Everyone leaves when the Dukes tell them to. Even the pledges who never got their cub mark quickly filter out no argument whatsoever. To West End, the Dukes’ word is law. But I’ve seen them wake up. I’ve seen them go to bed, leave for class, drive to the gym together, bickering over what music to play. I’ve seen them clumsily co-exist together.
And these three are a hot mess.
They almost have as many petty differences as me and Leticia. The distrust is ever present in the questions, the suspicious glances, the unspoken words passed between them. It makes me edgy, unsure of which Duke is more or less dangerous to me. Remy certainly hasn’t helped, using me to prod whatever wounds are between him and Nick. There’s family drama, past traumas, concerns of Remy’s mental state, and whatever happened between them that sent Nick running to South Side. It’s not that they’re fractured. Something fractured would still be mostly solid. These three are broken pieces of a whole.
So the way they move into action is startling.
Everyone seems to understand the assignment. They get dressed in the main room, trading shirts, pulling on boots and shoving knives into them. I keep quiet, my movements fluid and precise. No matter how much I resent it, the truth of the matter is that my pussy is a throbbing mess of ache.
It started with the fondling, and then the neck kissing, and while Remy forcing me to my knees in front of the whole party should have been the equivalent of being doused in ice water, it just helped me make clear to the others that this? The Dukes and the fumbling way they bicker, the barbs they throw, the dark looks, the ledges, the knives, the small spaces, the large spaces, the punishment and the praise, the hurt and the gentler touches, being Duchess and all of the status that comes with it?
It’s mine.
No one’s earned it like me. Haley sure as hell hasn’t. Verity would if she had to, but she didn’t. I’m the one who’s been in this tower, tolerating and enduring. And if I get all the hurt, then that means any shred of good that might come with it is mine to claim, and I intend to.
I change from my ripped jeans and crop top into the athletic pants Sy had bought for me, and one of Remy’s expensive, oversized sweaters, and try not to make it so obvious that I’m rubbing my thighs together, desperate for friction. Was it the thrill of it? Was it the feel of him in my mouth? Was it the eyes—the acknowledgement that I’m more than just a ghost that floats behind them?
I don’t know.
I just know that I’ve never been hornier in my entire life.
Eventually, the guns come out, and I watch from the armchair, lacing up the boots Verity let me keep, as each of them smoothly loads their clips. Suddenly they’re a single entity, not even having to look at one another to catch a phone tossed over the distance or pass a set of keys.
My father never would have let me be involved in real Count business, but I’ve been privy to street runs before—have stood next to one of his young soldiers as he weighed out powder for an inter-house junkie who wouldn’t take no for an answer. But it was never anything like this, saturated with a tense purpose.
The walk downstairs is filled with a silent focus that I feel nervous to break. I keep my steps even with theirs, not even wanting my footfalls to disrupt the energy of the moment.
I can still taste Remy on the back of my tongue.
When Sy returns with the vehicle, it’s not the SUV I’m expecting, but instead a dark van. I stand on the curb, watching with fascination as Nick opens the back doors, reaches beneath the floorboard, and pops some sort of latch. He raises it to reveal a secret compartment. Sy rounds the van to lift the black crate, tucking it snugly in the void above the undercarriage.
“Whose van is this?” I ask, realizing here’s a lot I don’t know.
“DKS property,” Sy says, slamming the back doors. “Officially, it’s used to haul the frat’s equipment.”
“And unofficially, it’s used to move gun—’ Nick’s hand clamps over my mouth, blue eyes blazing into mine with a silent warning.
“Careful, Little Bird.” I watch as he twists, looking over his shoulder toward the mouth of the alley. The motion lifts his shirt and I see the black gun tucked into his jeans. “You never know who’s around.”
I whisper, “The police?”
Remy snorts, his white hair poking out from beneath his dark hood. “The police haven’t been a problem in West End since my uncle took over the force. It’s the other bastards out there we have to worry about. Someone’s always looking to settle a score.”
The statement sends a chill down my spine. They’re right. A Baron could be out here, pissed about losing the fight. One of my father’s soldiers could be out here. Perez could be out here. Did I think they’d just stop watching me because I’m with the Dukes? Perez did follow me to the library to deliver that message.
Now I’m the one looking shiftily down the alley.
At least it distracts from the throb in my clit.
“Head check, brother.” Sy steps in front of Remy, giving his shoulder a bump with his knuckles. “You good? What’s your number?”
Remy jerks his chin in a nod, but there’s a crease in his brow when he answers, “I don’t know. Hard five?”
Sy’s face falls. “Only a five?”
Remy shoves his fingers through his hair, pushing the hood away. Suddenly, he whips his eyes on me, and then he’s stalking forward, hooking a finger into my pants. I remain still as he wrenches them down a few inches, looking at the star. A lock of his hair trembles in a passing breeze as he counts, his lips moving silently.
Nodding, he lifts his head, tucking a marker behind his ear like a cigarette. “Nah, we’re good. Solid seven.”
Sy looks from me to Remy, and then glances down at where the tattoo is. “What’s that about?”
It’s a question directed more to Remy than me, so I take the out. When Nick glides the side door open, I climb in quickly, sliding across the bench seat. I don’t want to be the one to beat my way around the truth. I made a deal with Remy that I wouldn’t tell Sy about his almost jumping from the belfry and I’ve kept it. The cuts on his arm were a different story—too obvious to patch over with bullshit. I keep the truth close, however. Leverage like that could come in handy one day with Remy. In any case, Sy and I have just found something close to peace, and I’m not in the mood to be the subject of his hatred, yet again.
Nick follows me into the van, slinging an arm around my shoulder and pulling me against his side. The charged electricity from the stairwell earlier still clings to him, and the heavy silence of the cabin amplifies it. He touches me like a compulsion, fingertips idly mapping the texture of my inner wrist. I feel the urge humming under his skin, the way Remy’s tattoo gun had vibrated in my hand. I didn’t expect to like that—the feel of power at my fingertips, watching the needle sink in, the blood oozing from the wound. It was like Remy’s energy surged from his body to mine, from his hand to my own.
From the window, I can see Remy’s face tilted up toward the streetlight as Sy says something to him, but all I can think about is how I had that man’s cock in my mouth twenty minutes ago.
The thing no one ever told me about sucking dick is how powerful it could be. I was on my knees and it rankled. The whole time I was lowering Remy’s pants, my words to Perez kept running bitterly through my head.
“I don’t kneel to anyone…”
Except I did.
But it didn’t feel like submission—not when I had him trembling like a leaf, white-knuckled and punching those little desperate breaths through his teeth. It was like that night with Nick, bringing him off into my fist. I wonder why Leticia, Auggy—hell, even Mrs. Crane—never told me.
Bring a man to the edge of orgasm and he’s your bitch.
There’s a pressure against my cheek, Nick turning me to face him. The cabin of the van is dark, blotting two shadows into the hollows of his eyes. “What’s that little smirk about?”
I’m not sure what makes me shudder more. The quiet, velvety hush of his voice, the memory of his dark eyes watching me take Remy’s dick, or the way his finger is tracing my lower lip. “Nothing.”
My answer nudges against his fingertip. I don’t need light to know he’s staring at my mouth. “Open,” he says, voice as demanding as the finger he pushes inside.
I obey, more out of nervousness than a sense of requirement, jaw opening to show him my tongue. The pad of his finger rubs against it, like maybe he’s hoping I’ll suck it. Only the next thing I know, he’s diving down and licking against it, his breath hot and foreign as he tastes the remnants of Remy’s release. It’s more of an obscene invasion than a kiss, his hand trapping my chin as he licks into me, and I get this… sense.
The sense that he’s beginning to lose patience.
“Sucking his dick made you horny.” His voice is quiet enough that it doesn’t cut through the silence. It just ebbs with it, disappearing into my mouth. “I saw you squirming around. I bet you’re still soaked, aren’t you?”
And then he shoves his hand down my pants.
I turn my face away from his mouth, even though my hips lift to him like an invitation. “Wait—”
“No.” He forces his fingers between my thighs. “You broke the rule.”
God, that fucking kiss. I knew it would come back and haunt me. “He forced me, it wasn’t like I—”
“I know,” Nick says, his fingers slipping into my folds. “That’s why this is your punishment, and not something worse.”
My breath hitches. “This?”
“I’ll have you finished off before they even get in.” His fingers find my hole, and I don’t need his responding groan to know what they find. I’ve been wet since Remy started playing with my nipples at the party, and it didn’t get better when I had him in my mouth. “You think Remy’s the only man who can make you come your brains out?” he whispers, rubbing my slickness around.
I force my body to open up to him, thighs parting. It’s too hard to think when the space around us is warming with our breaths, so quiet and still, but I’m aware enough to understand that this is better than a night in the elevator.
Eight days.
“That’s it.” Nick speaks against my cheek, whisper-quiet as he runs his fingers through my folds. “This pussy knows who it belongs to, doesn’t it?”
It rubs something raw inside of me to wonder if he’s right, because I lay my head back on his shoulder and buck into his hand. His fingers find my clit, gliding around it in a tight circle, and I can’t help but glance down, watching where his wrist disappears inside my pants. It’s the forearm that’s been tattooed a solid black. I can almost trick my brain into thinking it’s another part of the shadows, just part of the endless void around us.
He huffs short breaths into the side of my face as he works his wrist, fingers pushing hard—almost too hard—into my aching clit. I’ve been like a livewire since Remy came on my tongue, and now I’m spreading my legs, panting as I mindlessly chase Nick’s touch.
He rubs me with a relentless precision, and it’s quiet, just like that night with Sy. Like this could be a secret the others would never know about. Through the fog of my body needing the friction, the thought strikes me as vaguely beneficial and I give myself over to it, hoping it’s quick enough that they won’t see me so powerless.
“Yeah, give it to me,” Nick rumbles, rubbing my clit. He’s all around me, too close, too warm. The arm he has curled around my shoulders lifts and he palms my forehead, crushing me back into the crook of his neck. “You’re mine,” he says, harsh as gravel. “Show me how you look when I make you—”
I snap, “Oh my god, would you shut the fuck up and finger me already?!” Grabbing his wrist, I push it.
He growls against my jaw, but finally—Jesus Christ, finally—dips lower, roughly shoving two of his thick fingers into me. My back arches, and I hate that he’s seeing it—the scrunch of my nose, the way I’m biting a painful notch into my lip. But what’s worse is my loud, tortured keen as the orgasm rips through me. His palm flies off my forehead to clamp over my mouth, eyes watchful of the others. He surges with my bucking hips, the heel of his hand digging into my clit as his fingers fuck into me, ruthless, determined. He keeps it quiet and hidden, as if he’s too greedy to share it with his brothers.
Afterward, everything feels slow and hazy. The drag of his hand against my pussy as he pulls his wrist free of my pants. The tickle of his slick fingertip tracing my lip. The hot-cold of the tip of his tongue, licking the taste of me away. He rests his forehead against mine, inhaling my exhales. “If you ever let one of them kiss you again,” he says, knuckles brushing over the curve of my cheek, “I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”
By the time Remy and Sy get into the van, Nick looks convincingly casual, but I’m as rigid as steel, his threat resonating ominously in my thoughts. I don’t know why I bother staying vigilant with Nick during the good times, because he’s always quick to remind me what he is.
His eyes are on alert, scanning the area through the windows. “I think we’re good,” he says, tapping his brother on the shoulder. “Head out.”
The engine rumbles to life, and we start down the road.
Remy gives us a quick glance from the passenger seat, his green eyes flickering on the scant space between our bodies, but he turns quickly forward again. There’s a shifting sound, a click, and then the window next to me whirrs to life, lowering a crack.
From my vantage, I can just barely make out the curve of his smirk.
The route seems twisted, and the first time we circle a block only to turn the same way once again, I wonder if Sy is lost. But then it occurs to me that it’s intentional, winding through West End in a way that seems aimless, but slowly takes us to South Side, and then East.
Eventually, I realize we’re in the area Sy and I traveled when we jogged to the library.
When I finally find the will to speak, it’s to ask, “East End?”
“Yeah,” Nick says, running his hand down my thigh. “Fifty-Third Street is the boundary. We’re in Prince territory now.” He pushes my hair off my neck, and it makes me feel whiplashed. How can someone threaten to maim you one second and then touch you so tenderly the next? “Don’t worry. We’ve been invited.”
Sy finally parks the van in a dark spot at the edge of an old apartment building. In unison, all three guys check their guns.
“Do I need one of those?” I ask, feeling anxious.
Sy shoots me an incredulous look. “Fuck no.”
“Can someone at least tell me what we’re getting into?”
He sighs and tucks one gun away, then another. “This apartment belongs to Felix—security for the Princes. They don’t do business at their mansion anymore. Not after some lunatic broke in and defiled their creepy ass baby room with blood last year.”
I look between them, taking this in. “Barons’ work?”
“Probably. They’re all deranged,” Nick says. “But now we meet off site. It’s easier this way, anyhow. This whole area is a shithole no one pays attention to.” Nick leans forward and grips Remy’s shoulder. “You watch the Duchess. Stick to her like a bitch in heat.”
“Wait, what?” I ask, alarmed at the visual.
“Gotcha.” Remy turns to me, flashing that creepy Maniac smile. “You’re with me, Vinny Lu.”
Sy goes around the back of the van to get the goods and Nick follows him, hand touching the gun in his waistband as his eyes scan the street. That’s evidently Nick’s role—being our cover man as we climb the flight of stairs and enter a narrow hallway. Although the guys seem confident, there’s a low level of tension that resonates through my bones. I’m all too familiar with the painful tedium of vigilance. It’s how I felt every day of my life with my father. Like a bomb could go off at any moment.
Sy stops at a door and Nick leans past him to knock three times—twice fast, a pause, then a third. I stand back, my side pressed into Remy’s as we wait.
When the door finally swings open to reveal a chick, none of them looks particularly surprised about it.
“Felix is in there,” she says, jerking her thumb toward the living room. The girl is pretty, maybe young enough to be another student. She’s the exact shade of dry, brassy blonde that Leticia used to ruthlessly disparage amongst her friends, and even though she has the posture of a Royal—shoulders back, chin pitched arrogantly in the air—she’s lacking the grace of one. There are dark rings around her eyes, like she hasn’t slept in days. Or maybe all the effort of keeping her back straight like that has drained her.
Nick pulls out his gun and enters first, keeping it down at his side as he peers into the apartment.
Her eyes flick from the crate up to Sy’s face. “You’re right on time. The two of them are waiting.”
Sy pauses over the threshold. “Two?” There are voices coming from the back, loud but conversational. Sy shoots Remy an edgy look and shoves the crate into his arms, whispering, “If shit goes south—”
“Then come and save our asses,” Nick says, fingering his trigger. “I’ll never live it down if I die in East End.”
Sy’s face pinches. “Go.”
Remy takes the crate, wraps an arm around my waist, and drags me to an alcove off the entry. Nick gives him a long look, nodding. I don’t know what passes between them, but it makes Remy’s grip on my waist tighten.
Sy and Nick disappear, following the girl through the foyer and into the main room.
Immediately, the sound of panic erupts; low curses, something falling on the floor, an unfamiliar voice belting out, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Chill out!”
“Don’t you fucking tell me to chill out, Felix,” Nick shouts. “Who the hell is this?”
Stupidly, Felix responds, “Bro, chill!”
“You better start fucking talking, Felix!” Sy roars. “What the hell is this? Some kind of ambush?”
“Stop!” the girl screeches, high and alarmed. “Stop!”
Remy has me tucked away behind him and I clutch his stomach, which is hard and coiled. I go to peer around him, but he grabs my sweater, wrenching me back with a glare.
Not before I get a good look at what’s happening, though.
The sight of four men in a tense standoff, guns leveled at each other’s faces, is burned right into my retinas. There’s Nick and Sy, plus a lanky guy I’m assuming is Felix, and then his guest, which… from the looks of it, was unexpected. It’s easy to understand why.
“You have two seconds to explain what the fuck is going on,” Simon says, voice tight with fading restraint, “or the Princes are about to lose a man.”
“Hey, I know that guy,” I whisper to Remy, but he’s drawing his gun, looking about two seconds from rushing in there. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so alert before, a hand reaching back to touch my hip.
“If someone fires, you book it, Vinny. Remember, don’t be a hero.”
But before he can make a move, I duck around him, darting toward Sy and Remy. “Put your guns down, you raging testosterone disasters.”
Their guns all swing on me, and then Nick’s eyes go tight, his barrel instantly dropping. “Remy!” he snaps, and the man in question is suddenly behind me, yanking me away.
I struggle against Remy’s hold. “That’s Cash Money! He’s just a kid the Counts pay to run their junk. I’ll vouch for him, okay?”
Cash lowers his gun next, eyes widening. “Holy shit, Lavinia? Is that you?” He barks a laugh, showing a sunny smile that beckons memories of the river from middle school. “Goddamn, girl, I heard you turned coat for the fists, but I didn’t believe it. Half suspected your daddy handed you over to the big Bs.”
Sy looks between, twitching anxiously. “This fucker’s a Count?”
Rolling my eyes, I raise my hand and lower it, gesturing for Sy to drop his gun. “Hardly. He’s just a lackey. We go way back.”
Cash’s head snaps back. “Lackey? Why you gotta hurt me like that, cuz?” He’s the first to put his gun away, looking annoyed. “I was just making a routine delivery, supplying the upstanding citizens of East End with the finest, and your boys come rushing in here like a goddamn Fed sting. Lucky this ‘lackey’ didn’t come off with a headshot.”
“We’re lucky?” Nick says, still fingering the trigger. “Talk some more shit, fuck face. See how far you get.”
I throw Felix a baffled look. “You scheduled deliveries with two rival houses at the same time? The only one who’s lucky here is your stupid ass.”
Felix does not take this well. “You wanna shut your bitch up and do business, or stand here holding our dicks?”
Nick answers with a quietness that belies his words. “Call our Duchess a bitch again, and the only house we’ll be doing business with tonight is the ‘big Bs’.”
The Barons deal in flesh like the Lords do; only their specialty is getting rid of it. No one knows how, because what the Barons are best at is keeping silent. Their business hinges on a century-long reputation of never having a body found, and never having the customer charged with their murders. Impressive, considering the volume they must see.
The tension falls out of the room like a lead weight, and the girl who’s been standing off to the side this whole time, palms covering her mouth, deflates. “I didn’t know,” she stammers. “When I invited you in, I didn’t—”
Felix tucks his gun away, scowling at everyone. “This one was supposed to be here with the drop an hour ago.”
Cash shrugs. “No one told me it was do or die, bruh.”
“Everyone knows drug dealers’ clocks run slower than two snails fucking,” I say, stepping away when Remy finally lets me go. “Be happy he got the day right.”
“Yo,” Cash says, looking between us. “We chill now, or what? I’m not saying I couldn’t hold my own, but I smoked a blunt on the way over and I might not perform my best in a shootout.”
They aren’t chill at all. Nick is still strung tighter than a piano string, and Sy looks like he’s struggling to put whatever survival instinct just emerged back into its box. But Remy answers, “Let’s get this shit over with,” and slams the crate onto the coffee table.
Without being asked, I take the girl’s arm and pull her into the kitchen, just off the living room. “We should probably let them do their thing,” I explain.
Her face is pale, and she shakily grabs a glass from the dish strainer beside the sink, filling it under the tap. “Jesus Christ.”
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, that was just… a lot more near-death than I signed up for.”
“Tell me about it.” I rest my hip on the counter, keeping one eye on the other room. Sy is taking a gun out of the crate and pointing to the smooth area Remy filed away at some point. “Is this your place?”
She does a half nod, half shrug. “Sort of. I moved in last spring.”
“I’m Lavinia,” I say, feeling the need to make small talk while the guys do their business.
“Autumn.” I nod. The name is vaguely familiar, but I’ve crossed a lot of paths recently, from the old motel, The Hideaway, and now the West End cutsluts. All these women look the same to me. Snobby and nervous, with that little hint of trauma in their eyes. “Holden moved me in here,” she says suddenly, like I should know that name. When all I do is nod blandly, she explains, “He was my Prince. Felix is his cousin.”
“You’re a Princess?” That explains the haughty posture, but not the haggard appearance. Princesses are notoriously spoiled little poodles.
“Was,” she corrects, lowering her gaze. “Couldn’t get pregnant.”
“Ouch.” I hold back a grimace, realizing she was ousted. The Princess only gets a few months to conceive, and if she doesn’t, she’s done—replaced with another pretty Stepford incubation chamber. The awkwardness of the silence is what makes me look away, searching for another topic. Princesses are the most attached to their position. High risk, high reward, and a whole lot of fucking, either way. I doubt any Royal man has it in him to love a woman, and I’m sure most Royal women are the same. Except Princesses. They always seem to fall the hardest. A failed Princess should be put on suicide watch.
That’s when I notice the balcony. It’s dark out, but I see something moving beyond the glass: a tiny ball of white fur. It faces the window and two yellow eyes reflect in the light. I know when it opens its mouth to cry that this is the apartment I saw on my job with Simon.
I spin to the woman. “Is that your kitten?”
She follows my gaze, frowning. “Yeah, it’s mine.”
“Why is it on the balcony?” All the damn time, I want to add.
“Felix doesn’t like cats.”
I look across the kitchen and through the doorway, spotting Felix. He’s narrowing his eyes at one of the guns, putting on the flimsy pretense of it possibly not being good enough. Everyone here knows he’s going to buy them. I saw the guns myself. They’re solid, and the attention to detail with the filing? It’s craftsmanship this town has probably never seen before. Felix is tall and skinny, and he’s got a dumb look about him—the face of a soldier, not a Royal. Cousin to a Royal. Pathetic. This girl is far too pretty for him, which just bolsters my assessments of failed Princesses. Suicide watch. Seriously.
“If your boyfriend doesn’t like cats, then why do you have one?”
“Holden promised it to me back when we were trying to—” Her jaw works around a word she doesn’t look willing to say. She clears her throat. “His Princess just gave birth, so I guess he gave it to me as a consolation prize.”
I blink, trying to process her selfish idiocy. “It’s not the kitten’s fault you got stuck being some douchebag Prince’s side-piece.”
She gives me a sharp, bitter smirk, swiping a bottle of vodka from the fridge. “Real nice, huh? I can’t have his baby, but I can have his kitten. Me, Felix, the kitten. He’s just keeping all his pussy in one place.” She laughs darkly at her own joke, and it makes my fists clench.
It’s so Forsyth. Locking something away just to spite someone else. Putting it into a cage because it’s an inconvenience. Not even bothering to care for your own goddamn prisoner, just hoping it keeps quiet until it’s useful again.
It’s so fucking Royal.
Felix sweeps in then, looking like a wannabe gangster in his trucker hat, wifebeater, and shiny jacket. This guy isn’t Princely at all, probably pledged to the Psi Zetas because none of the harder houses would take him. He looks between us scornfully, muttering, “…not a goddamn Royal playpen,” as he saunters to the fridge. He grabs a single beer—not much of a host, either—and uses the edge of the counter to pop the cap on it. He takes the first sip while staring me down. “So you’re that North Side princess?”
I point to Autumn. “She’s the Princess. I’m a Duchess.”
“But you belong to the Counts,” he argues.
“I don’t belong to anyone,” I insist. “But if I did, it’d be the Dukes, obviously.”
“Here’s what I want to know.” He points the neck of his bottle at me. “Why is it the Dukes get a tight little thing like you, and the Princes get stuck with…” He gestures to Autumn, who curls into herself. “If I’d known there was another piece of Lucia ass floating out there, maybe I would have fought for that instead.”
I give him a long, scornful look. “You would have lost. I bet Perez could take you easy.” But then something in his words penetrates, bringing me up short. “What do you mean ‘another’ Lucia? Do you know Leticia?”
But Nick and Sy enter the kitchen, interrupting us. “Is this how the Princes do business?” Sy asks. His stare is just as hard as his brother’s, only Nick is directing his at the space between me and Felix. “Disappearing to drink a beer? We don’t have all goddamn night. Shit or get off the pot.”
Felix looks him in the eye as he takes a long swig from his beer. “Is this how Dukes do business? Charging a ridiculous premium on their pieces?”
Nick unabashedly answers, “Yes.”
“All the time,” Sy agrees. “Always have, always will. Pay it or stop wasting our fucking time.”
Felix hums, his gaze wandering to me. “I don’t think they’re worth it. But this one…” He tips the neck of his bottle in my direction, sauntering over. He stops in front of me, eyeing me up and down. “Is it true what they say? North Side cunt sparkles, apparently.” He grins, tongue sliding over a row of crooked teeth. “Give me an hour to set your bitch straight,” he says, reaching out to touch my hair, “and I’ll pay full pr—”
I jump back.
Because he’s touching my hair.
Because of the sudden ‘pop’.
Because of the warmth that blooms over my face.
Felix’s eyes go blank in the millisecond before he tips over, smacking lifelessly against the floor. There’s a deafening ringing in my ears that grows shrill and painful, but I don’t realize what it is at first, my eyes locked on Felix’s limp form. Blood begins pooling around his head, and there’s a twitch in his arm, fingers fluttering like a seizure. But then there’s nothing, and I don’t understand—I don’t put it together.
Not until I turn my head.
Nick is standing in the middle of the kitchen, casually emptying the chamber of his gun. His eyes are fixed on the task, lips moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. Everything is so loud. It’s only when he glances up, eyes rolling in exasperation toward Autumn, that I realize she’s screaming.
Remy and Cash come barreling into the kitchen, guns drawn, but all I can do is look between Nick and the douchebag formerly known as Felix, because he’s deader than a fucking doornail.
“You shot him,” I say unnecessarily. Even my voice sounds strangely muted, as if my ears are numb to the very core.
Nick gives this little shrug—que sera, sera—and reaches behind him to tuck the gun away again “Can’t say I didn’t warn him.”
Remy rams into Autumn, clamping a hand over her shrieking mouth. Cash is openly gaping at Felix. Sy is berating Nick with this irritated expression, saying, “Now who’s going to buy the guns?!” and holding a hand out in Felix’s direction, like he’s scolding a puppy for making a mess on the carpet. All of these things are happening at once, but all I see is Nick finally meeting my gaze, eyes hard and assured.
“You good?” he asks.
Dumbly, I repeat, “Good?” Something tickles my cheek and I reach up to bat it away. That’s when I realize the source of the warmth on my face.
Felix’s blood.
Nick steps forward and fluidly snatches a dish towel hanging from the oven’s handle. For some reason, I don’t flinch when he approaches me, touching my chin to hold me steady as he gently begins wiping the blood away. Strangely, I don’t feel anything at all. Where there should be a sense of horror, there’s nothing. No panic. No fear. No disgust or revulsion. There’s a quake in my nerves that makes my shoulders tremble, but I don’t feel it. Autumn is in the corner losing it, and I’m tipping my face up so Nick can get the space below my jaw. His blue eyes fix to the task with a solemn sort of focus, and while one hand is ridding my earlobe of blood spatter, the other one is brushing through the lock of hair Felix had touched, as if Nick could erase it.
“Uh.” From the entryway, Cash raises a hand. “I’ll buy your guns.”
Sy takes a break from pinching the bridge of his nose to shoot Cash a wary look. “All seven?”
Cash nods. “Cut me a ten-percent discount and swear on your life I was never here. I’ll even throw in some of my merchandise.”
Sy objects with a sneer. “The West End doesn’t want drugs.”
From the other side of the kitchen table, Remy’s head pops up, eyes wide and hopeful. “Hey, the West End wants some drugs.”
“You,” Sy snaps, thrusting a finger at him, “get no drugs. You,” he points to Nick, “call in your favor with the Barons and get rid of him. I want this shit so fucking clean, Saul and Ashby will think this motherfucker disappeared into thin air!”
My voice emerges rusty and thin. “What about her?”
Autumn’s stopped with the god awful shrieking, but she’s sitting beneath their rickety table with her knees drawn up, gawking at the body. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she’s gasping, over and over.
Princesses.
Remy gives her a long look, scratching his head. “Eh, Nicky? Any chance the Barons owe you two favors?”
No.
I don’t know this girl, but I know that I can’t watch her die. Not because some guy wanted to touch me. Not because of Nick, who’s so unhinged that he’d shoot a man for it just as soon as carve my own tongue from my mouth. Not because of me.
Nick bends to look at her beneath the table, and it’s easy. His gun is poking out of his jeans and I just swoop right in, plucking it deftly from the waistband. He rears up, but before he can stop me, I’m reaching under the table and grabbing a thick handful of her hair, pulling her out.
Kneeling down, I jam the barrel beneath her chin, ignoring her plaintive cry. My voice is a lot more even than I feel when I ask, “You know who I am, Autumn? You know what I’ve done?”
Tears stream down her cheeks, and she’s trembling so hard that I can feel the vibration in the gun’s grip. “You’re the Duchess,” she sobs, eyes clenched shut. “You’re Lavinia Lucia.”
I shove the barrel harder into her jaw. “Then you know what I can do, so I need you to pay attention.” I don’t know where it’s coming from—this strange sense of calm and commanding—but the fact that all of the guys are standing back, watching silently, bolsters my resolve. “You’re going to walk out of here tonight and leave the East End. You’re going to keep your fucking mouth shut. You’re going to tell anyone who asks that Felix here kicked you to the curb days ago.”
She’s nodding these tiny little jerks against the barrel of the gun, insisting, “I won’t—I won’t say anything, I swear.”
“If you do, I’ll find you.” I fist her hair harder, hoping she feels the pain. “And you’re going to get over Holden! He’s never going to love anyone but himself, because that’s how these pieces of shit work. You think having his kid is such a goddamn fairytale? Look at what being the child of a King gets you!” I release her, throwing my arms out wide. “A dead mother and two years of confinement! Don’t believe the hype, Princess.” I turn, smoothly handing the gun back to Nick.
Nick’s watching me with shrewd eyes, but there’s something barely controlled underneath. He hides it by pinning me with a pointed scowl as he tucks his gun away again. “Never touch my fucking gun.”
“Kill her and our deal is off,” I say. Autumn is pathetic, but she’s a Royal woman. A product of her own undoing. She could be Leticia. She could be Verity. She could be me.
“Fine,” Nick replies, giving the girl a chin jerking nod. “Get what you need and leave.”
I catch a flash of white through the sliding doors. Before Autumn even finds her footing enough to stand, I decisively add, “And I’m taking your fucking kitten!”
Seven days.
Dawn breaks as we finally begin the drive back to the tower.
The van is quiet, illuminated by the dimming street lights and Remy’s phone screen. He looks more tired than even I do, his head propped up against the window as he watches some video. In the driver’s seat, Sy keeps his eyes straight ahead, his reflection in the rearview wan and impossibly more stoic than usual. Beside me, Nick has his legs sprawled wide, head resting back on the seat, arms crossed, eyes closed. It was a long night.
Evidently, getting rid of a body is a lot of waiting.
I spent all of it hidden away in the van, so I never saw who came. Who took Felix away. How they took Felix away. All I know is, one second I’m nodding off to a purr, and the next, they’re sliding into their seats.
Naked.
“Clothes are evidence,” was all Remy said, looking way too comfortable as he stowed all their weapons and belongings in the center console, cock heavy between his legs.
There’s a squirm against my chest and I look down, watching the kitten curl a little tighter. I’d turned my sweater around backward and placed him in the hood, which I figure will be useful on the long trek up the tower stairs. The moment I opened that balcony door, the trembling ball of fur charged at my ankle and climbed me like a scratching post, crying his little heart out. He’s so little—barely old enough to be parted from his mother, in my opinion. But he’s strong. Resilient. He spent half an hour clumsily cleaning his white fur before finally succumbing to rest.
He’s a fighter.
“We’ll need supplies,” I realize, looking up hopefully. “Food, litter, a box?”
Sy’s eyes flick to the mirror, meeting mine with low, angry brows. “No.”
“But—”
“Shut the fuck up!” he snaps, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “I just had to dismember a body because of you! The last goddamn thing I want to hear is another one of your annoying fucking demands!”
Nick sighs. “It’s too late for this shit, Sy. Save your tantrum for tomorrow.”
“Please,” Remy mutters, looking wrung out.
Briefly, I wonder what dismembering a body entails, and whether or not that’s something Remy can mentally handle. But even though he looks tired, lounging in the front seat, stark naked, I don’t see the Maniac dwelling in his eyes.
Really, he just looks sort of bored.
I give it a long stretch of silence, before reluctantly adding, “The old Dukes had a dog.”
“The new Dukes have one, too,” Sy grinds out, turning down the alley beside the tower.
My eyes narrow, but I think twice about talking back when I glance down at the kitten. I know then that it’s a mistake—that I should set the kitten free somewhere. It’d be foolish to care about anything. It’d be giving these three something to use against me. Something innocent and undeserving. It’d be another way for them to control me. Verity would take him if I asked her to. I’m the Duchess. She could give him a slice of her comfortable freedom.
When the van jerks to a stop, he stirs, stretching out two tiny paws to yawn.
I cradle him close as I step out.
The walk up the tower is quiet and tense, and means staring at Sy’s muscular ass and swinging horse dick as he walks ahead of me. Each of them has their guns, phones, and wallets clutched in their hands, and they climb faster than I’m used to, struggling to keep up. I hug my arms around the hood and hope they’re too tired to realize I’ve brought the kitten through the party room, up the stairs, into the main living area.
It’s quiet enough that we all hear Simon’s phone buzz the moment we step through the door. He glances at the screen and then does a double-take, freezing. “Shit,” he mutters, trying to cup a hand over his massive junk. Even soft, that thing is like a firehose. “We have a massive fucking problem.”
Remy stretches his arms in the air, letting it all hang out, unapologetic when he catches me staring. “Is it Saul? Word’s already reached him?”
Simon shakes his head. “Worse. It’s mom.”
Nick visibly winces. “What’s she want?”
“She’s demanding we come over tomorrow for dinner,” he says, looking from his brother to me. “And we have to bring her.”
I freeze as they turn to me. The Dukes look menacing enough when they’re wearing jeans and suits and hoodies, but like this? Naked from head to toe, inked and rippling, a study in contrasts? It sends a ripple of panic up my spine. Dealing with one of them is intimidating enough. The sight of their three cocks dangling—each of them twitching to life under my paralyzed scrutiny—is basically like being held at dickpoint.
“We’ll deal with that after we’ve had some sleep,” Nick decides.
“I’m sleeping in my room,” I announce—just to make it clear that I’m not running. It really is like staring down three bears, complete with the prickle of fear that the moment I turn my back, they’ll come chasing after me.
Luckily, none of them do.
I climb the staircase, carrying the kitten up into my loft. The soft light of dawn is creeping through the clock face and I carefully pluck him from my hood, introducing him to my makeshift nest. He spends a moment sniffing around like a spurious powder-puff.
“It’s not much,” I whisper, running two gentle fingers down his back, “but it’s better than being locked on that balcony, huh?”
The kitten spins, rubbing his hip against my wrist, little paws kneading into the blanket. Then he looks at me and cries, big blue eyes squinting with the force of it.
“You’re hungry,” I note, mouth pressed into a tense line. “I’ll see what I can—”
I’m interrupted by heavy footfalls coming up toward the loft, and I stiffen, folding my legs and pushing the kitten behind me. Sy appears in a pair of loose sweatpants and nothing else, halting on the last step of the spiral staircase. The pink light of dusk washes him in muted warmth, highlighting the ridged ladder of his abs. He spends a long moment looking at me, the muscle in the back of his jaw ticking.
“We need to talk.” When all I do is stare at him, he… deflates. Head tipped back, he heaves a loud sigh, muttering, “Can’t believe I have to…” But then he snaps back into his posture, resting an elbow on the railing. “You know I never wanted you to be Duchess.”
Doing my best to contain the kitten, my lip curls. “That makes two of us.”
“But for this dinner… I need you to cooperate.”
“You think I haven’t been cooperating?” I twist my other arm back to still the kitten, and I don’t miss it when Sy’s eyes flick down to my tits. “I’ve been a goddamn ray of sunshine to you three for the last week.”
He pushes his fingers through his hair, looking just as tired as I feel. “My parents aren’t privy to the entirety of this situation.”
“What part? The fights and parties? The gun running? Or do you just mean me? Your slave.”
“They’re not clueless. Our parents were Dukes. Both of our fathers and our mother… they opted out of challenging Saul to be King. They never wanted either of us involved in this lifestyle.” He shakes his head, a frown creasing his brow. “But parents don’t get to define who their children become.” The statement hits hard, a gut punch, and Simon is too fucking clueless to even recognize it, because he continues rambling on. “Look, we need you to behave during dinner. Act like you wanted to be the Duchess. Use your manners. Be polite to my mom and laugh at our dad’s jokes.”
“And why the hell should I do that?” I ask, chest flaring in outrage. “Are you going to threaten to rape me again? Gag me on your cock? Maybe set Remy loose on me during one of his episodes? Tell Nick he’s free to punish me in the worst way possible? Is that the plan?”
Voice hard, he answers, “I don’t need you scared. My mother will sniff that out in a heartbeat. I need you believable.” He runs a palm down his face. “So, what do you want?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I said, what do you want?! I know you and my brother do this tit-for-tat shit, bartering or whatever. Tell me what you want, and we can negotiate.”
I stare at him for a long moment, determining if he’s serious. I have to assume he is, because the only games Sy is keen on playing are the kinds with a trophy at the end.
I mull it over for a second, pretending to think about it, but I already know. I got Nick to promise to one unspecified thing for that kiss, but I know I’ll need to get all three of them to agree.
“Let me keep the kitten.”
He blinks. “What?”
I pull the kitten from behind my back, setting him in my lap. “Get me some supplies—food, litter, a box. Nothing extravagant. He won’t be a prob—”
Snapping tall, he says, “Cats are nasty! They smell! They literally shit in a box.” Looking rankled, he adds, “Can’t I just swipe you a book, or some tools, or a candy bar or something?”
I give the kitten a pointed stroke. “That’s what I want. Take it or leave it.”
Sy chuffs a quiet laugh, arms crossing. “You’re such a fucking pain in my ass.”
I nod and offer my hand. “Do we have a deal, or what?”
He looks at it warily, like he’s going to get herpes if he touches me, but I thrust it closer and he grimaces, taking it. His hand is rough, callused from all the fights. A jolt runs through me as we shake on it. I feel like I’ve just made a deal with the devil. It’s one thing to negotiate back and forth over little shit in the house, but this feels different. Simon’s not just negotiating to get me in his bed. He’s firming up that I’ll be good around his parents. This means he cares about what they think.
And that’s just more information I plan on filing away for later.
