to run again,” I clarify. “Would you stop me?”
Nick’s fingers go still for the briefest moment, tangled in the laces, before he yanks them harder. His reply comes low and harsh. “Why would you ask me that?”
My eyes narrow as I watch his stiff, jerky movements, palms prying the boot from his ankle. “Why aren’t you answering?”
His eyes fly to mine, flinty and hard. “Why are you pretending you don’t already know the answer?”
My breath escapes in a punch of shock, although I don’t know why it should. He’s right. Some part of me has been aware of this, too cowardly to face the truth. “So I’m still your prisoner.”
“You’re my girl!” he snaps, bolting to his feet. He extends an arm, jabbing a finger toward my loft. “I told you that night, there’s no going back for me. You heard me–I know you did. So why are you bringing this up now?”
For a moment, his reaction renders me speechless. His nostrils are flared, shoulders tensed into a hard line. When I finally find my voice, I say, “I thought things had changed.” That’s the crux of it. I was arrogant enough to think I was different–that there’s a happy ending in this for us.
I was right, I think.
We all end up in a box.
His eyes widen in disbelief. “Look around you. Everything has changed!” He gestures broadly, and at first, the glint of frenzied rage in his eyes throws me off. “I’m not here for me. I’m not out there in Northridge chasing down rich kids because I give a shit about their pussy Preston turf wars. I’m not standing up and leading this frat because it’s some fucked up dream of mine.” He stabs a finger in my direction, insisting, “I’m doing this because it’s what you want me to do. And now what? You want to leave me?”
Suddenly, all the fury and weirdly intense panic make sense.
I lunge forward, taking his face in my hands. “Nick, no. I didn’t say I wanted to leave.” He’s so tense that he barely budges, not lowering his chin when I strain up, pressing a kiss to his stiff jaw. “I just need to know I could.”
His blue eyes dart down to mine. “You want to test me? Fine.” Jabbing a fist into his pocket, he yanks out a pair of keys, shoving them into my palm. “It’s got half a tank. That should get you out of the state.”
I blink down at the glimmer of silver in my fist, confused. “So you would let me?”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t leave Forsyth.” The response is rough and curt, but I hear with a crystal-clear clarity the words beneath them.
You just can’t leave me.
“You’d come with me,” I realize, chest thudding painfully as I meet his stony gaze. “Even after everything you’ve worked so hard to build. Sy, Remy, your parents–” My words bite off, because Nick loves them. I’ve seen it, felt it. He left them once, and maybe he had a good reason, but it cleaved a part of himself away. There’s only one response to this that rings true. “Nick, that’s crazy.”
“Of course it’s fucking crazy!” he explodes, the words hurled so viciously that they might as well be fists.
I couldn’t stop the flinch if I tried, stumbling back in shock.
His furious grimace plummets away, leaving a miserable, pleading expression in its wake. He drags both palms down his face. “Goddamn it, Lavinia. I’ve always been straight with you. I’ve never dressed this up into something it isn’t. I know you hate hearing it, and god knows you’ll never fucking say it back, but I still lay it out there.” He waves a slack hand between us. “I love you. To other guys, that means rainbows and fucking sunshine, but to me, it looks like this.” He holds out his arms as if presenting himself. The aggressive posture. The inked skin. The scars.
Take it or take it.
I deflate, wrapping my arms around myself. “You don’t understand. You’ve never had all your freedom taken away. Sometimes… the way you are with me…” I choke up, unable to tell the truth of it. Nick’s love can be scary. It’s been a long time since he locked me up and threw away the key, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’d do it again if it meant keeping me.
Nick knows, though.
“Freedom?” A wretched breath of laughter tears through his throat. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I’d follow you anywhere, put a gun to my head and pull the trigger, leave my family, my friends, my whole fucking world if you asked me to. But even after all these years, you still think the way I love you makes you a prisoner. When are you going to get it?” His jaw tightens, and he reaches up, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “You’re not shackled to me, Lavinia. I’m shackled to you.”
The defeated frustration in his eyes makes my stomach drop. Unthinkingly, I reach for him. “Nick, I didn’t mean–”
This time, he’s the one to flinch, turning away with a bowed head. “I’ll sleep in my room tonight,” he mutters.
He’s already slammed the door by the time I manage to process the enormity of that decision. Nick has been a chain around my neck since the first night we met, an obstacle between me and freedom. Standing here alone, I realize that somewhere deep down, I’ve been waiting around for him to give it back to me.
But maybe Nick’s been waiting, too.
A Queen would take it back herself.
