I pause before my marker touches the wall.
Annoying.
Back in my student housing—hell, even back at home—I had a habit of drawing on my walls. I always painted over it eventually, giving me a nice, fresh canvas to start over with. I always left it wiped clean too, but I always knew it was there. The places we sleep, wake, and fuck are imbued with a little part of us. I just make it visible. Being surrounded by the etchings of my soul is all that gets me through some days.
A voice comes from my right. “Are you going to write something?” Haley asks. Tan skin. Freckles here and there. Eyes like a gaping maw. Diarylide yellow. Too bright for me, thanks.
My eyes tighten as I assess the wall. Write something. Like I’m a fucking poet or whatever. Who just writes something? No, I’d had this vision of stars. Smoke. Black glass. Blonde hair. Red lips.
Stop.
My body remains perfectly still, but inside, I flinch. Shaking my head, I reconsider. Smoke. Black tendrils curling over the party, eager to wind between and around us, like the tower itself was taking us into her stone arms.
Shit would look sick as hell.
Huffing, I lean back and cap the marker. “No.”
The three of us have only been living here for a few days. The first thing I did was walk into my room, assess the plaster and exposed stonework, and ask myself what I wanted.
The answer was ‘nothing’, and I wasn’t the one saying it.
It was the tower.
This big, beautiful son of a bitch. Hard to make art on top of someone else’s, and that’s exactly what the West End clock tower is. It’d be profane to try. That first night, I’d tried to explain it to Sy. How the tower is silent, but it still speaks. It’s inanimate, but still perceptive. It has memories. It has feelings. Can’t say how, I can just tell. To put my mark on something is to claim it as my own. Trying to own the tower would be like trying to own the whole fucking cosmos.
Cosmos.
Stars. Black glass. Blonde hair. Red Lips. The rattle of bare, skeletal trees.
Stop.
“Turn it up!” I shout to the DJ, making a twisting motion. He knows what I want—the bass, not the volume. Something about the way it thrums in my blood and vibrates in my ribs feels transformative, like it’s packing me into something tight and settled. I point to him with the black tip of my marker, yanking it up until I feel the happy zing. If I can’t etch my soul into these walls, then maybe the pulse of all of us can.
He nods in approval, head bouncing to the beat, and I abandon the patch of wall to turn to Haley. “Beer.”
One word. Simple. Not a request.
She runs to fetch it.
The DKS underlings restocked the bar hours ago, so it’s still half full. We’d been waiting until Nick claimed his ring to really, properly celebrate. There’s been this little voice in my mind saying it’s not real. That happens a lot, though. Anything unexpected is suspect. Anything too expected is suspect. There’s really a very narrow window of believability when it comes to what my brain can trust, and Nick becoming a Duke doesn’t pass muster. It’d be easier if I could… just… fucking…
Stars. Smoke. Black glass. Blonde hair. Red Lips.
Stop.
My marker stops an inch from the wall.
Damn it.
“Here you go,” I hear from behind me, feeling sharp nails drag down my back. I was wearing a shirt an hour ago, but I took it off because I couldn’t feel the air. The air is part of the tower. The tower is part of Forsyth. Forsyth is a part of the world. The world is part of the universe.
Stars. Blonde hair. Black gl—
Stop!
Also, I was hot.
I turn and see Haley holding out a drink. She grins up at me, nails scratching along my abdomen, dipping beneath the waistband of my jeans. “So I guess congratulations are in order, Remy. The title looks good on you.”
I take the drink and down half of it in one swallow. “I know.”
She laughs, like she thinks I’m joking. I’m not. “It’s crazy to think that after all this time together, you’re finally a Duke.”
I recognize the excited glint in her eye. It’s familiar and expected. Like just because I’ve fucked around with Haley for a few years, she thinks she’s become hot shit. Truth is, she’s just another cutslut—a Duke groupie. She’s bloodthirsty, loves fights, and gives epic head. But there are two dozen of them in this room, and they’re just like her. They follow us from fight to fight, party to party, and bed to bed. They’re good at being casual pussy, ready to do whatever we want at the snap of a finger. Get drinks, clean up, take it up the ass, you name it. No expectations. No commitment. Even more so now that I’m a Duke.
“I heard rising Dukes have to do some epic crazy shit to make it in,” she muses, gliding her finger over the barely healed, puckered scar on my side. I bristle at the touch. “What was it?”
I glance down at her, past the heavy eye make-up, black bikini top and cutoff shorts, and remove her hand. “Business,” I reply, taking a moment to assess the smooth, tan skin of her collarbone. “None of yours.”
A design swirls in my head. I hold up the marker, still capped, and drag it distractedly over her skin. I rarely ink females. Too personal. Makes my skin itch. The Lady was an exception I made to clear Sy and Nick of their debt. The design was specific enough, anyway. I drew it, pricked it into her skin, but it wasn’t mine.
The cutsluts are gagging for my needle, though.
They think they’re subtle about it, but they’re not. It’s been that way since sophomore year, just a couple of them chasing me around, offering to be my canvas. I’d never tell anyone, but I wasn’t actually good at it back then. Shit technique with a jank-ass kit. But a guy’s gotta practice. Nick wasn’t my first, but close to it, and he was always down for anything. Patches of skin never meant anything to him. He sees his ink as a forest.
Still, sometimes I get inspired. Girls are different from dudes. More delicate. Better curves. Softer skin. Every now and then, I’ll be tracing invisible lines over their skin with the hard tip of my marker. I trail the one in my hand between her breasts, seeing the design clearly in my head. I’d give her some vines below her tits. Something feminine but brutal. You can’t get that kind of contrast with guys, they won’t let you. I get lost in the thought of it, pushing aside the triangle fabric, flicking the marker over her nipple as I expose the skin there. Her nipple peaks up and, without thinking, I bend, licking the hard pebble.
Her back arches, and hey. What the hell, I can fuck her right here get rid of this hard-on that’s been building between my legs since last night. I heard Nick and the snake fighting in his room and almost went in there to hold her down, like last time. But I let it slide. Nick’s got her venom in him and the only way to pull it out is to get to the source: this negotiation with Killian Payne, made behind our backs.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t beat off to the idea of having another go at her.
I grab Haley’s wrist and place her hand on my cock. She grins up at me, ready and willing, and I fight back a cringe. Diarylide yellow. She has such a shallow, mirror-like soul.
Black glass. Stars. Red—
No.
“You make my eyes hurt,” I tell her over the music, because sometimes I do that. Think things. Say them out loud.
I can see her wondering whether to take offense, ask for clarification, or take it as a compliment. She lands on the latter, smiling. “Thanks.” Classic diarylide yellow. Toxic positivity.
Before I can decide whether or not to shatter her illusion, there’s a shift in the room, like the energy is flowing away from me. It pulls me in its wake, drawing my attention to the stairs. Nick comes sweeping down like he’s lived in this place his whole life. He’s good at that. Belonging places. Or maybe just seeming it. Damon, a DKSer who used to room with me a couple years back, gives Nick’s shoulder a firm shake as he boisterously congratulates his win.
But Nick doesn’t care.
Not about the congratulations.
He’s got the snake under his arm.
Counts, man. North Siders are the fucking worst. Look at this bitch. Sold into slavery, basically, and she’s got that chin jutted out like she’s fighting against the arm Nick has around her neck. My boy is stronger, though. He jerks her closer as he nods to some pledges, snatching a beer from the bar. Bear beats snake. He doesn’t want all eyes on him. He wants to show off his prize: The blue-haired trophy beneath his arm. Lavinia motherfucking Lucia.
Like the other females in the room, she’s showing a lot of skin, her flesh almost glowing against the dim light overhead. Her top is cropped, the straps made of crisscrossing lines. Nick’s arm might be holding her shoulders firm, but when he turns her to greet a cutslut, the Bruin mark I’d inked into her is still visible. But the best part is that she’s multiple shades of bruising, too. The knob of her shoulder is a fantastic, blooming blue. Her neck bears the obvious mark of a choking and I wonder how much of the mottled purple there is my own, having squeezed her throat during the fight. My cock twitches at the sight, and Haley’s hand squeezes the bulge.
“I don’t get it,” she says, watching their entrance. “Who is this bitch, anyway?”
I watch as Nick pulls her across the room like a naughty dog. “Ours, apparently.”
“She doesn’t even want to be,” she grumbles, tucking into my side. “What a waste of a Duchess position.”
Snorting, I lift my bottle. “Careful. You sound jealous.” The Cutsluts are a lot of things, but they generally keep the envy in check.
She makes a show of shrugging it off. “Not even. I’m just not used to getting a call to bring clothes over for some random bitch.”
“Call?” I watch idly as Nick parades her around the room. His hand slips free of her shoulder just to fall to the round, perky swell of her ass. He gives it an aggressive squeeze that makes her spine go rigid, and there’s this flash in her eye that makes all my nerves spark to life in anticipation. I wait for her to snap, bare her fangs, and take a chunk of his throat.
But it doesn’t happen.
Must be killing her.
Haley rambles, “Yeah, Sy called and asked for some clothes. Other stuff, too, like a toothbrush and… uh, woman things. You know.” Haley is beyond blushing, but apparently I’m not. It makes her smirk. “He told me to assume I was stranded on an island and didn’t want to—and I quote—stink up the place with my snobby, North Side cunt.” She goes on and on. Haley always did talk too much. Do I really need to hear about Lucia’s tampon needs? “The girls and I got some stuff together and sent it over. Shit we don’t wear anymore. Verity donated some shoes and moisturizer. That’s what she called it. ‘Donating’. Isn’t that hilarious? A Lucia being West End’s charity case?” She throws her head back and laughs.
Well, no wonder the snake looks like a Cutslut.
I’d been unable to get a good view of her body that night at the Hideaway. The room was too dark; the mask was too obtrusive, and I’d be lying if I said I was the right kind of medicated for it. But I know what she feels like under those tiny black shorts. Her ass was firm, the sliver of skin between her cheeks warm. Vulnerable. Pure. Just like so much of her flesh.
I should have fucked her there and then.
Haley continues, “Actually, I think that’s my top. It’s hard to tell. It fits different on her.”
“Because her tits are bigger than yours,” I point out. “And her skin’s better, too. Smoother. Softer.”
Haley stiffens, but sucks back any retort. That’s the other thing that’s different. Cutsluts are compliant. The Count’s daughter? Well, the scar on my stomach and the bruises all over her body tells that story.
Haley tries to laugh it off, curling her hand around my bicep as she leans into my chest. “Fuck this bitch, yeah? Take me up to the belfry.” She bats her eyelashes. “I brought some shrooms, just to celebrate. Let’s go trip our balls off and fuck.”
I only give it a brief thought. “The top of the tower is probably the last place I want to have a bad trip.” But it’s not just the thought of accidentally jumping to my untimely and grisly death that makes it unappealing. It’s that my eyes are tracking the snake, slithering across the room, and I’m getting all these…ideas. Scales and scales on that pristine skin, my fingers dancing the marker between my knuckles. In fact, “I don’t think I’m going to fuck you anymore.” I look at Haley, watching the way her face falls. “Nothing personal. You’re fun and all. Just need some new skin.” I touch her cheek to soften the blow, but I’ve never been good at that.
So I pull out a few crisp hundreds and tuck them into her stringy top, giving her tit a pat.
For a job well done.
I peel her off and walk away, finding Sy by the bar. His eyes are narrowed as he watches the spectacle. And that’s exactly what it is. To the untrained eye, it might look like territorial pissing, but Sy and I both know better.
“What the fuck is he up to?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t know, but you know my brother. Never as dumb as that pretty face suggests.” Well, that’s the thorn of it. Nick set all this in motion without telling us, made deals without consulting us. With a goddamn King. Boredly, Sy muses, “It’s probably multifaceted. Part gameplay, part leverage. But the way he acts around her is a bit…”
“Over the top psycho obsessive?” I wager.
Sy nods, raising his drink. “That’s our Nicky. You know what I think?”
I lean back against the bar, watching as they get closer to where we’re standing. From this vantage, I see the unfinished tattoo coiled around her calf. My fingers twitch and I roll the marker over my knuckles, building, seeing. “I’m probably going to regret this, but…” I tip back my beer and swallow. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s trying to replace Tate.”
I still feel the name—Tate Tate Tate—like a sucking chest wound. A blade in my side. An old injury that refuses to heal. It makes me twist inside, like my guts are fighting to get away from it.
Stars. Smoke. Black glass—
I blink long and slow, warning, “Don’t.”
To his credit, Sy does shoot me a dark, rueful look. “It’s as much of a possibility as anything else.”
“Nick is an asshole, but he knows as well as we do that Tate is irreplaceable.” His brother walks by, flashing a smirk. The girl holds herself rigid, like she can’t stand him touching her. Nick’s hand slides possessively over her ass. I point to it. “That has nothing to do with Tate.”
Reluctantly, Sy agrees, “This is some kind of psychosexual nonsense. I guess we’ll find out eventually.” But even as he says it, he looks annoyed. To him, there’s nothing worse than sitting back and waiting for a problem to appear. Sy is way too Type A for that. “I’m going to go get ready for Monday,” he mumbles, dropping his empty bottle and sweeping away.
I’d usually force him to stay—have some fun, pretend he doesn’t hate half the people in here—but tonight, I let him run to his computer and textbooks. I haven’t liked the set of his jaw lately. The way he looks so tense and keyed up all the time. It’s been years since he’s radiated this kind of energy. Red and gold and black.
Across the room, Nick has settled himself on an armchair, wide shoulders taking up the width of the space. Lavinia is perched on his lap—Little Bird, he calls her—hands balled into tight fists. One arm is cinched around her waist, like he knows she may run for it if he loosens his grip. The other hand is occupied with toying at the ends of her hair.
“Remy.” He tips his bottle against mine in a toast when I approach, gesturing for me to take a seat. The girl watches me warily, those shrewd eyes assessing every move I make. But she’s not fighting him, which is…interesting. I wonder what kind of leash he’s got on her for this level of compliance. He notices me looking at all those beautiful bruises and tightens his grip around her waist. “Sit down. Have a drink.”
I flick my eyes at Lavinia and then bend, whispering in Nick’s ear. “My turn.”
He freezes, meeting my gaze. “Excuse me?”
“Word around the establishment is that you’re willing to share.” I nod at the girl, who’s even more rigid than Nick. “It’s my turn to play with the prize.”
Nick’s jaw goes tight. “Maybe in a while, or—”
I make a sharp sound. “You may wear the ring, Bruin, but we gave you the opportunity. She’s the spoils of war, and we’re all victors. Don’t be a stingy bitch.”
The muscle in the back of his jaw tics, and his hand skates up her side, latching onto one of her full tits. Christ, he’s like a little boy, refusing to share his toy. “I haven’t fucked her yet.” He says it with this hostile edge that’s not hard to decipher.
“Then you can chill,” I assure him, giving my marker a spin. “I’ll save the first bang for you. Just need a fresh canvas.”
What I need is to see how far down those bruises go. Excited to map them out, I stare her down, expecting her to shrink back or lash out. What I’m not expecting her to say is, “It’s fine. I’ll go.” Nick swings his gaze to her, understandably suspicious, and she stares vacantly back. “Turns out being some meathead’s slutty arm candy has a touch of humiliation that doesn’t really suit me.”
Snotty, but he lets her go when she stands, watching as she shudders his heat off her body. “If you don’t behave?” He gives her a long, threatening look. “There will be punishments.”
His warning makes her shoulders give a little shuddering hitch, and I like it.
I like the way she turns to me, regarding the middle of my chest. “I’ll be good.”
