“Hey,” I say, knocking on Mama B’s door. “You have a minute?”
She flinches, head whipping forward, and given the way she quickly clears the frown on her face, I realize I’ve caught her in a moment of deep thought. A ledger is laying open on the desk in front of her, the old kind with rows of numbers jotted down in ink. Fight stats, bookie numbers, who knows what else. I’ve come to learn that Mama B is the record keeper and historian of the DKS gym. There’s nothing that goes on here that she doesn’t know about.
That’s why I hold out the clipboard I’ve been carrying around for the last week, clearing my throat. “Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to see if you could take a look over my checklist for the festival and poker game. I think I have everything in place, but I figured it would be good to have someone double check.”
Homecoming starts tomorrow, first with a parade, followed by the football game, and then finally the carnival. There’s no Fury this week, the carnival and poker game taking prominence. All of my focus has been narrowed down to the event–both events–and I’ve spent every moment outside of classes procuring everything on the prior Duchess’ list. A better woman could say that dedication is because of the sheer nature of the responsibility, but I have more than one reason to throw myself into a productive distraction.
The biggest one is named Nick Bruin.
He hasn’t said more than two words to me since our fight.
“Sure,” she says, scribbling down a last number and shutting the ledger. She takes the clipboard, giving me a scrutinizing stare.
“The extra items on the list are because Sutton had already backed off her obligations,” I say, wringing my hands. “But the rest of us are splitting the work.”
She nods, skimming the list quickly. “All of this looks good, except…”
Ugh. “Except what?”
She hands me back the clipboard. “The beer truck kegs are fine for the festival, but not the poker game. Bottles only—high end.”
Worrying my lip between my teeth, I explain, “I’m already pushing the budget on the alcohol. Saul sent a list of top-shelf to stock the bar with, so I figured I could save a little by ordering a few extra kegs from the festival vendor.”
“Make your cuts somewhere else, but not with the booze.” She looks me up and down, assessing me closely. “Nor the entertainment.”
“I’ll see what I can move around,” I say, hugging the clipboard so hard that the corners dig painfully into my breasts. “And I’m well aware of my entertainment obligations.”
She leans back, arm draped over the arm of her chair. Even after getting to know her better, I find the woman intimidating. She carries herself with absolute confidence—not like she’s surrounded by two dozen young cutsluts with perkier tits and tighter pussies. She’s the queen bee around this place, which makes no sense, when one considers she doesn’t have a drop of Royal blood running through her veins.
“You’re pissed about the show, aren’t you?” she asks, tapping her long nails on the edge of her desk.
“It’s humiliating,” I admit. I gave the cutsluts an out. They don’t have to participate if they don’t want to. But I don’t have that choice. Duchess’ duty. “Saul’s only making me do it because—” But I clamp my mouth shut.
Mama B’s eyes narrow enough for me to know she sees through my silence. She may not know about the video or why the video is a powerful piece on the chessboard between my Dukes and their King, but she doesn’t need details. She understands this world.
“You’re right,” she says, filling in the gap. “It doesn’t matter if it’s humiliating, demeaning, or degrading. Your King gave you a command.” She tilts her head, a calculating look crossing her features. “And you’re actually going to do it, aren’t you? You’re going to parade that prissy ass around the stage for a bunch of stuffy bruisers who’d give their left nutsacks to leave a handprint on it, and you’re not even going to put up a fuss.” I stiffen, expecting her to ridicule me for it, maybe even rub my face in it. Instead, she gives me a small, but no less severe grin. “I respect that, Lucia.” She stands from the chair and rounds the desk, walking to the door. “Come on.”
She strides past me on boots with five-inch heels, heading toward the cutslut’s lounge. None of the other girls are around, just a few guys working out in the gym. In the lounge, she passes the lockers and vanities, pulling out a ring of keys from her jacket pocket, which she uses to unlock a closet against the back wall.
“I’m sure we can find you something in here.” She glances at me over her shoulder. “No need to spend your own money for one night. Mama always does her girls up right.”
In the closet is a row filled with outfits, although the descriptor seems like a stretch. Nothing in that array of lace and silk could be described as actual clothing.
Lingerie is the better word.
“This is for under my costume, right?” I ask, shifting anxiously.
Mama B rolls her eyes. “Jesus, girl, stop acting like you’re some kind of delicate flower. We all know you’ve got three rowdy Dukes railing you balls-deep every night.” My jaw drops, but quickly snaps shut. Mama B notices, though, putting a hand on her hip. “Listen, Lavinia, you’re a beautiful woman. Hot. Sexy. And you’re being asked to flaunt that for the DKS alumni for a couple hours. Yes, it’ll be demeaning, and maybe a lot of these assholes have got it out for you on account of your last name. But you’ve got three protective daddy bears to keep you safe.” She gestures to my body, voice flippant. “All you need to do is show a little skin, make your father’s enemies horny, take a little of their shit, and then you can go home and take your frustration out on your men.”
“I’m not a prude—”
“Good.” She pulls out a red lace bodysuit and holds it up to me, turning her head in assessment. “Try that on.”
I look around, but there’s no partition for privacy. I know the other girls always just change in front of their lockers, but still. Like a prude, I blurt, “Here?”
She gives me a wry look. “Honey, you think I’ve never seen a pair of tits before?” Reaching up, she gives her own breasts an embellished squeeze. “Try it on. Let me get an idea of what will look best.”
Boundaries. None of these people have them. I rest the lingerie on a chair and quickly undress. Mama B flips through the rack while she waits, the scrape of the metal hangers against the bar the only sound in the small room. I get the bodysuit on—I mean, if you can call it that. It’s made of sheer netting that does little to hide anything. The majority of the fabric is around my neck and the long row of buttons lining the back.
“A little help?” I ask, turning my back to her.
Mama B faces me and nods approvingly. “Good. You’ve filled out since you first got here.”
I clamp down on a rush of embarrassment. “Being out of captivity will do that to a girl.”
Her long nails graze my skin as she fusses with the buttons. “You saying Delores didn’t feed you?”
“She did.” God, the last thing I need is for Mrs. Crane to catch some gossip that I’m badmouthing her. Although, to be perfectly frank, her cooking left a lot to be desired. “I just didn’t have much of an appetite back then. But the boys like me a little meatier.”
She snorts and spins me around. “I bet.” Instantly, however, her nose wrinkles. “Aw, hell. Makes your tits look flat. Take that off.”
Irritation, along with the humiliation of being treated like a Barbie doll, flares in my chest. “Would you be so blasé about all of this if Saul was making Verity entertain these assholes?”
Her jaw tightens, and I can see that I’ve struck a nerve. She plays it off well enough, turning to pull out another set—this one leopard print with fur trim. “Lucky for her, she’s not a daughter of Royalty. Saul Cartwright wants nothing to do with her.”
I can’t tell if she’s pissed about this or not, but I think back to what Sarah said about Saul not being interested in her either. I remove the red number and reach for the leopard print. Jesus. “Well, she’s a virgin, so she’s halfway there.” Mama B throws me a wide-eyed look, and I explain, “Verity told me she saved herself for the Dukes—if they chose her for Duchess.” I wiggle into the leopard lingerie, which I realize makes me look like I’m cosplaying as a cat. “Nope. Can’t do it,” I say, peeling it right back off. I’ve just handed Mama B the outfit when a thought pops into my mind. “Wait, is Verity Saul’s daughter?”
Her head snaps back in shock, face twisted in outrage. “Hell no! Him and I might fuck occasionally, but that’s just gravity, Lucia. Even a snob like Saul has basic needs. Sometimes I’m able to meet them, but Saul would sooner lop his own dick off than stick it in a woman who wants a baby.” She gives me another surly look. “Verity’s father was a useless deadbeat who’s currently dead as a doornail.”
“Okay,” I concede, raising my palms, “all of that is beside the point. If Verity was asked to do this, would you be in here playing dress up with her?”
She levels me with a look that’s both hard and convicted. “Sweetheart, I don’t know how it’s done in North Side, but around here? If your King calls your daughter into service, you better have her waxed, trimmed, buffed, shined, and her asshole bleached to the heavens before personally delivering her to his doorstep, wrapped up in a bow.” Her eyebrow arches. “But why would Saul be interested in my girl when there’s a Lucia sitting right in front of him?”
I tense, taking a frilly black babydoll number from her outstretched hand. It’s not a good feeling, knowing that no matter what I do or who I become, the last name of the man I hate most will always define me. “That doesn’t repel you?” I mutter bitterly, slipping the sheer fabric over my head, my shoulders, my tits. “A King is only interested in daughters from other Kingdoms for one reason. He’s obviously looking for some poor girl to abuse, like that’s the ultimate shame to her father, not to mention–”
“Stop,” she snaps, and for a moment I see a crack in her finely honed armor, eyes ringed with panic. After a pause, she looks me up and down, quickly composing herself. “That’s… far too cute for you. These men will be expecting a Duchess, not a Princess. Take it off.” I keep my mouth shut as she cards through the rack in search of something less cute. “Around here,” she says, not turning to look at me, “we like to give our girls a purpose that isn’t just spreading their thighs. Saul has a position ready and waiting for any West End girl.” She plucks something off the rack, staring down at it for a suspended moment. “Just look at Tatum.”
My head snaps up. “Tate? The guys’ Tate?” Mama B looks flippant when she hands over a black corset, too distracted with rifling through a box of garter belts to notice the doubt on my face. “Because from what I hear, she didn’t seem like the type to buy into all this King stuff.”
She produces a pair of thigh-highs, saying offhandedly, “Saul wasn’t Tate’s King. He was her employer.” Catching the look on my face, she explains, “The kids in West End do that sometimes. He pays well for certain jobs, and while I’m sure you can’t relate, financial desperation has a way of making anyone reevaluate their stance on the Royalty.”
I roll this over in my head as I try on the outfit, barely seeing it. “Do the guys know about this?” I finally ask, standing still as she assesses the bustier.
“Ask them,” is all she says, holding up the garter belt to my hips. She nods in approval. “This is the one. Not too sweet, not too trashy. It suits your personality.” From the sly smile she gives me, it’s hard to believe I’d ever seen that split-moment of dread in her eyes. “Your Dukes will love it.”
Forsyth goes all in for homecoming weekend. Orange and purple are blanketed over every column and staircase. There are events and activities across campus, but it seems like it’s all just preliminary for the final party on Saturday night.
On the outside, homecoming feels like wholesome fun: the parade, the football game, concerts, and parties. But in the bright glare of the carnival rides and games, under the squeal of children stuffing their faces with cotton candy, it’s impossible to forget what’s coming later tonight.
“So this is what living in a parallel universe looks like,” I say, handing Story the money from the beer truck.
She jots the amount down on a receipt and zips up the money bag, securing the built-in lock. “What do you mean?”
“Killian and Sy have been competing in some kind of strong man contest for the past thirty minutes.” From what I can tell, the challenge is to see who can hold the most weight on their body for the longest period of time. They’re each standing on a massive, novelty-sized scale up on a stage, and every five minutes one of the volunteers hangs another weight over their taut biceps. They’re currently breaching the hundred-pound mark. “And no one has pulled out a knife yet.”
“Killian doesn’t use knives,” she says absently. “That’d be Dimitri. But yeah, somehow, one night of the year, they manage to play nice.”
The crowd growing around the two guys gets bigger the more weight is added. Kids seem to love the display the most, cheering on the guys when another five pounds is added.
“Who’s ready for the final test?” the volunteer asks the crowd.
“I’m ready,” Killian says, his grin smug. The Lords’ King is massive. Fit as fuck.
But there’s no one in this world more competitive than Simon Perilini.
“You got this, baby!” Story shouts. He hears her, looking up and over the heads of the spectators, winking at his Queen.
The whole crowd, Sy included, watches as the volunteer adds more weight, the scale inching up another twenty pounds. That’s when my Sy jerks his chin. “Keep going.”
Killian rolls his eyes, but Sy takes on the extra weight. Ten, fifteen, twenty more pounds. The increase is evident when Sy’s face turns red, and the tendons in his neck bulge.
He won’t just last the longest, he’ll have the most weight.
“Hey, beautiful. What’cha looking at?” Remy appears at my side, grabbing a beer off the cart. When he spots the competition, he shakes his head. “There is literally no such thing as a challenge he’ll pass up, is there?”
I take in his outfit. With his normal attire of worn jeans and T-shirts, Remy is the kind of man you forget is wealthy, until he shows up like this. A pale green shirt that pulls the color from his eyes, black jacket and pants that look like they were sewn to fit his body. Even the tattoos peeking out of his collar and shirt cuffs aren’t enough to dampen the masculine elegance of the look.
A tremor shoots through my body at the memory of him taking me up in the bell tower last night.
“That beer isn’t free, you know,” Story says, interrupting my ogling and shooting him a glare.
His eyes narrow in return, and he takes a long, slow sip. “Hey, don’t get bitchy at me because your man is about to lose.”
“He’s not going to lo—”
Remy tips his cup at the stage and Killian explodes in a loud groan before dumping the weights to the ground. A bell rings and Sy, with a cheering crowd of delighted observers, is confirmed the last man standing.
“Hell yeah, brother!” Remy shouts, raising his beer in the air. “To the victor!” It’s as much to congratulate his best friend as it is to rub it in Story’s nose.
Story sighs. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an ego to patch up. Later, Lav.” She rolls her eyes and walks off, money bag tucked safely under her arm.
“And that’s how you suck in a new generation of DKS,” Remy says proudly.
I see that he’s right. A slew of kids crowded around both Sy and Killian are eagerly demanding autographs and fist bumps. Fuck. Are we in a cult?
But as the excitement dies down, Remy and I grow quiet, unable to avoid the tick of the clock. The game starts in an hour.
Drawing my eyes from the spectacle, I ask, “Have you seen Nick?”
Remy shakes his head, gazing soberly into the crowd. “No, but he’s around here somewhere.”
“How do you know?”
He gives me a look and reaches out, taking the pen I’d placed behind my ear earlier. “Because you’re here, and because you need him. It doesn’t matter how mad he is. He’d never abandon you.”
When he takes my hand, I let him, staying still as he turns my wrist up, uncapping the pen with his teeth. He only says that because he’s not aware of how it feels to have Nick refusing to speak to me–look at me. He wasn’t just mad at my question. He was hurt. He didn’t storm out of the tower or go down to the Hideaway to drink and fuck away his upset. He got quiet.
It’s scared me more than anything he’s ever done.
The tip of the pen tickles on my wrist, but I stay still, watching his face more than what he’s drawing. I’m not sure if it’s the sex or the company, but Remy’s been sleeping better since we began joining Sy in his bed every night and it shows on his face. From this close, I can make out the faint spattering of pale freckles over the bridge of his nose, a feature that had been lost to his sickly pallor before. I give in to the urge to touch them, running the tip of my finger from brow to nose tip.
His eyes raise to mine, and he pulls back, capping the pen.
The letters ‘LB’ are inked into my wrist in elegant, swooping calligraphy.
“You know what that stands for, don’t you?” he asks.
Rolling my eyes, I blow over the ink. “Yeah, yeah, I’m his Little Bird.”
“And?” There’s a stretch of silence where he just watches me, as if he’s willing me to come to some conclusion about Nick’s inside jokes regarding jailbirds. Finally, he smirks, folding my fingers into a fist. “It also means ‘pound’.”
Behind Remy, I see Verity strutting up, her red hair shining in the flickering lights. She’s agreed to fill in for me while I go get ready for the poker game.
“You’re early,” I say, trying to pull some semblance of normalcy over my expression.
“The girls are all getting ready in the tent,” she says, nodding toward the west end of the grounds. “I figured you might need a little extra time to prepare.”
My stomach flips. The truth is, I’d rather stay here all night, watching the pretty lights and happy, clueless people. But she’s right. I need to get my head in the game.
“Story knows you’re filling in,” I tell her, handing her the clipboard. “All the other details are on here. Sorry for dumping this on you.”
She gives an easy shrug. “Hey, you’re giving me an out from working the game tonight. I owe you one–possibly five.” More solemnly, she adds, “Good luck.”
Remy takes my hand, and we walk like a funeral march over to the tent set up at the back of the grounds. A few of Saul’s men stand outside, already on duty. It strikes me that one reason Saul wanted the event connected to the festival is that there’s an understood truce between the frats. The game attracts the most powerful men connected to the Dukes. Alumni with deep pockets. It’d be the perfect opportunity to make a move. I know more than anyone that there’s no such thing as guaranteed safety, but this may be as good as it gets.
But it makes me wonder about what Mama B mentioned this morning. I haven’t had the chance to ask about it, so wrapped up in my duties here. Sy’s been unusually quiet today, just as preoccupied with planning the event as I’ve been. Nick’s MIA, and Remy…
I glance over at him, the way he watches his feet as we walk like he’s lost in thought. Maybe he’s mentally preparing for the night ahead, or maybe he’s wrestling with something worse. He’s been so clear-headed and present lately, and I hesitate at the thought of drudging up a trigger.
Still, he’s my Duke, so reluctantly, I begin, “Remy…”
“He’s going to come,” he says, looking up at me.
“Oh.” I blink, realizing he thinks the worry in my voice is about Nick. “I mean, I hope so, but I kind of wanted to ask you something about… Tate.”
Remy comes to a slow stop, giving the guys guarding the tent a furtive, assessing look. He meets my eyes with a curious tilt of his head, keeping his voice low. “What is it?”
Taking a breath, I ask, “Did she ever work for Saul?”
Remy scoffs, his answer immediate. “Nah, she didn’t even know Saul. None of us did–not until we got into Forsyth. Why?”
“Mama B says differently.” Feeling annoyed by the eyes on us, I lean closer, smelling the sharp scent of his cologne. “She told me Tate was working for him.”
Remy snaps back to stare into my eyes, searching. “No chance. She would have told us.” The words are spoken with a certainty that his green eyes lack, and I practically see his mind kicking into overdrive.
“Sorry I brought it up,” I rush out, not wanting to burden him with something unfounded. “I know tonight is hard enough without filling your head up–”
“Vinny.” He hooks a finger beneath my chin, raising my gaze to meet his. “Remember what I said to you last night?”
How could I possibly forget?
“You don’t need to save me all the time…”
I exhale, knowing he’s right. Remy might need a doctor, but it’s not going to be me. Letting the tension fall off my shoulders, I try on a coy grin, fluttering my eyelashes. “That you wanted Sy or Nick to fuck me at the same time you did?”
His eyes darken, a smirk flirting at the corner of his mouth. “That,” he says, leaning down to brush his lips against my ear, “and that I love you.”
Lucias have never been the type for sentimentality. Before I came to West End, I’d never heard those words said to me before. For a long time, they made me feel uncomfortable, panicked, and maybe deep down, painfully unworthy of them. Now, they warm me from within, an odd sense of calm soothing over the tight boulder of alarm in my gut.
I turn to brush a kiss against his clean-shaven jaw, whispering, “I love you, too.”
He pauses just short of pressing his mouth to mine, eyes zeroed in on my lips. I understand why. It’d be easy to get lost in each other right now. To forget what we have to do. To let our guards down and indulge in this feeling, so raw and enticing.
Sighing, he links our fingers together and jerks his head toward the tent. “Whenever you’re ready, Duchess.”
Taking a bracing inhale, I nod, leading us to the looming tent. I scowl at Saul’s goons, Neon and Ewing–the guy who took me out of class. Neon opens the flap to the tent when we approach, but he’s stone-faced, impervious to our arrival. Even when Remy empties the last bit of his beer an inch from Ewing’s feet, and says, “My bad,” neither of them blink.
We step inside and I’m shocked at the size of the room. It’s an elaborate set up of professional gaming tables, a full bar, and a stage along the back wall. I don’t miss the stripper pole affixed to the center of the stage, all looming and gross.
We had nothing to do with his part of the setup. It was spearheaded by someone in Saul’s office. He made it clear what our roles are tonight: hosts and their sacrificial lamb.
We cross the room, to the flap that leads backstage—the dressing area. I’d already put my things here earlier. Remy bends and gives me a kiss, tongue slipping between my lips, hot and possessive. “Just a few hours,” he whispers, eyes intense as they hold mine, “and we’ll be out of here.”
He’d agreed to tend the bar. Sy will act as general security. And Nick, if he shows, will be the host to match my hostess, socializing and networking. My stomach flips with apprehension.
What if he doesn’t show?
Remy turns his gaze toward the back of the tent. “I should probably go get behind the bar and learn how to make douchey drinks.” He dips his fingers under my waistband, giving the star a reassuring little rub before reluctantly dragging himself away.
It takes everything in me not to clutch for him.
We’ve all got a part to play tonight, I need to go get ready for mine.
I spend the whole time getting dressed lost in a stupor of worry. Nancy, one of the older cutsluts, wordlessly steps up to lace my corset for me. While I gather her hair into a tight, high ponytail, Laura kneels down to snap the back of my garter belt into my thigh highs. It’s an odd unity here, each of us helping the other without even having to ask. There’s a station for hair straightening, and then a station for hair curling. Greta and Lucy are the two cutsluts who make a circuit around the room, painting a glittery card suit below each girl’s left eye. Laura is the Ace of Diamonds. Greta is the Nine of Hearts. Nancy is the Jack of Spades.
I’m the Queen of Clubs.
None of us miss that the symbol looks like a bear’s paw printed on my cheek.
I save my hair for last, gathering it into a high bun, and then reach into my bag to pull out the hair pin Sarah had given me. The nervousness in my belly flares up at the thought of bringing a snake into this place, but when Laura watches me stick it through the center of my bun, she grins.
“Dope pin, Lavvy.”
Shrugging into my short satin robe, I say, “Thanks,” some of the tension falling away.
It helps that the first person I see when I step out of the dressing room is Sy. He’s across the room, changed into a black suit with a white button down. His eyes find me like a magnet, sweeping across the room and coming to a hard stop on mine. His jaw goes tight as he looks down, getting a good look at my outfit before I close the robe. His hands are shoved too deeply in his pockets for me to see it, but I can perfectly imagine how tightly he’s curling his fists right now.
It’s at that moment I realize that we’ve been put in an impossible situation. It’s not just me that’s on display. It’s my men, hot-blooded and possessive, short-fused and cornered. Seeing me like this? It’ll take a miracle for the four of us to get out of here alive.
I tug at the satin trim on the robe, my throat suddenly tight.
“Don’t fidget.” A hand falls over mine and I look down. The fingers have the letters D-U-K-E inked across them, a heavy gold ring glinting from the ambient light. “Don’t ever let them see you squirm.” My movements still under his touch, but when I look beside me, my breath gets caught somewhere in my chest.
Nick is in a suit, just like Remy and Sy, the top three buttons on his shirt hanging open, revealing the tattoos inked on his muscular chest. Clean-shaven. Hair slicked back. Blue eyes flick to mine, but I don’t see anything in them, the patented mask firmly in place. Nick, the soldier, has always been expressionless, cold, and lethally mechanical. I’ve been dreading the return of this part of him ever since he killed Perez.
“Nick,” I start, but before I finish, he removes his hand.
“Come on,” he says, voice smooth and measured. “Let’s get this over with.”
When he strides into the fray, it’s with an energy I’m unfamiliar with. His posture and expression… it doesn’t repel in the way I’m used to. It attracts. Three business men are drawn to him instantly, taking his tattooed hand in firm grips.
I realize this isn’t the soldier I’m seeing.
It’s the Bruin.
It’s a King.
