“Give us a minute?” I hear Sy ask from the outer room. He’s not talking to me, but his brother and Remy. His voice sounds as tired as I feel.
I’d walked away at some point, mid-detail. Now I’m staring out the small window in Sy’s room that overlooks the city, wondering how I could have been so close, yet so far. Saul was right there. I looked him in the eye. I agreed to his terms. I’ve been in his town, under his command, stripping my clothes off on his stage, beneath his stare.
The thought makes me fucking sick.
Worse than that is how obvious it should have been. All this time, Story and Sarah were warning me about Saul. About what he wanted. About what he’d do to get it.
But what makes my stomach tight with unshed tears is the injustice. Saul died so Sy could become King. Nothing more. Maybe Sy looked him in the eye when he pulled that trigger and thought about his friend, but no part of his death was in vengeance for Leticia.
I hear the door shut, feeling the warmth of his presence behind me before he makes contact.
“I’m sorry.” Sy’s hand is heavy and warm on my shoulder. I press my wet cheek into it.
I’m not crying for my sister’s death. We buried her. Whatever morsels of grief I allowed myself to feel for her, I’ve let them go. These tears are for the way this city makes me feel. Empty and hopeless. A couple of dead girls is just another day in Forsyth.
“They deserved more,” I say, thinking about how they must have thought they’d found happiness. An escape. Am I fooling myself, too? Am I stupid to think that what we have in this belfry is enough to survive?
“That’s what we’re trying to do here,” he says, arms wrapping around my waist. “Tonight was just the start.”
I know it’s not fair–Sy has been King for only a few scant hours–but I can’t help the notion that it isn’t enough. He wouldn’t understand. He’s never been a woman in Forsyth. I turn and face him, jolting in surprise at the sight that greets me.
Sy is in nothing but a pair of boxers, his broad, russet chest on full display. His eyes cast down bashfully. “Nick took my clothes, because… uh, well, you know.”
“Evidence. Right.” I wrap my arms around his torso, trying to absorb his warmth. His heartbeat sounds strong and loud beneath my ear when I press it to his sternum, breathing in his scent. “Are you okay?” I ask, eyes fluttering at the sensation of his fingers stroking my hair. “What you had to do…”
Saul deserved to die. Honestly, he probably deserved something worse. But Sy doesn’t deserve to be haunted by it.
He pauses for only a brief moment, winding his arms around my shoulders, careful of my brand. “I thought it’d be strange to kill someone,” he says, voice low and soft, like he’s sharing something unbearably intimate. “Maybe it’s because it was Saul, or maybe it’s because I didn’t really have a choice. But it was… easy. I didn’t feel anything.” I feel his lips brush the top of my head, and then a hesitant question against my scalp. “Do you think that makes me like the rest of them?”
“No.” I don’t let him finish, tilting my head up to meet his blue eyes. “You protected your family. You protected your community–the people who count on you. The only thing that makes you is brave.”
He exhales, tipping his forehead to rest against mine. “It feels like a joke. Like I’m six again, tromping around in my dad’s shoes.”
Reaching up, I touch his cheek. “My father, Ashby, Remy’s dad? They’re the jokes, Sy. You’re the real deal.”
“But–”
I press my finger to his mouth, attempting to look stern. “Don’t badmouth my boyfriend. He’s a King, you know? He’ll totally beat you up.”
From the way his eyes bore into mine, I realize he needs this–a place where he can whisper these awful, untrue things. An ear that doesn’t belong to the men he has to lead and be strong for. “I have to meet with the other Kings,” he says, mouth lined with anxious tension. “What if I fuck it up?”
My answer is instant. “Then we’ll unfuck it. All of us.”
The kiss I push into his lips isn’t just about distracting him. It’s to show him that I can be that–a soft place for him to land. The pad of my thumb rasps over the stubble covering his jaw, and he reacts slowly, licking into my mouth as his hands find my hips, pulling our bodies flush.
I’m not exactly sure when Sy became such a good kisser. There at the beginning, when we were in the motel, he mostly treated it as an afterthought. These days, however…
He tilts his head, deepening the kiss with slick, sensuous licks of his tongue. He kisses with his body just as much as his mouth, curling around me as his palms slide over my hips, down to my ass. When I reach down between us, cupping his hardening cock in my palm, the sound he makes is soft and pained, as if he’s holding something back.
He shudders when I drag the boxers down his hips.
Breaking away, I eye him indulgently. The man. The fighter. The King. For the first time, he lets me–really lets me–knitting his fingers behind his head as he watches me back. He has less scars than Remy and Nick, his dark skin so enticing that I have to run a fingertip down the ladder of his abs.
They flex the lower I get, dipping into the dark thatch of hair, and then lower, skating over the hot shaft of his cock.
He stops breathing when I reach the swollen head, his dick giving a sudden twitch. “Can I call them in?” he asks, voice rough. When I look up, his eyes are hooded, so dark that they’re almost black.
I bite my lip, knowing perfectly well what he’s asking for.
We don’t fuck without Nick and Remy here.
Wrapping my fingers around his length, I give a flippant, “No.”
“Oh.” He lowers his arms. “Okay.”
I strain up to kiss the disappointed frown from his mouth, backing us slowly towards the bed. “I trust you.”
His steps falter, and he breaks away, searching my eyes. “You mean…?”
I answer by lifting my shirt over my head, careful not to irritate my wound. Next, I step out of my shorts and panties, fighting a grin at the way his eyes descend, indulging in me just as much as I indulged in him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, stepping forward to touch me, his rough knuckles brushing gently over the curve of my breast. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
I’ve spent all day sore and nervous, pulling at my hair, gnawing at my fingernails, crying and grieving, and I haven’t felt beautiful for a single second of it.
Not until right now.
He kisses me, and this time when his hands cup my ass, he uses a hard grip to lift me up, dropping to the mattress and taking me with him. He settles me astride his hips, grunting when my pussy makes contact, grinding down.
Lips skating over my jaw, he asks, “You’re sure you want to do this? Just us?”
“Yes,” I answer, and then his hand rises up to cup my breast in a large, warm palm. “God, yes.”
Every press of his lips against my neck feels like a spark, one that travels straight to the cavern in my chest—the one that makes me feel lost and alone. The truth is, I’m not. Neither is he.
I’m struck by the urge to feel him in me, to feel him bury himself inside, so intense, so desperate. Holding his stare, I roll off his body, scooting back until I settle in the middle of the bed, resting on my palms. “Like this,” I say, parting my thighs. Even though my toes curl sheepishly, I make myself say the words aloud. “I want you like this. On top of me.”
He tears his heavy eyes away from my center. “Lav, your back.” Even though he touches my leg, hand gliding up to my knee, a worried crevice forms between his brows. “It’ll hurt you.”
“Good.” Breathing hard, I catch his hand when he goes to pull it away, displeasure flashing in his eyes. Quietly, I explain, “I’m going to look at that scar one day and remember that it hurt. If I’m going to remember the pain, then I’d rather remember it hurting because of something good,” I tug him closer, making space for him between my legs.
He relents, ducking down to press a kiss in the middle of my belly. “Sometimes at night, I wake up to check on you,” he whispers, his fingers dipping into the slick heat of my folds. “Just in case you’re lost in there. Sometimes Nick or Remy catch me–give me shit about it. But it only seems fair.” He slides two thick fingers inside, his blue eyes rising to meet mine. “You know that’s what you did for me, don’t you?” I gasp when he curls his fingers, my hips bucking up off the bed. “I was asleep, Lav. Walking around paralyzed and lost. Just getting from one day to the next. And then you showed up…”
Before I can even think of a response to that, he’s dipping down to lick me open, his tongue gliding around his fingers. I clench my fists into his hair and savor the ride, knowing exactly what comes next.
Still, when the third finger sneaks in alongside the other two, I hiss, tugging him up to taste myself on his lips. “Please,” I beg, watching the heavy sweep of his eyelashes when he blinks.
“You can always call out to them,” he says, thrusting his fingers in and out, stretching me. His blue eyes pierce right through mine as he searches my gaze. “I won’t hold it against you.”
Groaning, I wind my legs around his hips. “Stop.”
Immediately, his fingers are gone, body rearing back.
“No, don’t stop.” I clutch for him desperately, drawing him back in. “I mean… stop assuming a crash position, Sy. I need you inside of me. Now.”
His jaw is taut as he hovers over me, grasping the base of his dick. “Yeah?” he asks, running the tip through my folds. His eyes spark, and I think I could get used to the cockiness there. “I haven’t even made you come yet.”
I chase his cock with my hips, bucking into it when it lines up. “I’m ready. I promise, I’m–”
Sy’s whole body flexes when he thrusts, sinking the head of his cock into me. It’s not like it used to be. I’m prepared for the stretch, forcing my muscles to relax as I gaze up at him. His eyes are clenched tight, mouth pressed into a tense line. It doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.
“Sy?” I stroke my thumb over his lip. “Come back to me.”
“Sorry, it’s just–” His eyes blink open to meet mine, nostrils flaring with a long inhale. “You’re so fucking wet.” He punctuates this by rocking his hips, easing another thick inch inside. My jaw drops at the feel of it and he reacts by tipping down to lick into the crease of my lips, carefully pushing harder.
An agonized sound punches from my chest as I grip his back, pulling him closer. “More.”
He gives a tight shake of his head, and at first I worry he’s going to say no. That we’ve gone far enough. That his control is frayed after a long, tumultuous day. But then he pushes his fist into the mattress beside me and bears down, fucking his dick in deeper, and I realize what it is.
He’s trying not to come.
When I spread my thighs wider, making room for him, his growl vibrates against my lips. “Fuck.”
I pluck a gentle kiss from his mouth as I rock up against him. Even though he’s only half-seated, I still feel overwhelmed by the sheer size of him, throwing my head back to gasp when he pulls back to thrust.
Sy fucks me in a slow, torturous rhythm, damp sweat building between our bodies. Making love to Nick is always all-consuming, and when Remy’s inside of me, sex is basically a wild, emotional tornado.
With Sy, I find, it’s the edge of a knife. A loaded hand grenade. Two bodies struggling to only take what the other is willing to give. I see the restraint in the tremble of his arms, the guttural grunt that’s just below his throat with every thrust. But mostly, I see the way he’s watching me–so closely that it’s almost as intense as the feeling of fullness between my legs.
“Lav,” he breathes, rocking me harder into the bed. There’s a tenderness in his eyes that I’ve grown used to seeing in early mornings, soft and drowsy and so quiet. “Say you’ll be my Queen.”
I grip his hair, releasing the cry that’s been building in my chest. “Yes.”
“Say it.” He punches in faster, the muscles in his neck going tight. “Say it, baby. Tell me.”
Locking my ankles around him, I strain up to meet his lips. “I’ll be your Queen, Sy.”
His breath escapes in a hard gust that I meet with my own, because suddenly he’s working a hand between us, pressing two fingers into my aching clit. “It doesn’t hurt?” he asks, searching my eyes.
So fixed on chasing the sparks of his touch, it takes me a long time to understand the question–the gleam of concern in his eyes. My back hurts, of course, the bandage rubbing between the burn and the bed, but not enough to dull the knot of pleasure in my belly.
But then I look between us, down the length of our bodies.
Our pelvises are almost flush.
“Oh,” I breathe, hypnotized as I watch his dick appear, only to glide back inside. “Oh, my god, I’m–” That’s how I finally erupt, my body seizing at the realization I’m taking so much of him. It escapes me in a strangled cry, my heels slamming hard against his flexing ass as I shudder hard.
A feral sound rips from Sy’s chest, forehead pinning mine. His thrusts grow short and more pointed, his cock thickening inside my clenching walls, and then not only do I feel it, but I see it, my eyes still fixed on where we meet.
He comes with a harsh groan, his abs tensing as he spills inside me with a wave of sudden warmth. It spreads through me, filling me with hard jerks of his cock.
Abruptly, he lurches back, sliding out of me with a grunt. Before I can do much more than tense, his palm is pressed to my center, wide eyes holding mine.
“Are you okay?” he pants out, ducking down to inspect me with frantic eyes. “Fuck, I got so into it that I just–”
My legs fall limp, a chuckle bouncing from my belly. “Sy, I’m good.” I reach out, tugging him to lay beside me. “I’m fucking perfect. Promise.”
The tension falls out of him like a boulder, and he falls back, chest heaving. “Christ. Come here.”
We’re quiet for a moment, just skin and sweat and the feel of what he left between my legs. Next to me he shifts, propping up on his elbow. I look into his face and see the intensity lurking in his eyes. “What?”
“I was serious before,” he brushes hair off my sticky neck. “I can’t do this without you. I need you to be my Queen.”
“There’s no need to ask me. Duchess, girlfriend, Queen… it’s all the same.” I press a kiss on his shoulder. “I’m yours, Simon Perilini. Any name, any time, any place.”
The buzz doesn’t wake me.
Not for a while.
Somewhere deep in the back of my mind, I hear the sound and just feel an odd sense of serenity, like I know I’m safe with the sound. Looked after. Cherished. I swim in it for a long while, feeling warm and sated, the flutter through my hair not even enough to rouse me out of the goodness.
Eventually, however, the ache in my bladder pushes me to the surface.
When I blink my eyes open, the first thing I see is Nick’s chest.
I’m still in Sy’s bed, tucked into Nick’s side, cheek pressed into his shoulder. His arm is beneath my neck and every five heartbeats, his fingers begin a new stroke through my hair. He’s texting someone–Killian, from the looks of it.
Special K: Ashby requested an audience.
So did BK
And the mayor
Find a place that can fit this many egos
Lifting my eyes, I realize the buzzing sound is coming not from the phone, but from across the room, where Remy sits in Sy’s desk chair. It takes a few blinks to make out another chair–obviously brought in from the kitchen–and that Sy is the one sitting in it.
He’s wearing a loose pair of sweats but is still shirtless, legs spread casually as Remy brings the tattoo gun back to his upper arm.
“Morning, Little Bird,” Nick says, suddenly turning off the phone. “We’ve really got to make some kind of scale between good and bad screaming. You should have seen me and Rem last night. We didn’t know whether to bust the door down or give Sy a standing ovation.”
Sy’s eyes rise to mine, his lips twitching upward at the look on my face. “They really did the standing ovation. Obnoxious shits.”
I bury my hot face into Nick’s chest, stretching my legs. “Please tell me you’re not getting my vagina tattooed on your arm.”
Sy scoffs. “Who am I, Nick?”
“Oh no.” Groaning, I peek up at Nick’s face. “No, Nick. You’re not getting my vag tattooed on you.”
He rolls his eyes, casually flipping the sheets down to expose my breasts. “You’re not the boss of me. Sy is.”
Lazily, Sy commands, “You’re not getting our Queen’s pussy tattooed on you.”
In response, Nick lifts his middle finger.
“Can we not talk about my vagina?” I ask, struggling not to feel caught off guard by the title. Queen. It’s not like I wasn’t already preparing to be Nick’s, but now that it’s real, butterflies erupt in my gut. “What are you tattooing?” I ask, yanking the sheets back from Nick.
Remy’s the one to say, “Victory ink.”
Rubbing my eyes, I squint over the distance, seeing a smudged outline of a large, intricate bear. “Oh.”
Sy winces. “Sorry if it woke you up.”
“He wouldn’t leave,” Nick explains, fingertips dancing down my spine. “Boy gets him some unsupervised pussy and now he’s hooked. You thought I was bad? You’re about to find out which gene pool that comes from.”
After last night, the idea of Sy hounding me doesn’t seem so bad.
Nick slouches lower on the bed, nestling his nose into the crook of my neck as he works the sheets back into his grip. “Let me see,” he rumbles.
Eyes rolling, I relent, letting him pull the sheet back to expose my naked and well-fucked body. Figuring he just wants to play with my tits, I jolt in surprise when he throws the sheet off, wedging a hand between my legs. “Nick,” I say, trying to make my voice stern.
Even though my thighs part for him.
The tattoo on his temple pulls inward when he narrows his eyes. “Just checking.” His fingers are rough but gentle as they explore my center, his blue eyes holding mine as he explores. “Sore?” he asks, feeling at my entrance.
I hiss when he slides a finger in, but answer, “Only a little.”
His eyelids get progressively heavier, pupils blowing wider as he feels the slickness his brother left in me.
Then, his phone chimes with a text.
Nick freezes, jaw tightening, before pulling away with a frustrated growl. “Great, now I’m a King’s goddamn secretary,” he complains, jerking his phone up. I use his distraction to roll aside, fishing my panties and top from the floor. “Killian says we need a place to hold a meeting with the Kings. Your choice,” Nick says, holding up the phone. I’m already impressed at how easily Nick has taken to Sy’s leadership, but maybe I shouldn’t be. It’s the natural order of things, in more ways than one. Nick is used to working for Kings, and Sy, as the older sibling, has always been the one to hold these guys together. Now it’s just official. Watching me get dressed with a surly expression, he asks Sy, “Any thoughts?”
“They’re going to expect to come here,” Sy says, nose twitching as Remy goes over one spot several times to make the shade a little darker. “But as much as I love the tower, the room downstairs is a party pad, and up here…”
Remy stops his work. “It’s private space. Ours.”
Nick wraps a lock of my hair around his forefinger, eyes darkening. “The tower is a no-go, regardless. There are only two ways out: the conspicuously blockable stairway, or a very exciting fall from the belfry.” When I shiver at the thought, he gathers me close, tucking me back into his side. “There’s a reason no one’s allowed up here. This place is perfect for an ambush.”
“Good point.” Sy looks down at the ink, inspecting Remy’s work. From what I can tell, it’ll take a few more hours to fill it in completely, but the bear is already gorgeous. Majestic. Regal. Painfully sexy. Sy looks thoughtfully at his brother. “Hey, how about the gym? The Kings have all been there at some point.”
Nick nods, rubbing his hand over my thigh. “Sure, it’s defensible DKS turf, and you’re the champion of the house.”
“Total BDE,” Remy adds, while Sy rolls his eyes.
“BDE?” I ask.
“Big Dick Energy.” Remy ruffles Sy’s hair, chuckling at his responding glare. “What? I mean, it’s not even a metaphor. You can whip that sucker out and prove it if they ask.”
“Remy.” Sy’s tone is exasperated, and his cheeks are red, but I see the smile playing on his lips. All that angst and anger about his oversized cock has vanished.
“No, you’re right,” I cut in. “The gym is perfect.”
Nick’s fingers are already flying over the touchscreen. “I told Payne. It’s all set.”
“I need you to lean forward like this,” Remy says, refocused on the tattoo.
“Hold up.” Sy grabs his wrist and looks at me. “Will you do it?”
I freeze. “You want me to tattoo you?” But Remy is already waving me over.
Sy shrugs. “It seems… fitting.”
Nick snorts. “I knew it bugged you that she inked me and Rem, and not you. Just admit it.
“I’m not jealous,” Sy declares.
“He’s definitely jealous,” Nick tells me, helping me sit up. “But you should do it, because you look hot as hell when you’re holding that gun.”
“Devastatingly hot,” Remy agrees, making room for me between his legs. “I’m hard just thinking about it.”
It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “You’re always hard.”
That much is confirmed when I take my seat, the solid press of his cock obvious against my backside. Sy’s right, though. As Remy preps me to take over, Sy’s hand landing warm on my knee, this does seem fitting. The sharp scent of the sterile gloves. The prick of the needle. The speckles of blood as the bear comes to life beneath our hands.
If my first act as Queen is marking my King, then I’ll count myself lucky.
We spend the next few days in a tense sort of limbo, as if someone’s going to leap out at us and take revenge for killing Saul. It’s the reason for the vote, I’m guessing. A house like DKS could turn in on itself so easily with this many hot-headed cubs. Luckily, Bruce doesn’t show his face, and if any of the other guys are displeased with Sy’s leadership so far, they don’t make it known.
The whole house, including the Dukes and their Duchess, makes a convincingly somber appearance at his funeral. In a way, it’s the kind of poetry I’d wanted from his death.
Saul Cartwright, Forsyth University athletic director, dead from an apparent suicide.
Just like Tate.
I spend the whole service rigid, anticipating an appearance from the other Kings–my father among them–but they never arrive. In a perfect world, I’d never even have to see him again.
But Forsyth has never been perfect.
“You said the mayor’s coming?” Sy asks, watching the doors to the gym. His eyes are sharp and placid, and when he reaches up to adjust the bolt on the punching bag, the ring on his finger gleams in the overhead lights.
From his spot on the weight bench, shoulders forming a casual curve, Nick bounces his chin, loading a round into the rifle between his knees. “Treasurer, too.”
It’s been five days since Sy became King–two days since Saul’s joke of a funeral.
Remy paces back and forth and I track him with my eyes, wishing he’d sit down. “This is a lot of orange,” he’s saying, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Killer might clear, but the others are a problem. Three doesn’t make white.”
Sy releases a sigh, stripping the tape from his fist. “I know, Rem. I’ll be careful.” Despite the fact he’s meeting with the other Kings–and prominent members of Forsyth government–in approximately forty minutes, Sy’s still wearing a long pair of athletic shorts and his usual sleeveless workout shirt. He refuses to change for them, to give them the respect of treating them like Royalty, and it makes my stomach churn nervously. They’ll take it as a slight, and however much I hate my father and the Baron King, this posturing is done for a reason.
Wringing my hands, I try again. “Are you sure you don’t want to maybe put on–”
“I’m sure.” He approaches me with an exasperated look, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “Baby, I can’t let them lead. This is my house.” His eyes flick around the gym. “They’re going to have to take me as I am.”
The rifle clicks as Nick slams the bolt forward. “Young, dumb, and full of cum.”
Sy whirls on him, thrusting a finger. “Hey! At least two of those are patently false.”
My face heats at the mention of what we did this morning, Sy shooting off into my mouth. “I just think it’d be good if–”
The abrupt whine of the large double doors makes Nick jolt, the barrel of the rifle swinging toward the sound.
“Pops,” Sy says, Nick immediately lowering the gun. “Dad. What are you doing here?” He turns a suspicious glare on Nick, who just gives a curt shake of his head. Last I heard, the brothers had been dodging phone calls until they could figure out how to best break the news to their parents.
Manny speaks first. “We got a call—”
“I did it,” Remy says, rapping the end of his marker against his palm. “I told them everything.”
Sy goes rigid, before hurling a curse at his friend. “What the fuck, Rem?” His voice echoes off the ceiling, making Remy’s eyes roll. “This isn’t how I wanted it to happen!”
“I know, and I decided that’s bullshit.” He glances between Nick and Sy, jaw going taut. “Look, it’s a big day for you. You’ve got two really cool dads, and it’s fucking stupid to keep them out of the loop just because you’re being little bitches.”
Sy rubs his face, his perfectly collected facade crumbling. “This is a fucking nightmare.”
Davis snorts. “You really think we didn’t notice Saul Cartwright’s obituary plastered in the media for the past five days? Give us some credit, son.” He gestures to Remy. “He just colored in the lines for us.”
Looking flustered, Sy meets their gazes. “I know this isn’t what you wanted—that it’s actually exactly what you didn’t want.”
“Remy said you got the votes,” Davis says, eyes zeroed in on the ring his son is wearing.
“Fuck yeah, he did,” Nick says, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “Unanimously, as far as anyone who matters is concerned.”
“This wasn’t about revenge,” Sy says, palms raised defensively. “It was about setting things right. Getting DKS and West End back on track.” Without even looking at me, his hand reaches for mine, lacing our fingers together. “Protecting the people we love.”
“Son,” Manny says, leveling Sy with a look, “we just wanted you to find your place—the right place—not some role you’ve been forced into because of tradition and bloodlines.” He looks at Nick, his dark hair falling around his shoulders like we’re in some kind of shampoo commercial. “You’ve both taken your own journey to get here, and now that you are, we couldn’t be more proud.”
Sy’s forehead creases, eyes skeptical. “You’re serious.”
Davis steps forward, giving his son a tense look. “Simon, I wouldn’t be your Pops if I didn’t tell you how dangerous this is.” His eyes pass over all four of us. “The target you’ve put your back–on all of your backs–is a threat that will always be there. It’ll be there when you wake up. When you go to work. When you come home at night. When you sleep.” His eyes soften as he assesses Sy. “But since you’ve done what it takes to become King, then you already know all of that. So all I really want to say is this.” Reaching out, he grabs Sy by the neck and hauls him into a hard, backslapping embrace. “To the victor, kid.”
I step back, letting the Perilini-Bruin men have their moment. After a moment, Remy joins me, slipping his arm around my waist. “That was a bold move, Maddox.”
He laughs darkly, curling his fingers around my hip. “Neither of them knows what it’s like to have psychopaths for fathers like we do. I didn’t want them to fuck this up.” Uncapping his marker, he glances at Manny, who’s visibly appreciating Nick’s rifle. “They needed to know the truth.”
At the mention of my father, the flutters of anxiety rise in my belly again. “Are you nervous?” I ask, tilting my head when he grabs my chin, directing it to the side. “About seeing him again?” It’s second nature now when he has a pen or marker to just go where he poses me, and the felt tip tickles at the pulse point on my neck.
“Not in the way you’re thinking,” he answers, distracted as the marker loops and curls against my skin. “I’m nervous about what he’ll say to Sy. How he’ll treat him. All the ways he’ll try to sneak orange into his head.” His lips press into a tense line, the fingertips on my jaw holding me steady. “Davis was right. Sy’s a target now. That means my father will see him as something worse than his equal.” He pulls back, capping the marker to blow a shivering breath across the wet ink. “He’ll see him as competition.”
“I’m twenty-fucking-two!” Sy suddenly belts, drawing our attention to the standoff happening in the middle of the gym. In a stark contrast to the declaration, he’s pouting. Arms are crossed tight, mouth pulled down into a hard frown, Sy looks as immovable as Archie often does.
Looking just as stubborn, Davis replies, “You’re not meeting the most powerful men in Forsyth while wearing a sweat-stained shirt with a beer logo on it. ”
“You’re the one who wanted to be King. That means putting West End over your own petty values.” Manny’s holding up the bag they’d walked in with, thrusting a finger toward the locker room. “Go.”
Sy relents with a frustrated sound, snatching the bag from Manny’s hand. “You,” he barks at Nick, “get into position. And Remy?”
Remy jabs the marker behind his ear, pulling his gun from his waistband. “Yeah, yeah, I’m on it.”
“Ten minutes!” Sy insists, marching angrily toward the locker rooms.
“Oh, thank god,” I groan, trudging to the dads. “I’ve been trying to get him into something? presentable for hours.”
Manny’s eyes flick to whatever Remy’s drawn on my neck. “You’ve adopted a real pair of brick walls here, Lavinia. I hope you’re a patient woman.”
Shaking my head, I admit, “Not even a little. I usually resort to bribery or threats of violence. I’m just off my game today. You know,” I rub my neck, “considering.”
Davis gives me a measured stare. “Your dad coming to this thing?”
I shrug. “He didn’t exactly RSVP, but that’s never been his style.” The truth is, my father hasn’t shown his face around Forsyth for quite a while, and this would be the perfect opportunity.
“I suppose not.” Davis looks at Manny. “We should probably head out. Being here during the meeting would probably cause more problems than help.”
“I’ll walk you out,” I offer, falling into stride beside them. “There’s something I need to get from the car.”
We step outside into the bright, late fall sunlight. Remy’s leaning against the wall, foot propped behind him, knee bent, as he keeps an eye on the street, and I linger beside him.
“See you around, Dads,” Remy says, giving them a little wave.
“Thanks for calling us,” Manny says. “You’ll be at Thanksgiving?”
Remy rubs his belly. “I wouldn’t miss Sarah’s dressing if my life depended on it.”
I grab Manny by the arm, stopping him before he walks away. “Will you tell her thank you for me?”
He looks so much like his son when his forehead creases that it nearly takes me aback. “For what?”
“She’ll know,” I say, thinking about how that hairpin may not have saved my life, but it sure as hell bought me some time. A little more buoyantly, I add, “And tell her I’ll bring a pie for dinner.”
“Will do.” They both give me a kiss on the cheek, and a moment later, they’re gone.
“You need to get back inside, babe,” Remy says, thumbing the drawing he put on my neck. “I can’t keep up with you and my security duties.”
Ducking away, I hold up a finger. “I’ll just be a minute.” I cross over to the SUV and climb in the front seat, looking for the package I put in the glove compartment. Once I have it, I pause, pulling down the mirror to catch a glimpse of Remy’s artwork.
It’s a crown.
Car doors slam, and I whip around to realize the Kings have arrived, a long row of black vehicles idling at the curb. I stay in place, watching the men all march toward the gym entrance. Ashby goes first, then Killian, and both of them, for the record, are dressed in nice suits. Thank god for the dads. Obviously, one of my duties as Queen will be making sure Sy understands these nuances. I look down at the wrapped package in my hand. It’s a book on the psychology of leadership.
Remy checks them for weapons and then allows them entrance into the gym. Once they disappear through the doors, I fully plan on escaping the car and doing the same, but then the next car arrives. It’s a black Mercedes. The windows are tinted, but the man who exits is immediately recognizable as one of the Williams.
He opens the back door and the Baron King emerges, face covered with his mask. It’s chilling to know that Timothy Maddox is hiding under there just as much as the knowledge that we’re the only ones aware. I wait, anxiety inching up my spine as he and Remy come face to face. Luckily, whatever exchange they have is quick, all business, and I feel my lungs release a slow, relieved breath. After he walks into the gym, Remy’s eyes meet mine from across the street, a hard blankness on his features.
I hop out of the SUV, slamming the door behind me. My eyes are on Remy, which is why, as I cross the street, I don’t see the car barreling down the road. It stops with a screech, the tires burning against the asphalt. My heart becomes lodged somewhere in my throat, and it sticks there when Lars steps out of the driver’s seat.
He gives me a sharp, nasty grin. “Watch your step, Duchess.”
Remy’s by my side in a flash, that hollow look gone from his face. Instead, it’s filled with rage, his palm curling around my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I assure him, eyes firmly on the car. “I’m fine. It’s my fault.”
Remy argues, “He tried to fucking run you over, Vinny. That wasn’t a mistake.”
“I’m fine, Remy.” I press my hand to his chest, knowing my father is inside that car. “Just watch the door. I’ll be okay.”
He’s clearly not convinced, but he yanks his gun out and slowly makes his way back to his position. Lars ignores Remy’s death glare and opens the back door of the car. A familiar, prickly sensation runs up my spine when he finally appears.
My father.
He’s dressed in a heavy gray coat, a tone that almost matches his skin color. His face seems thinner. Whatever is going on in North Side is draining him. Too many deaths. Too many failures. Remy said he heard his dog, Amos, is living at the Kappa house. Which for my father is big. He loved that dog more than he loved any of us. It’s clear he’s losing control.
He barely regards me as he starts across the road, but the urge to speak drives me to follow him.
“I told you I didn’t kill her,” I burst, my voice small in the empty alley. “Saul Cartwright killed Leticia. He admitted it before Simon put a bullet in his head.”
I see the small hesitation, the tiniest curiosity. Of course, for Leticia, he’ll stop.
He clears his throat and says, “Wait for me inside, Lars.”
Lars looks between both me and Remy, eyes hardening. “But, sir–”
My father flicks his hand. “There’s no threat out here.”
Lars shoots me a look, then another long one at Remy, before walking inside like a good little lapdog. Remy keeps his distance, giving me space. He understands the need to confront a shitty father–a King.
Looking down, Lionel slowly removes his black leather gloves, finger by finger.
With the book clutched to my chest, I keep talking, my voice steady and sharp. “I thought you might want to know that he was planning to make her into his perfect little Royal slave. He sent a spy into North Side, and you didn’t even realize it. Probably because everyone was too doped up to notice.”
For the first time, he settles those dark eyes on me, sneering. “Look at you, all puffed up like I care what you have to say. If there’s pertinent information regarding my daughter–my real daughter–I’ll let your King tell me.”
I don’t stop. I can’t. I’m owed this. “Daniel’s virgin step-daughter didn’t work out, so he and Saul moved onto the next Royal in line. Someone more pure. Who better than a Lucia, right?”
His eyes narrow as he drinks this in, the glare so familiar that it evokes the scent of old wood and my own sweat. “Except he didn’t want you, did he? No one did. You were never anything but a spare. An attempt to create a male heir that went wrong.” The words slip from him like the hiss of a snake, evil but mesmerizing. “Your birth devastated your mother so much that she’d rather have died than continued on with the humiliating pretense of raising you.”
“That’s not true,” I snap. My fingers curl around the edge of the book as I remember the way Sarah spoke of her. “Face it. You poisoned her so much that she withered away. Just like Sutton. Just like all your Counts. Just like Leticia.”
His eyes flash with something unhinged. “Why do you think she needed the drugs, girl? To take away the pain of failure.” He steps forward, tall and unwieldy as he bears down on me. “Your little act of defiance in West End has proven that you’re exactly what I always thought you were. A weak, pathetic, disloyal bottom-feeder. The fact that you’ve so easily succumbed to Stockholm syndrome during your time in this dump tells me that I should have locked you in that chest longer—made you stronger than some whore who spreads her legs to the first men that show you an ounce of kindness.”
“I am strong,” I hiss back, raising my chin. “And I’m not a whore, despite your best efforts to make me one.”
His eyes drop to my neck, to the drawing. “Ah, right, you’re the Queen.” A mocking smile tugs at his thin lips.
I square my shoulders. “You’re right. I am.“
He laughs and shakes his head, like I’m too stupid to understand. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? This little game of Royal sluts only exists to keep the young bucks in line. To keep them busy and focused, believing they have something to fight for.” He looks around, eyes sliding past Remy. “Do you see any other Queens that have survived past producing spawn? Of course not.” He eyes me with palpable disgust. “You’re nothing but a liability. A poisoned womb. You may as well all be a Princess, for Christ’s sake.”
Shaking my head, I firm my jaw, insisting, “You’re just trying to absolve yourself of the guilt of killing my mother.”
He barks a cruel, icy laugh. “What guilt?”
My stomach falls as I comprehend the implication. I’ve heard it whispered around North Side, in the brothels. Lionel Lucia had a Queen once, but he didn’t like it. Too messy.
My throat suddenly feels like sandpaper. “You didn’t just kill her figuratively, did you?”
Instead of answering, he steps closer, venom dripping from his words. “Best case, Lavinia, is that these men tire and dispose of you. Worse is that you get them killed before they even have the chance.”
I want to tell him he’s wrong. To fuck off and stop spewing lies, but there’s truth in his words. I was never built to be Queen. I feel it in my bones. “My King loves me,” I say, hating that I feel the need to prove it. “The men in the West End know true loyalty–real honor–unlike your Counts.” I gesture behind me, toward North Side. “Your entire enterprise is crumbling. Your Count and Countess are both dead. The entire frat is doped up on Viper Scratch. We don’t need to destroy you. You’re doing it to yourself.”
His eyes flare dangerously. “Careful, girl. You’re talking to a King.”
I laugh, raising my arms. “Look around you. The guard is changing. Old men are getting picked off one by one, replaced by younger, stronger, savvier men and the women who support them.”
“Is that so?” He doesn’t look the least bit threatened. “You think I got to this place, this position, by being scared of a bunch of children? You forget, I can destroy this entire city, every quadrant of this godforsaken town, with the press of a button.” He bears down on me, lips pulling back to bare his teeth. “If you or any of your thugs come after me, you all go up in flames. The clock is ticking, Duchess.” His eyes brighten for the first time since he arrived. “Tick-Tock.”
Click.
Eyes shifting to the side, I see Remy standing a couple feet away, the barrel of his pistol pointed at my father. “Couldn’t help but notice that you’re getting a little too close to our Queen.”
Lionel exhales, rolling his eyes at what I assume he thinks are Remy’s dramatics. He won’t show fear. Not to him. Not to me. I don’t breathe until he’s sweeping away to disappear inside, behind the metal gym door.
Remy’s green eyes follow him the whole way, mouth twisted unhappily. “It’d be unwise to interfere with Sy’s first Royal meeting.” He doesn’t lower the gun until my father’s gone, tossing his arm over my shoulder. He tucks me close, adding, “But just say the word, and I’ll put a bullet into his head when he walks back out.”
“No,” I say, thinking of the threat my father just leveled–a reminder that this entire city is wired with bombs. His failsafe. Tick-Tock. I look up at Remy. “If anyone is going to kill Lionel Lucia, it’s going to be me.”
