By the end of the fight, my palms hurt from fisting my hands so tightly. It’s the worst, watching someone else in the ring, knowing that I can’t jump in and feel the pressure of their bone against my knuckles. And fuck, do I want it. How long has it been since I really got to let loose on someone deserving? Not since spring. It becomes an ache, like I’m holding back an urge that’s primal and animalistic, and it wounds something inside of me to deny it.
Pops has always said I’ve got his Bruin blood thirst, and even though it’s spoken in that light, playful way, I can tell he worries. I’m not a Bruin—not his flesh and blood—but I might as well be.
Dad says I’m just ‘balancing’, since, fights aside, I’m usually the level-headed one of the bunch. “Everyone,” he likes to say, “has a demon inside of them. Push it down too long and it’ll claw its way up.”
Mom just says I have an impulse control disorder.
None of them are wrong.
It’s been a long time since my parents have gotten that call. Me in the principal’s office, staring down the barrel of an expulsion. Me in the Sheriff’s station, staring down the barrel of an aggravated assault charge. It’s been years now, but I know each of them is always dreading the next, how bad it’ll be now that I’m actually trained and dangerous.
Speaking of which, it’s been twenty minutes since the last text from my pops, so I’m fully expecting it when my phone dings with another notification.
Pops: What am I supposed to tell your mother
Pops: Did either of you think of that?
I don’t answer, because this isn’t a discussion worth having over text. Davis Bruin might be Nick’s biological father, but they haven’t spoken since last Thanksgiving, almost nine months ago. Just one more reason to be pissed off at my brother, leaving the fallout on my shoulders while I follow him into the gym’s back room.
Nick should have told our parents himself, weeks ago. I’ve been preparing them since my first year at Forsyth, pledging with DKS, making it clear that I planned to become a Duke. That was bad enough. Dad didn’t speak to me for a month. Pops wouldn’t stop talking. Mom did her usual song and dance of trying to psychoanalyze why I’d ever want to be part of an institution that’s demonstrably toxic.
But Nick just struts in here, takes down Perez, lands the ring, and hasn’t had to hear two fucking words about it.
Classic Nick.
Ever since I pledged to Delta Kappa Sigma, the Dukes’ origin frat, I’ve learned how to control the festering violence clawing to break free. I train three days a week, pouring all my energy into the discipline, the art, the sophistication of brutality. When you pummel a guy in a bar, it’s assault. When you do it in a ring, it’s a sport. Funny. It’s probably why my parents stopped voicing their disapproval about me being in DKS, becoming a Duke. The phone calls stopped. Instead of being told I was a problem, I began being hailed as a victor. I guess, to them, it’s better to be a Duke than to be rotting in prison. Remy’s family bailed me out once. I can’t count on it again.
Nick, however, doesn’t have a worthwhile excuse.
He’s fucked.
“You’re telling them,” I warn him, looking over my shoulder to see the procession of Kings in the distance, coming our way. “Dad and Pops. Mom, too. I’m not smoothing over that steaming pile of dog shit.”
Nick wipes a towel over his face, collecting sweat and blood. “Never asked you to.”
“Never said you did,” I counter, propping the door open for the train coming our way. “But that’s always how it works out, isn’t it?”
Nick rolls his eyes, dropping onto a bench to dig into his bag. “Christ, can a guy not bask in his victory for ten minutes?”
Crossing my arms, I expect the first person to enter to be Saul.
Instead, it’s Remy, having ducked around them at some point.
He’s got his black DKS hoodie raised, blond hair peeking out at messy angles, and his mouth is tipped into a smirk. “Nice uppercut,” he says to Nick, holding his fist out. “Rocked his shit. That little bitch can’t cash a check.”
Nick bumps it with his own, but I don’t miss the flash of animosity in his eyes. “What the fuck were you doing?”
Remy stuffs his fists in his pockets, shrugging, but he’s wearing this devious little grin. “Just fingering her ass a little. No big.”
Nick goes stony and silent in a way that usually precedes him storming off like a moody fuck, but before he can, the Kings start sweeping in. Nick pushes to his feet, hair damp with sweat, split lip still trickling blood.
“Looks like we’ve got a new Duke,” Saul says, giving Nick’s hand a shake that’s, I’m guessing, just the hostile side of firm. Having me earn a spot was bad enough, but Nick? He’s the real legacy. The Bruin that carries not just the blood, but the worth. It’s not like I didn’t grow up hearing about that all the time. We share the same mother—not father—and that’s the kind of thing that matters to these people.
Killian, King of the Lords, shakes his hand next, saying, “Good shit out there, Bruin. Gave us a show.” I narrow my eyes at the look that passes between them. It’s full of an understanding that makes my insides flare up.
“Of course he did,” I snap. “He could have had his ass to the mat in two minutes flat. He’s my brother, isn’t he?”
The other two Lords, Tristian and Rath enter next, and at first, I don’t even notice the girl they’re dragging between them. Mostly, I’m just remembering that these fools and Killian Payne’s old man have been using my brother like an expendable felon for the last two years. I think I might despise them, except it’s all muddled beneath how pissed off I am at Nick for turning his back on his own. After what happened to Tate, none of us were the same.
But Nick’s the only one who ran away.
Ashby, King of the Princes, is next into the room. It’s a surprise to everyone when he offers Nick his hand, too. “So these are the new fists of Forsyth. It’ll be nice to see a Bruin in the belfry again.” It’s an oddly friendly gesture, so it’s understandable that Nick pauses before shaking. Ashby ignores Saul’s pointed look, adding, “Saw some shades of your old man out there. Back in our day, it wasn’t a real Bruin fight until the other guy’s blood and piss were staining the mat.”
“I saw the mat,” Killian says in a dry voice. “Trust me; it was a real Bruin fight.”
I finally get a good look at the girl his boys are toting to the corner. My neck snaps in her direction when it hits me. Her hair’s different, but just as stringy and limp as it had been that night, two weeks ago. Her mouth is covered in a thick strip of duct tape, but I know what the lips beneath it look like. Her pale skin peeks out of the whorish shirt she’s wearing, reminding me of the mark Remy left.
The mark we left.
It takes me like a tidal wave, pulling me under as I sink into the memory of her pussy, creamed with my cum. I’ve replayed that video a dozen times. Two dozen. Maybe even three. I thought I’d lost my taste for porn years ago, but apparently when it’s my own dick making an appearance, my freak of a cock perks to attention. That first week, it was practically all I could think about. What it might have been like, burying my cock into her, tearing her open on me, shooting my load deep inside.
“Oh fuck, no,” she said when she saw my cock that night. The look of terror and disgust etched in her features. I don’t need some little whore to tell me I’m a freak. She’s lucky I didn’t shove it down her throat and let her choke.
When I rise from the fog of sudden, sickening lust, I realize her eyes are glued to mine.
She’s frozen as she glares at me.
I shift uncomfortably, tearing my eyes away as my jaw tightens. Fucking bitch, making me feel… this. That tight, feral wildness in my chest. The one I’ve been pushing down for years now. The urge to fight and fuck, so tightly connected in my psyche that it’s impossible to untangle them, have merged into one indefinable demon, threatening to claw its way up and up.
She has no right to get inside my head like this.
She has no right.
“To the victor go the spoils,” Saul adds, opening a square mahogany box. An identical ring to the one on Saul’s finger—the one that should be on Pops’—is waiting within.
The fight was a pointless production. Pretense, most likely. All three of us passed his initiation by violating the Count whore. Highest point score in any Duke’s challenge yet. But people would ask questions, wonder what the talk was. Saul places the ring on Nick’s finger, pushing it over his bloody knuckles.
Nick doesn’t even give the ring a second glance, already bored by it. Instead, he moves his attention to the two Kings by the door. The ones who didn’t offer him a handshake. The Baron and the Count. There’s a strange crackle in the air, and from the slow, tense look Remy slides my way, I can tell he feels it too. The build of static before a lightning strike. Probably has something to do with the way the Lords are staring Lionel down. Like they’re waiting.
I force myself to breathe, batting down the hot, creeping hope that all of this comes to blows so I can get one in. Remy isn’t even looking at them, eyes locked on me, ready to hold me back if it comes to it. Just like old times.
The crack comes a moment later, when Lionel storms across the distance between him and his daughter. “Don’t think this means your punishment is over,” he spits, barreling at her.
Nick steps out to block him, shifting his shoulders in a way Remy and I both recognize. Instinctually, we react the way we always have. It doesn’t matter that we have no fucking clue what’s going down here. That we don’t really understand the fire in Lucia’s eyes. That the other Kings are watching and measuring us up.
We’ve always been six fists.
And mine are itching.
“She’s not yours to talk to anymore,” Nick says, stepping into Lucia’s space. He raises his chin, arrogant as ever, as he spreads his arms. “To the victor go the spoils.”
Lionel’s coiled tight, almost as if—and the thought very nearly makes me laugh—he wants to take a shot. Killian and his boys are right behind, seeming like they’re prepared to pull him away. But they don’t need to bother. Lucia lets out a low, scornful chuckle. “You don’t scare me, little boy. You think you can ruin her?” He gives his daughter a long, seething stare. “Not before she ruins you.” Walking back two steps, he angrily adjusts his blazer. “But you’re welcome to try.”
Lucia storms out, and one by one, the other Kings follow. Baron. Prince. Duke. Lord.
But Rath lags behind, turning to say, “My advice? Leave the tape on until completely necessary.”
Nick doesn’t stand down until they’re all gone, and even then, he just goes back to the bench, unwinding the tape from his knuckles.
Remy gestures limply at the door, calling out, “Excuse me! You forgot your Count Trashula!”
“What the fuck,” I ask, looking at the girl, “was that about?”
She’s still got that prissy look on her face, like we’re all beneath her, and she’s above this. I’ve never known such a haughty whore. I guess that comes with being the daughter of a King, even if he’s a corrupt bastard.
“She’s ours now,” Nick says, deceptively casual as he raises his gaze to hers.
Looking distinctly unimpressed, she makes a sharp, muffled sound from beneath the tape. If I were pressed to speculate, I’d guess she tells him to go fuck himself.
My eyes whip between them. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“As of ten minutes ago, we’re officially Dukes. We need a Duchess.” He raises a hand, as if he’s introducing us. “Here she is. You’re welcome.”
Nick has always been unpredictable. For instance, I never thought he’d handle the death of one of our best friends by defecting to Daniel fucking Payne. I never thought he’d spend three years being his attack show-poodle. And I never thought he’d show up at the DKS doorstep wanting to claim the title. It meant enrolling in school, joining the frat, taking a lot of tedious steps that Remy and I have been chipping away at for years.
But as impulsive and hard headed as Nick can be, he’s also patient. Strategic. Disciplined. Worst of all, he’s smart.
Smarter than most people would suspect.
“No.” My answer brooks no argument.
“Yes.” Neither does Nick’s.
Face screwed up into a baffled expression, Remy cuts in. “There’s a whole goddamn pool of cutsluts to choose from. Why the hell would we take on—” He flings a hand in her direction. “Count trash! She’s Count trash, Nicky. Fuck this bitch.”
Nick’s gaze is fixed to his phone—a message from our parents, most likely. “She’s not Count trash. She’s our Duchess. The deal’s been made.”
I stalk forward to yank the phone from his hands. “She’s not pre-med. She’s not a student. And most importantly, she’s not in the increasingly small sum of bitches I want near me.”
Remy agrees. “I had plans for the Duchess this year, and none of them included having to duct tape her fucking mouth shut.” When another muffled sound comes from the corner, Remy whips around to glare at her. “Though if it were, I would have done a better job.”
“What happened to Verity?” I say, trying to reason. “She was the obvious pick.”
But at this, Remy pauses, tilting his head at me curiously. “You wanted Verity? But she’s so…” He pulls a face. “Breakable.”
“I didn’t want Verity,” I insist, fists curling. “I didn’t want a Duchess period, but since we have to have one, you can’t just unilaterally decide who she’ll be.” I seriously consider adding to that cut on his lip. “We don’t want her.”
Nick rises to his feet, meeting me not unlike he’d met Lionel Lucia moments before. He holds up his fist, which, like Remy, now has ‘DUKE’ tattooed across the knuckles. But he’s not showing me the letters.
He’s showing me the ring. “I want her.”
I hold his stare, as deep and long as the chasm he put between us by dipping out all those years ago. “So that’s how it’s going to be. Pulling rank on us?”
“For this.” Nick drops his fist, glancing at the girl. “Don’t act like you aren’t down. Look at her.” He jerks his chin and when I turn, there’s napalm in her eyes, fixed directly on my brother. You wouldn’t know it, looking at Nick. He’s all razor-sharp smirk and leering eyes. “She’s the daughter of a King. We have the chance to conquer the unconquerable.”
I stare her down, lip curling. “She’s not worth the effort.”
Nick scoffs, burying a punch into my shoulder. “Stop acting like you haven’t been locking yourself up in your room to replay that video for the last two weeks.” He jabs a finger into his temple. “You get that psycho look in your eye every time someone gets your dick hard.”
I punch his shoulder right back. “And you must think I’m an idiot to believe you can handle sharing. This isn’t about us getting a Duchess. This is you getting your own toy.”
Remy scrubs his fingers through his hair, looking tired. “He’s right. The Duchess is supposed to belong to all of us. I can smell it on you, man. She’s got her fucking venom in your blood.” He shakes his head. “You’re too attached.”
But Nick just laughs, low and dark, as he looks at her. “Oh, I can share her. Trust me.”
That’s easier said than done. I used to know this guy like the back of my hand, but now? Nick isn’t just coming to play. He’s playing to win.
But if she isn’t the prize, then what is?
