I wake up on my side, with Archie curled into the warm curve of my neck.
From the light pouring in through the tall window, it must be past noon already. My throat is dry, my eyes are sticky, and strangely enough, the first hint of pain I feel is on the edge of my jaw where Brice Oakfield’s palm struck me.
It only takes one deep breath to remember the wound on my back, though.
The flare of hurt is instant and nagging, throbbing in time to my pulse, making me hiss. Archie responds with a twitched ear, shifting only enough to give my chin an investigative sniff.
His nose is cold and wet.
“Ugh,” I grunt, even though I instantly reach up to pet him. His rough tongue curls out to lick my finger, then my wrist, the cursive letters penned there smeared and fading.
The last time I saw the guys, they were stripping me out of my clothes, wiping the sweat and dried cum from my skin. Taking stock, I remember that I’m mostly naked, wearing nothing but the pair of panties Sy tossed to Nick last night before putting me here, into Sy’s bed. I remember staring into Nick’s eyes as he pulled me down beside him, fingers stroking my hair until I nodded off.
I touch the empty pillow beside me, but it’s cold, the vacancy settling heavily in my gut. Out in the main room, I hear voices. I know it’s Nick and Sy, but I can’t make out the words. I can hear the tone they’re speaking with though, quiet and focused. There’s a rattle and a squeak, the sound of the main door opening and closing, and then for a second, nothing else.
Luckily, I’m not alone for long. In fact, I doubt even two minutes go by before footsteps sound outside the door, slowing as they approach.
Remy appears, eyes cautious as they fall on mine. He’s wearing a jacket and his boots, so I suppose he was the one who came through the door a couple minutes ago. He looks a mess, the hair framing his face straining against an earlier effort to tuck it behind his ears. From the dark circles beneath his eyes, he hasn’t gotten any sleep yet, and despite staring right into my eyes, he still lifts a tattooed fist to knock on the frame.
“You awake?”
Nodding, I try to sit up, Archie going stiff when I do. I wince at the way the skin on my back smarts. Remy watches this with an agonized expression, jamming his fists into his jacket pockets.
“Need some help?”
I eye the way he’s hovering just outside, like he’s afraid to enter. It’s the only reason I say, “Please?”
He darts over the threshold and finally approaches me, tucking one hand behind my neck while the other grasps my wrist, levering me up into a sitting position. “How bad is it?” he asks, green eyes full of worry.
I make an attempt at a smile. “It’s not so bad.” I’ve had worse, but it’s definitely not something I’d choose to do again.
He deflates, eyes dropping. “Vinny, I’m–”
“Stop.” I give him a stern look. “No more sorries, okay?” Remy did what he could, and I don’t blame him. If Bruce had gotten a hold of that branding tool… I swallow, not wanting to think about it.
The nod he gives me is heavy, and I fully expect to see something painted black today. For the moment, however, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a plastic bag. “I asked around at some of my usual haunts–managed to scare up some goods.”
The bag has pills in it.
My heart sinks.
“Remy,” I start, my voice a mixture of disappointment and alarm.
He holds up a hand. “I know what you’re thinking, but I cleared it with Nicky and Sy, alright? I didn’t involve anyone from North Side. I only asked around the gym, and–hey, look.” He eagerly points to the bag. “I scored you two Percocet from Pauly, one hydrocodone from Laura, and,” he presses his hand to his chest, expression solemn, “you’ll be touched to know that Ballsack generously donated not one, not two, but three prescription acid reflux pills.”
Despite the topic and the context, I find a laugh burbling from my throat. “Well, it’ll help one kind of burn, I guess.”
Remy shrugs. “He just wanted to feel useful. I didn’t have the heart to turn him away. He’s kind of precious in that annoying ‘puppy I want to punch’ sort of way.”
I quickly sober, watching him carefully. “You’re supposed to be getting clean.”
He frowns. “I’m not getting clean. I am clean. Plus, pain pills don’t tempt me at all. I mean…” He scratches the back of his neck, uncharacteristically bashful. “If you needed stimulants, we might have a problem. But I’m not about to stiff my girl on pain management just to get a quick high, Vinny.”
I feel bad for making him test his restraint, but worse for doubting him. “Thank you,” I say, gently opening the bag. He instantly reaches over to the nightstand, producing a bottle of water Sy must have left for me earlier.
After watching me take the pill, Remy inhales deep, shucking off his jacket. “Okay, now lay flat. Let’s see the damage.”
My face falls. “You don’t have to–” But the words bite off, because I see the look on his face, expectant and determined, and realize what this is.
Remy needs to make it better.
Desperately.
Sighing, I turn, scooting Archie aside to lay on my front, baring my back to Remy. I don’t know how bad it looks yet, but from the beat of total silence that greets me, I’m guessing it doesn’t look good.
Remy shakes it off, however, pulling a pair of black latex gloves from the box next to the water bottle. “I’m gonna try to be gentle,” he says, sitting next to me on the bed. “But this cream is top grade. I use it all the time.”
“I can take it, Rem.”
He bends to press a warm kiss to my forehead, a soft warning to the wet cloth he drags over my blistering skin. I hiss, twisting my face into the pillow. The scream I release is less about the pain and more about the smoldering rage in the center of my chest.
What happened last night was a new kind of violation.
That night at the Hideaway, I negotiated with a masked Nick Bruin as a way to leverage my own power at the mercy of the Kings. They thought I was a virgin. I wasn’t, but no one believed me, and by letting the men who broke into my room take me, I made that a certainty.
I had some choice in the matter, though.
At least that’s what I try to tell myself.
In some ways, I think that my very first assertion of control is probably what got us to this place. Saul Cartwright can handle a lot of things, but a woman with Royal blood not understanding her place? I don’t think that’s one of them.
Despite his gentle touch and the way he starts and stops, giving me time to breathe through the sting, the rest of the cleaning process hurts like a fucker, my fingers twisting into the sheets as he works. As much as it hurts me physically, I can practically feel it hurting him mentally–emotionally–when he pauses every now and then to press his palm to the small of my back.
I watch blearily as he rips open a square of sterile gauze, saying, “I’ll keep it loose, but this should make wearing clothes easier.” He ducks down to catch my eye, arching an eyebrow. “Not that I want to encourage it or anything. Your tits are heaven, Vinny.”
I bury a tense smile into the pillow. “Where are the guys?”
He presses the tape to my back carefully, jerking his head toward the living room. “Talking strategy.”
When he’s finished, I turn and face him, knowing my face must be red. “Well, we better go join them.” I grip his arm and pull myself to a sitting position.
Frowning, he insists, “Vin, you don’t have to—”
I narrow my eyes. “Yeah, I do.”
Giving in, he fishes me a low-cut tank top from my drawer in Sy’s dresser, threading my arms through it. As I stand there in nothing else but a pair of panties, I get a flash of memory–me helping Remy into his shirt that night up in the clock room, his shoulder still healing from the dislocation. I was so mad at him back then, but so annoyingly enticed at the same time.
This time, I give in to the impulse buzzing over my skin, straining up on my toes to press my mouth to his.
Remy makes a soft, surprised sound, his movements slowing to a crawl as he eases the shirt down, fingers stalling at the hem. He touches the star on my hip at the same moment he licks out to taste me.
“You’re stoned,” he accuses, mouth tipping up into a grin.
“Am not.” So as to prove this assertion, I take a step toward the doorway, nearly tripping over someone’s–Nick’s–shoe. Remy catches me gently around the waist, wincing.
“Maybe we should have cut that pill in half.”
We find them in the living room.
Sy and Nick sit across from one another–Sy on the couch, Nick in the chair Saul occupied last night. No one’s cleaned up the splatter of blood on it yet. There’s an open leather binder on the coffee table, the typography inside looking old and antique, pages worn. The heading at the top is in bold ink. DKS Charter and Bylaws.
“The frat has to vote,” Nick is saying, hands pushed into his hair. He hasn’t slept, that much is obvious.
Sy says, “You’ll get their vote,” with an air of exasperation that signals he’s repeating himself.
Nick gestures to the binder. “You can’t be sure. It’d be easier if I just took him out. Fuck, I should have just taken him out last night.” He looks over, noticing me at the edge of the room. “It would’ve been justifiable.”
Sy leans back, looking just as tired as Nick. “As much as I wish you had, there’s a process for a reason. Bruce would call foul, and it’s possible he has more supporters in the group than I’d like to admit.”
“Then fuck it, I can kill him too.” Nick says this as if it’s the most simple solution in the world–and I suppose to him, it is. Fuck with what belongs to Nick Bruin, and you’ll pay. Meeting my gaze, he holds out an arm. “Come here, LB. Let me see.”
I cross the room to him, my legs still bare, and he catches me around the hips, turning me toward his brother. It doesn’t hurt when he lifts the tape, and I get a moment of clarity that maybe Remy was right. The pain meds have already kicked in.
Nick utters a low curse at what he sees. “The plan where I kill everyone is looking pretty good right about now.” He replaces the tape, then pulls me into his lap.
“No, Sy’s right,” I say, turning sideways to curl my bare legs over his thighs. “A massacre will do us for a spell, but if we do it the right way, through the proper channels?” I look from Sy to Remy. “That’s real, lasting change.”
Nick scowls. “Well, we can’t just fucking let him keep walking all over us.”
“I know,” I say, touching his cheek, rough with a couple days of stubble. “But your brother is also right about the fact they’ll vote for you.”
“We’ll see.” Not looking terribly convinced, he rests his head back against the bloodstain, muttering, “Tonight.”
“Tonight,” Sy agrees. In a way, I suspect is more for my benefit than theirs, he adds, “I’ve already put out the notice. Everyone will be there.”
“What about the video?” I reluctantly point out, not wanting to rain on anyone’s parade. “Saul said if anything happens to him, it’ll be distributed.” Fucking Kings and their failsafes.
Nick shakes his head. “I’ve been working on it. I’ve got an inside guy who can intercept.”
Dread builds in my gut. “An inside guy?”
“A guy like Saul always miscalculates how many enemies he’s collected,” he explains, palm warm against my knee.
It makes me uneasy. Inside guys are always unpredictable. But I stand by what I told Nick last night. I trust him. “Are you ready?” I wonder, watching him carefully.
“To kill Saul?” He snorts, eyes gleaming in delight. “Absolutely.”
I shake my head. “To take over West End?” I know better than anyone what this means. How that title changes a man. Changes their family and the woman that supports him.
And from the way Nick’s eyes go dark, he understands this, too.
Remy’s voice fills in the resulting silence. “Kingdoms have done worse.” Then he yawns, triggering the rest of us. It’s the signal we should all get as much sleep as we can before the big vote. It’s hard to trudge to Sy’s bed with the three of them, knowing that when we wake up everything will be different.
We’ll be different.
Only in a frat would a meeting be called after dark. But true to Sy’s word, the guys roll in the gym, everyone looking alert and eager to find out what’s going on. There’s no doubt word has spread about the poker game, as there’s little hope Bruce kept his mouth shut about what happened during and after. And with the silent looks that I keep getting, I feel like they can see the ugly DKS brand on my shoulder, despite being covered in a bandage and two layers of clothing.
I stand with Sy near the back, nervously watching them all filter in. My blood is energized in a way I’m not used to, rushing thick and fast, as if something monumental is about to happen.
Sy draws my attention with a touch, his fingers lifting my chin so he can assess my jaw for damage. It’s the millionth time tonight one of them has made me hold still so they can look at the blossoming bruise from Brice’s palm.
His jaw goes taut. “You hear from your girl? Kathleen, right?”
I hold up my phone. “I got a text.” It’s nothing but a string of emojis. Thumbs up, kissy face, green-sick face, and a cookie.
Sy frowns. “What the fuck does that mean?”
Rolling my eyes, I tuck my phone away. “That means everything’s good. She and Greta are entertaining him. You can get started.”
Ballsack, who has been manning the door, walks up with a worried expression. “We’re at thirty-nine. Should we wait?”
A nervous laugh bubbles in my chest, and I cover it with a cough. He might be expecting forty DKS members, but the Dukes and I aren’t. Bruce’s interception by Kathleen and the confirmation text means he should be high on enough Viper Scratch to make him forget his own name.
I put that ball into motion the second the three of them fell asleep.
“You know the rules.” Sy’s arms cross over his chest, striking an appropriately authoritative stance. “A member must arrive at the meeting by the clearly communicated time to gain entry and vote.” He jerks his chin to the front. “Lock the door.”
Ballsack grins. “Got it.”
I still feel a twitch of worry that he’ll figure it out and show up, and from the way Sy tracks Ballsack’s path to the front, I’m not alone. It’s not like things have been going our way lately. I exhale when I see the door shut and Ballsack engages the lock. After last night, I figured Bruce would be in the mood to let off some steam. The goodwill I’d earned from giving the girls some autonomy has paid a lot of dividends.
From beside me comes Sy’s quiet rumble. “Good work, Lavinia.”
When I turn to him, he’s staring out over the faces of the frat, and even though the hard lines of his expression may seem inscrutable to anyone else, I see the tic in his jaw. The burgeoning wrinkle between his brows. The compulsive way he’s tapping forefinger and thumb.
I’m not the only one worried.
I press up against him, fisting my hands in his leather jacket. “You and Nick–you’re doing the right thing.”
Where Nick is rash and reactive, Sy is deliberate and thoughtful. They’re opposites of the same coin, and I know making this decision weighs on him. He’s the one who put the words out there, setting this whole thing into motion. Killing a King isn’t something anyone does lightly.
“All you’re doing is offering it up for vote,” I continue, searching his blue eyes. “If it’s not what the frat wants to do, then they won’t agree to it.”
“And we lose,” he says, looking down at me. “Until the last few months, Saul has had my loyalty and respect. You’ve seen him with some of these guys, Lav. As far as they’re concerned, they may still trust him.”
I give his jacket a tug, as if I could shake the doubt right out of him. “I think Nick has more support than you realize.”
“Well,” he swallows, eyes shifting over my head, “if we don’t, then it’s essentially a vote of no confidence–a failed mutiny. We’ll have to pack our bags and go.”
I shrug, unbothered by the thought. “Hey, moving from shitty place to shittier place is kind of my expertise.” I wind my arms around his neck, drawing his gaze to mine. “But at least we’ll go together.”
He exhales, the line on his forehead smoothing slightly as he tips down to meet me with a kiss.
Secretly, a part of me wonders what my place would be in that scenario. If I’m not a Lucia and I’m not a Duchess, then what am I? If I don’t have the tightly constrained boundaries of the Royalty hemming me in, then what do I become?
Maybe I’ll just be theirs.
It’d be enough.
“Everyone’s here.” Remy slides up against my back, interrupting our kiss to press his mouth to my neck. “Ready to make history?”
Nick appears behind him, giving his brother a single, assured nod. “Do or die.”
Nick climbs into the ring first, followed by Remy, who reaches down to take my hand and haul me up. Sy lifts me by the hips and then follows after me, ducking between the ropes. The square is occupied only by the lone judge’s table they dragged up here on arrival.
Nick walks over to the bell and yanks the cord, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. The boys are clustered around the tables we usually reserve for Family Dinner and they begin turning to us, expectant and eager.
“Let’s get started,” Nick says, addressing the room. Sy and Remy take their seats on each edge of the table, Nick in the middle. I sit between the two brothers, resolved to remain silent and as unobtrusive as possible. For a win to stick, it needs to be clear that Nick is working independently of any outside influence. There’s an official process for all this, and we did our best to absorb all of the information in the charter and bylaws. Saul was right. Tradition means everything here–especially when it involves the sitting King’s downfall.
“Here’s the deal.” Nick’s aloof composure comes in handy here, his blue eyes assessing the crowd. “You guys stuck by me when I stepped up to frat leadership, and I’ve worked my ass off to make that matter. But the truth is, Saul Cartwright feels threatened by having a Bruin in the belfry.”
Some of the guys murmur in obvious agreement, Saul’s moves the past few weeks not exactly having been subtle.
Nick goes on. “He’s exerting his power with a heavier hand than we deserve. Not just the Dukes, but DKS, too. How many wins did Saul cost us with his probation last month?” A sour rumble comes over the crowd and Nick leans back, tapping idly on the table. “It’s only going to get worse from here. He’s willing to come after not just us, but the people we care about, and that’s not something a real Duke would tolerate.”
Nick cuts his eyes to Sy first, then Remy, but they let him be the one to say the words.
It has to be him.
His blue eyes fall to the ring on his finger, jaw tightening. “That’s why I’m presenting a motion to issue a death warrant on our King.” The room falls into a sudden hush, all eyes on Nick.
And then it erupts into a roaring, surprised rumble.
“Hey!” Sy stands, knocking his fist on the table to get their attention. His eyes harden as he meets their gazes, one by one. “I know how this probably looks, but you need to understand. We tried working with Saul. We bent over fucking backwards. This was the last motion we wanted to bring in front of you guys.” He shakes his head, glancing at his brothers. “You know I don’t take this lightly. I’m not just angry at Saul for turning on his Dukes. To be honest, I feel betrayed. Like all of you, I followed Saul for four goddamn years. And what did it get me? A noose around my neck, all because my brother and Duchess happen to have two last names that Saul feels threatened by.”
Remy speaks up then, raising his chin. “Saul may be our King, but Nick’s a Bruin, born and bred. He has the blood right–”
Porterfield raises a fist in the air, shouting, “Seconded!”
A flutter of something terrifyingly like optimism grips my chest as I watch a couple other guys agree, on the spot. Even Nick looks surprised, his eyes darting to mine, and for a second, Sy is speechless.
He eventually finds his voice, clearing his throat. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had one of these in West End. As most of you know, twenty-five years ago, Davis Bruin was voted out and Saul Cartwright was voted in. I want to reassure everyone that this isn’t revenge for some ancient family beef. It’s righting a two-decade-long error that has done nothing but put us in a position of risk.” There’s a short, pointed pause as Sy’s shoulders tense for a reaction, but it’s unnecessary.
No one argues.
Nick raises his voice to add, “When it comes to this, DKS is a democracy. You all brought your fraternity pins?”
There’s a flurry of movement among the guys, pulling the bronze metal from pockets and wallets, plucking them from lapels and baseball caps and gym bags. It’d taken Remy three hours to hunt his own pin down, all of us rifling through his drawers and art supplies only to find it attached to a denim jacket he probably hasn’t worn since Freshman year.
Sy shoots Remy a disappointed look, gesturing to the crowd.
Remy casually extends a middle finger.
“If you want Saul to remain your King,” Sy continues, “keep them. No hard feelings. But if you want Nicky to do what it takes to gain leadership,” he nods to the spot in front of him on the table, “walk up here and give it to him. But understand,” he adds, jabbing his finger into the table, “that a vote for Nick Bruin is a vote for removing Saul Cartwright by any means necessary. Any questions?” When none arise, he takes a breath, dropping back into his seat. “Then let the voting begin.”
I reach out and rest my hand on Nick’s thigh, just so he remembers that whatever happens here, we’re going to be okay. But even though I’m not expecting a reaction, he gives me one, dropping his hand to rest it over mine, solid and sure, and I realize that I can’t see an ounce of nervousness in him. Just the determination that this is the right thing to do.
Slowly, the frat lines up at the edge of the mat, but for a confusing beat, no one takes the lead. There’s a hesitation, a quiet so thick my stomach twists anxiously, and some of the guys are shuffling their feet, looking antsy.
Finally Kaczinski pushes past the first two guys and climbs up into the ring, approaching the table. He stops in front of Nick, rolling his pin between his fingers.
He takes a deep breath and meets Nick’s gaze. “It’s nothing personal, man. I never bought that stuff about you playing us for North Side or any lack of loyalty. Truth be told, I’d be happy to call you my King.”
But he closes his fist around the pin, dropping his eyes.
On either side of me, I see Nick and Sy deflate, even though both remain perfectly composed.
“It’s just that he’s been here with us from the start,” Kaczinski continues. “I know he isn’t blood, but he knows how West End works–what we need to function. He’s good at this.” Gestures to the gym, and the guys behind him. “He makes us better.”
Nick gives him a nod, and despite having a million reasons to argue, he doesn’t. Jaw tight, he says, “It’s all good, Kaz.”
It’s a bad sign. Sy, I know, has been tight with Kaczinski for a while. He’s spent hours training him for his Fury, even when he was a mess after his girl broke up with him. If Kaz isn’t in, then there’s a good chance none of them are in.
Sy watches as Kaz continues down the mat on his way out of the ring. He stops abruptly in front of Sy, but even though I can see the displeasure in his eyes, Sy still assures him. “It’s okay, Kaz. It’s a big ask–”
Kaz extends his hand, saying, “To the victor, brother,” and places the pin in front of him.
Remy’s chair creaks as he peers around Nick. Our eyes meet for a quick moment before we both look back at Sy. His back is suddenly ramrod straight, his blue-eyed glower fixed to the bronze Bruin in front of him. “Wait, that’s not–I’m not a Bruin.” His words are spoken to Kaz’s back, since he’s already headed down the stairs and off the mat.
His vote has been cast.
Before I can process it, Grant passes Nick with a nod before stopping in front of Sy, setting his pin next to the first one.
“To the victor.”
After him comes Louie, his pin hitting the table with a tinny sound that reverberates. “To the victor.”
Sy pales, wide eyes flying to his brother. “Nicky, I didn’t–I don’t–I never even implied–”
But Nick is trying to hide how caught off guard he is, the shutters slamming over his expression as he watches another DKS drop a pin in front of his brother. One by one, they come. Some of them stop to say something to Nick, like Ballsack.
“I’m… uh… assuming you’re a bit of a package deal,” he asks, looking torn as he pivots toward Sy.
Nick’s lips part, but when no sound emerges, he clears his throat, voice gruff. “Of course we are.”
Ballsack looks satisfied, dropping his pin in front of Sy. “Then to the motherfucking victor.”
It goes a lot faster once they all realize they’re getting the three of them, in some capacity or another. The next ten minutes pass with all thirty-nine pins being placed in front of Simon Perilini.
When I catch Remy’s eye, he’s hiding a grin, even though his peek at Nick is lined with concern. As happy as I am to see the stunned disbelief on Sy’s face, with each guy that passes him, my chest aches in sympathy for Nick. He’s worked so hard to prepare for this–to make himself an attractive leader to this group of misfits.
Sy never had to work very hard at it.
Maybe that was a sign, and I missed it, so caught up in last names and Royal formalities that I roped him into feeling a responsibility he never even wanted.
Stomach roiling with guilt, I thread our fingers together on his knee, knowing exactly how it feels to have an older sibling chosen over oneself. But Nick just gives me a gentle squeeze back, not meeting my eyes.
When the last member crosses the mat, Remy pushes his chair back and walks around the table, pausing in front of Nick. He holds his fist out to him, and Nick doesn’t miss a beat, reaching out to bump their tattooed knuckles together.
Facing Sy, Remy tosses his pin on the pile and says, “To the victor.”
And there it is, a stack of bronze pins sitting before Sy in an untidy pile. Only three are missing: Sy’s, Nick’s, and Bruce’s. There’s a tense silence that follows, as if the whole room is holding their breath. Sy stares at the pins, his dread unmistakable when he shifts his eyes to Nick.
“Nicky?”
Taking a breath, Nick stands, giving my hand another squeeze before letting go. I watch him round the table with an aching chest, stopping in front of Sy. Nick looks at the pins, a crevice appearing in his forehead.
His words are rough and toneless. “I’ve followed two Kings already. First Daniel Payne, then Saul Cartwright. I was really fucking good at it, too. Some might say I was too good at it.” He stops, mouth tilting unhappily as he regards the ring on his finger. “I told myself when we started making plans that I was never going to be some tyrant’s fucking lapdog again.” He finally meets his brother’s gaze, twisting the Bruin ring from his finger. “I never wanted to be King, Sy. All I ever wanted was one worth following.” Holding his stare, Nick sets the ring down right in the middle of the pile. “Now, I’ve got it.”
Sy drags a palm down his mouth, eyes fixed to the ring. “I’m not a Bruin.”
Nick snorts, lips twitching upward in a way that makes my chest ease. “I once told our Duchess that a last name is just a series of letters.” He shrugs, giving perhaps the most Nick’ish wisdom applicable here. “Who gives a fuck? Your father is a Bruin, just as much as mine is a Perilini. Family isn’t blood or the right series of letters, Sy. It has to be something a hell of a lot stronger than that.”
He glances at me and I see the truth there just as much as I feel it in my bones.
It has to be love.
Unconditional. Unyielding. Unbreakable.
Without waiting for a response, Nick reaches behind his back and pulls out a pistol. Not just any pistol, but the pistol–the one with the Bruin ‘B’ carved into the barrel. Nick grabs Sy’s hand, flips his palm over, and presses the gun into it. “To the victor, big brother.”
Sy swallows, testing the weight of it in his hand, and we all watch him, waiting. Sy’s never expressed any interest in taking the crown. Where Nick’s been preparing to lead, Sy’s been preparing to follow. But when he finally looks up, a stony determination settles in his eyes, and suddenly, I know this is what Sy is meant to do.
He raises his chin. “I’ll need your help, little brother.”
“Didn’t you hear me before?” Nick asks, nodding toward Ballsack. “We’re a package deal. All of us.”
Sy takes a breath, glancing at me and Remy. I wonder if he sees us for what we are: two wayward Royal heirs, looking for a place to call home. The fact is, we were always all in on these men. These violent, incredible, fierce fighters. Bruin or Perilini, they’re all the same to us.
Family.
Sy pushes to his feet, tucking the gun into his belt. “To the victors.”
