I stare at my ceiling, teeth clenched against the sounds. My bed is big, but I’m only laying on one side of it, the other cold and vacant. It was supposed to be for her, and I turn my head now to stare at it, trying to imagine her on the pillow beside me, staring back. Maybe she’d shimmy up against my side, resting her cheek on my shoulder as I leaned down to kiss her. Maybe her hand would land on my belly, tickling the patch of skin above my boxers. Maybe she’d dip her fingers inside, grinding into my thigh as she touched me.
There’s a scream, muffled through stone and metal, and the fantasy falls away like sand through my fingers.
My room is right up against the elevator shaft. Last night, I put in my earphones and blasted some music to drown her out, but when I pulled them off, three hours later, only to realize she was still going at it in there…
I found myself at my door, hand poised on the knob.
But I didn’t crack.
I laid back down and listened to it as if I were teaching myself a lesson. I made the punishment. It was my responsibility to hear it. Refusing to turn away and ignore it, I laid awake, just like I am now, and let the sounds of her fight cut their way inside me, as sharp as barbed wire. Again, the question comes to me.
Is it really that fucking bad?
It’s not like I’m Daniel, ready to put her in the Pit and let a few linebackers loose on her pussy. I rescued her from that. Killian would have sold her off, I’m sure of it. The flesh trade is an unspeakable hustle. People aren’t bought to do their master’s knitting. Most of the time it’s sexual, and if a guy wants nothing more than a convenient hole to cram his dick into, he could get it for a lot cheaper than buying a slave. No, Lavinia probably would have been auctioned off to people who wanted to take her apart, piece by piece, organ by organ. But I never would have let that happen. Can’t she fucking see what belonging to me means?
All I’m asking for is a little goddamn gratitude.
She gets quiet just after four in the morning. My muscles are all tensed, waiting for the next shriek, the next clang of her body against the metal, and I realize they’ve stopped.
I find myself back at my door, hand poised on the knob.
My resolve for this shit is growing weaker, and I press my ear to the wall, knowing she’s on the other side. She’s not dead. Maybe she’s finally fallen asleep. God knows she didn’t get any the last time I shoved her in there. If the constant sounds of her banging around weren’t enough, I knew it the moment I pulled the doors open and saw her dark, hollowed eyes, shoulders curved in exhausted defeat.
The anemic light of dawn slithering in through the tall arched window behind my bed brings a certain kind of clarity with it. I can’t fucking take another night of this. I’ll fold—I know I will. I’ve got two semesters ahead of me, at least. I can’t go to school if I’m up all night, waiting for her to book it. And if I can’t go to school, then I can’t be a Duke, and if I can’t be a Duke…
Then she can’t be my Duchess.
I scrub my tired eyes. It’s been a while since I was pulling all-nighters for Daniel Payne. I’m rusty. I’m also aggravated and hungry, and I’m stewing over the conversation that set this all into motion, almost a year ago.
“I hear your Lady is going to be in the wrestling match,” I said to Rath the first time we moved Lavinia.
“She wanted to do it,” Rath replied, following to the motel room. “She’s really into the charity stuff with the South Side kids.”
“A little do-gooder, eh? The fuck’s she doing shacked up with the lot of you?” I said it like a joke, but it wasn’t. It didn’t make sense. Their Lady, Story Austin, is all soft and sweet and timid, and the three of them are… well. Complete fucks.
He answered with a casual shrug. “We’re her Lords and she’s our Lady. That’s just how it’s done.”
That small, otherwise forgettable discussion has been echoing in my head for hours, so when I finally lumber myself out of bed, more than one goal for the day is forming in my thoughts. I pull on my jeans, grab my gun and my phone, and stalk out into the main room, pausing outside the elevator doors.
Then I dial Rath’s number.
He doesn’t answer the first call, or the second, or even the third, but on the fourth, his throaty, threatening voice finally rings out. “Motherfucker, I know you aren’t calling me at six in the morning on a weekend.”
“You said this is how it’s done,” I hiss, pacing in a tight circle. “You said she’s your Lady, and she fucks you because you’re her Lord, and that’s just how it is. Either Lucia never got that memo or you’re leaving something out, because this bitch isn’t budging. If she’s not plotting a way to shiv us in our sleep, then she’s trying to run away. What the fuck?!”
A sleepy-soft voice can be heard in the background, and then Rath saying, “Nothing, baby. Just Nick being a pain in my ass. Roll over to Tris, I’ll be right back.” After a moment, his voice comes clearer and even more annoyed, “If you got me out of bed because you can’t handle your woman, then so help me God, Bruin, I’m going to drive over there and beat you to death with my fucking shoe.”
“You misrepresented the situation!” I catch my voice before it can get too loud, seething silently.
“We did our part. We got her out of the Hideaway. We got her into your big, dick-shaped tower. What, do you want us to fuck her for you, too?”
I yank the phone away from my ear long enough to glare murderously at his name. “I want you to give me some goddamn ideas here.” Mine obviously isn’t working. Daniel kept her shut up tight with a lock and key, but I can’t…
I can’t fucking take the screams.
Unwilling to admit that to Rath, I add, “Else, I might just have to take her back.”
There’s a pause, so I know he understands what I’m saying. Killer has more than one reason to be glad she’s not his problem anymore. She’s unnecessary drama between the Kings. Plus, his Lady would flip her shit. A hard sigh crackles over the line.
“I don’t fucking think so. You don’t get to return her like a defective piece of clothing.” There’s a long pause. “Do you think Story was compliant when she first became our Lady?”
“She auditioned.”
“Yeah, along with a bunch of other chicks who would have done anything we asked. Part of the fun is the challenge. She was a no-brainer, but that doesn’t mean she fell in line. We had a contract. Legally binding. She had no choice but to do what we asked, and even then, every exchange was like pulling fucking teeth.”
“So you broke her in,” I say, mulling it over. “Forced her into compliance. How?”
“You could say we broke one another in. In our situation, everyone had needs to be met.”
I shake my head. “Yeah, that’s not going to work with Lavinia.”
“Goddamn it, Bruin,” he snaps. “Have you tried just leveling with her?”
I grit my teeth, pushing my hair back. “I know you’ve met this girl. Don’t be obtuse. She acts like she’s got somewhere to be. She can’t be left alone, she doesn’t take orders, and to top it off, she cut the fucking tracker out of her neck last night.”
Another long sigh. “Fuck, then I don’t know. Make a deal with her. I know how you’re used to working, but these girls… you can’t always brute force them, Bruin. Give her something worth staying for.”
I freeze, perking up. “Bribe her, you mean?”
“I meant more like—”
But I roll over him. “Bribery, fuck. You’re right.” I’ve been approaching this like it’s something new, but it’s not. I’ve been bribing this bitch with candy since the first time I saw her after tossing her into that ratty motel room. She eyed the Snickers poking out of my pocket in that special Lavinia-patented way that made it clear she’d be willing to stab me for it. Now that the gears are turning, I add, “Maybe even a little good, old-fashioned extortion. Make her need it, like your Lady and that stalker fuck.” Some of the tension in my chest melts away and I rub it, realizing how hungry I am. “Yeah, that could work. Good idea. Talk to you later.” I hang up before he can answer, a plan brewing in my head.
She looks even worse than when I went to fetch her yesterday. Black and blue, skin ashen, dark bruises beneath each eye, shoulders drooping as she staggers to her feet. Her wrists are still bound in front of her from the trek back up the stairs last night, and she’s still in Remy’s hoodie. It’s not the bruises that do it. It’s not her posture—tired and full of defeat. It’s the pain in her eyes when she finally looks at me through the gate that gives me the realization.
This is going to kill her.
I’m not entirely sure why. It’s just a fucking elevator, and it’s not even a particularly bad one. Old as fuck. Dark. Drafty. But it’s clean, quiet, and safe. Part of me stupidly thought she’d find some security in it. If anyone opened this door, I’d know it. She’s better off in there than anywhere else in this town. Doesn’t she know what people around here want to do to her? Fuck, I’ve lived here for a month and even I’ve considered it might be a nice place to sleep.
I only get to catch a brief glimpse of it before she pulls herself to her full height, raising her chin in defiance. When I open the gate, she comes flying out, which I’m not expecting. She looks so battered and conquered that I wouldn’t think her capable of darting around me, shooting me a hot glare.
She snaps, “I’ve had to pee for hours!”
At least the sight of her in the light of day gives me a second to properly appreciate what Remy was doing with her last night. The outline of the snake tattoo on her calf has been completely transformed into a three-headed dragon, winding around her leg and up her thigh. It disappears beneath the hem of the large sweatshirt that’s swallowing up her small frame, but if I know Remy, its barbed tail is probably pointing right to her perfect cunt.
I stare dumbly as the door to the toilet slams closed.
She won’t sleep with me, and she’s damn sure not sleeping with Remy or Sy. Nothing about this is going the way I thought it would.
Hopefully, that’s all about to change.
I listen to her piss through the door, arms crossed as I prepare myself for the coming discussion. Lavinia needs a firm hand. No one knows that better than me. But I don’t have the time to break her—not enough to do it right. Her stream goes on for so long that I wince. That’s another problem. I’m good at being told to ferry supplies to a slave, but I’m not as good at being responsible for one. I can’t tell her when to eat, when to dress, when to piss. It just bolsters my resolve.
I listen to her flush, and then wash her hands, and by the time she finally swings the door open, I’m already half poised toward the kitchen, anxious to get this moving. “Come on,” I say, grabbing her by the back of the hood and pushing her toward the table.
“I can fucking walk myself, thank you!” she sneers, trying to twist away. The effect is kind of dampened by the way she looks, wrists still bound in front of her, stumbling toward the kitchen table as I shove her to a chair. Her hair is a crazy mess of blue tangles, expression puckered and severe. She looks as menacing as an abused cabbage patch doll.
I nod to a chair at the old wooden table. “Sit.” We stare at one another for the amount of time it takes for her to decide if she’s going to comply. I urge, “If I were you, I wouldn’t test me.” Not dressed in Remy’s borrowed zipped-up hoodie with nothing on underneath but those tight booty shorts. I’m doing my best here, but I can just as easily bend her over the bar as anything else.
There’s a flicker of apprehension in her eyes that makes me suspect she thinks I’m talking about something else. Maybe she’s afraid I’m going to throw her back into the elevator. My Little Bird and her rattling cage. Jesus. The thought alone drains me.
She aggressively slams her tight little body into the chair, glaring hot lava at me.
That’s a good girl.
Even though she’s tied up, I still sweep the room for sharp objects and make a big show of putting the knife block in the upper cabinet, over the stove. The move reveals the gun I have tucked in my waistband and that’s on purpose, too. She needs to know I’m packing. I’m done playing games.
I open the refrigerator and stare inside. At my old place, I never had much in the way of fresh food. Daniel had me working crazy hours, so I mostly ate takeout. Mama B feeds the Dukes down at the gym once a week, so occasionally I’d stop in for that, being legacy and all. But things are different now. My brother keeps the refrigerator and pantry well stocked. He burns a shit ton of calories down at the gym and he likes to stay lean, which means the refrigerator is packed with protein like eggs, chicken, and steak, plus a ton of veggies. I give it all a baffled look. My culinary expertise begins and ends with microwaveable rice pouches.
Since I have another mouth to feed now, I grab the eggs, a red and green pepper, and a pack of bacon. I can make an omelet. Probably.
She’s quiet while I grab a skillet and turn on the gas, letting it heat up while I crack the eggs in a bowl, but I feel her eyes on me. I chop up the peppers and mix all that shit together, but when I hold the bowl over the skillet, she lets out a venomous scoff.
“You need oil, Einstein.” Her voice is a hoarse, thin rasp that grates against insides.
I look up. “Oil?”
She rolls her eyes so hard that her head drops back. “Oil or butter. You need it in the bottom of the pan or it’ll burn and stick and make this place smell worse than it already does.” While I’m searching the kitchen for one of these things, she continues in her rough voice, “And you’ve got the heat up too high. Have you ever even used a stove before?” I find a green bottle of olive oil that I immediately begin pouring into the pan. In an exasperated tone, she adds, “That’s too much, and it’s still too—and there it goes.”
The oil splatters against the hot pan surface and pops and crackles. I shove it to a back eye, burning spots of oil dotting my hands. “Goddamn it!”
“Well, if you’d fucking listen and use that walnut-sized brain of yours for something other than hitting people and—’
“Do you ever shut up?!” I turn down the heat, trying to ignore the frustration rolling down my spine. “Who the fuck are you, anyway? Martha Stewart?”
Our eyes meet over the distance and she bites out, “You’re cooking eggs, Bruin. Not building a skyscraper. Pick up any basic cookbook or watch literally the most beginner-ass YouTube video, and the information’s all there.”
I give her a hard stare. Like I need to be lectured by this girl, an entitled Royal daughter who’s probably never cooked a meal in her life. I’ve seen her father’s house. Excuse me, mansion. I place the skillet back on the eye and pour the eggs in, ignoring her critical gaze as I let it heat and bubble. I make a pitiful attempt at flipping it in half and then start the bacon. For this, she manages to keep her opinions to herself—at least verbally.
I’m searching the fridge for something non-alcoholic to pour into two glasses when I hear the shuffle of feet behind me. When I turn, I come face to face with Remy, who’s shirtless and sleep-mussed and annoyingly wide-eyed.
His face is eerily blank. “What’s happening?”
“Breakfast,” I answer, nodding at the stove. Which is… smoking. A little. I zip to the range and quickly take the omelet off the heat. Fuck. Isn’t a Duchess supposed to do shit like this? Flustered, I note, “Wasn’t expecting you up this early.”
“I didn’t sleep,” he says, pointing the full force of that soul-sucking gaze onto Lavinia. “I just dreamed.”
I give him a long-suffering look. “Jesus, Remy, I need you to be fucking present. She almost got away last night.”
Tonelessly, he responds, “I heard screaming. And there’s blood in my room.”
It takes me a stretch of calculating to realize what he’s talking about. “Yeah, she cut the fucking tracker out.”
Lavinia keeps holding Remy’s gaze, even though her shoulders curl uncomfortably. “Not like it was a sophisticated operation.”
“Like I was saying about being present. You can’t leave her unattended with anything sharp. You’re lucky she didn’t shank your ass.” Something occurs to me, halfway between plucking the bacon out of the pan and cutting the gas. I turn to him, searching his face. “Wait, you had a dream? When did that start happening?”
Part of having been away for so long is accepting that I don’t really know Remy and Sy anymore. It’s only been a couple of years, but it’s long enough to have lost grip on the threads that used to hold us together. Just after the news, Remy wasn’t the same. Psychotic break, they said. Losing Tate wasn’t easy for any of us, and his mind’s always been a little fragile, but Christ.
It fucking broke him.
I didn’t even have a chance to see him before I left for South Side. His dad must have admitted him into the mental clinic the second he got the news, because I never got to see his reaction. We never spoke or grieved about it together. His dad sent an obnoxiously elaborate floral display, but Remy wasn’t even at the funeral, too busy getting pumped full of antipsychotics or whatever. He apparently got better with medication and treatment, but some things were lost forever, like his memory of that time period, and strangely, his ability to dream.
So when Remy answers, “Seven hours ago,” a part of me feels shittily relieved. At least that’s one thing I haven’t missed.
“That’s great, man.” I try to give him a pat on the shoulder, but he’s standing all rigidly limp. He doesn’t even acknowledge it. I guess being around for a single milestone doesn’t really erase the distance. I offer, “You should tell Sy about it. I bet he creams his pants over the smallest breakthrough.”
“I can’t.” Remy, I realize, hasn’t looked away from Lavinia since he walked into the kitchen. Carefully, I edge myself between them, watching as he visibly snaps out of whatever trance he’d been in. Finally, he looks me in the eye, face white as a sheet. “Do you have any idea how many stars there are?”
Squinting, I ask, “Like, observably, or…?”
“Don’t knock on my door today, Nicky.” And with that, he turns on his heel and leaves. I stare at the empty place where he was just standing, wondering if I should have said something different. Sy would know. But I’m just treading water.
“Fucking maniac,” Lavinia mutters.
I whip around to snap, “Shut the fuck up. He’s not a maniac. He’s the best person in this whole fucked up town.” I grab a plate from the cabinet and plop the only slightly burned omelet onto it, along with a handful of bacon.
“Oh, my bad,” she says, voice mocking. “I must have had him confused with the guy who keeps sexually assaulting me. Mistaken identity, I suppose. Was that his twin?”
“Eat.” I slide the plate across the table to her.
She looks at the omelet. “I can’t eat that.”
“Why the fuck not?”
She raises her wrists, the zip tie firmly in place.
“Christ.” I pick up the fork and cut off a piece of the omelet, holding it up to her mouth.
She gives me an unblinking stare. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“Nope.” I let the egg hang there. “Better hurry. It’s getting cold.”
“Let it.” She lifts her chin. “You’re not feeding me like a child.”
“I’m feeding you like a bitch who doesn’t know how to handle her own leash.”
Her mouth twists into a bitter grin. “So like a prisoner.”
I snort and shove the fork into my own mouth. Good enough. “Your words,” I say over the food. “Your choice. I brought you here to be the Duchess. To love you. To fuck you. To make you safe and fucking happy. And here you are, fighting it every step of the way. You think I wouldn’t rather have you in my bed than in that fucking elevator?” Shaking my head, I insist, “You’re the one making this hard, Lavinia.” I cut off another piece of the omelet and hold it up to her. “Don’t make me do the airplane.”
She eyes it for a long moment, then rears her head back and spits on it. And me.
I drop the fork and it hits the counter with a loud, metallic clatter. “You,” I lean toward her, slamming my palms on the table, “are the most ungrateful bitch I’ve ever met!”
“Ungrateful?” Her voice is shrill, echoing off the high ceiling. “I’m a motherfucking slave, Bruin! I don’t want to be your goddamn Duchess! I didn’t ask for it, I just want to leave. Every minute I’m locked up in here—” She visibly bites her word back, eyes flashing angrily. “Stop trying to bullshit me into thinking you’re doing me some amazing favor. You might not know better, but I sure as hell do. Deep down you have to know the truth.” She pitches forward, eyes darkening. “You’re not a fixer, Nick. The reason Daniel Payne wanted you? It’s because ruining things is all you’re good at.” I’m usually pretty good about keeping my face in check, but something must get through, because she nods, leaning leisurely back in her chair. “That’s right. Nick the fuck-up. Good at hurting and killing. Not much in the savior department. I bet your pal Rapey—sorry, I mean Remy—knows all about it, doesn’t he? Yeah, I can tell when you look at him. I bet it takes something monumentally shitty to put a glimmer of guilt into Nick Bruin’s eyes.”
I’m calm as I sit back in my chair, carefully placing the fork back onto the plate. “This isn’t going to work.”
Her demeanor shifts instantly, back straightening as she stares into my eyes. “You’re right. You should just let me go.” The way she looks at me then pierces right into my gut. Soft. Pleading. “I’ll keep my mouth shut about you. I won’t tell anyone about…” Her gaze drops to the table, jaw tightening. “I won’t tell anyone anything.”
My eye twitches, a boulder of displeasure settling in my stomach. I worked my ass off to get this girl. I’ve fought, bled, killed. Killian Payne didn’t ascend to King alone. Part of that was me. Just one domino in a long line that was supposed to get me here. “You’re right. I’m not a fixer,” I admit, holding her eyes. “But I’m also not a quitter.”
Her shoulders crumble into a dejected curve. “Oh my fucking god, why?! I’m not…” She looks around, like she’s lost. “There’s nothing special about me. You don’t want me, Nick!”
“You’re wrong.” The response is instinctual, fundamental. And the instant her mouth opens to protest, I reach over the table to grab her face, snapping it shut. “It doesn’t matter why I want you. What matters is that I have you. You’re Forsyth royalty now, like it or not. Do you have any fucking idea the things I’ve had to put into motion to get you under this goddamn belfry? Even if I wanted to let you go,” I give her a hard, significant look, “and I don’t—I’d have to pull it apart.” I idly press my thumb into her plush bottom lip, imagining it wrapped around the digit. Sighing, I let her face go. “Anyway, you’re going about this all wrong. Kind of disappointing. I thought you were smarter than this.”
She sputters, and I’m relieved—so fucking relieved—to see some of that bright, hot indignation returning to her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I take the opportunity to shove a piece of bacon between her teeth. “Well, it’s like you said. I’m a ruiner. A fighter. A killer. All this effort you’re wasting to run away? It’s like a mechanic throwing away his toolbox. Now,” I take a bite of the omelet, not bothering to close my mouth as I chew, “I don’t know what you’re in such an annoying fucking rush to do, but something tells me it’s probably more up my alley than yours. While you’re here, you’re practically untouchable.” One of her cheeks scrunches up in disbelief, so I know she’s understanding. “Use me.”
She raises both wrists to take the bacon from her mouth. “Use you for what?”
I shrug. “Anything.”
Her chest bounces with empty laughter. “What, like you’ll kill my dad if I asked?”
I raise my eyes to hers, unwavering. “Yes.” I watch her take this in, tongue pausing in its shy exploration of the bacon grease on her lips. I lay my fork down and lean back. “But that’s a ‘blow this motherfucker up’ sort of job, and I don’t think either of us is ready for that. Murdering a King is like throwing a rock into the water. It makes ripples. The closer you are, the more you feel them.” Moving my finger up and down in the air, I explain, “You’re way too close to that rock, Little Bird.”
To my surprise, she says, “You’re right.” Not breaking my stare, she brings the bacon to her mouth, ripping off a bite. “It wouldn’t help me, anyway.” I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t.
“So give me something else.” I think the growing electricity in my chest might be anticipation. Lavinia wants something and it’s big. Big enough to have her locked up for all this time. Important enough that other Kings are involved. I know the seedling of a war when I see one, and it might not be my fight, but I’m down with getting a few blows in.
She tilts her head as she inspects me. That’s exactly what it feels like. An inspection. She’s measuring me up, eyes descending to my bare chest, cataloging the bits of ink Remy’s given to me over the years, but the hardness in her gaze never dissipates. It’s almost a disappointment when she asks, “How many people have you killed?”
“How many people have you killed?” My face doesn’t even twitch. There’s a rumor. Unconfirmed, but everyone in Forsyth has heard it.
She reacts, but only by cramming the last of the bacon into her mouth and rests her hands in her lap. “Fine.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Fine?”
“There’s something I need,” she explains, throat bobbing with a swallow. “If you can get it.”
I shrug, not missing that her eyes flick to my chest again. “Depends on what it is.”
She nods, surely having expected this much. “It’s a box. It’s at my—” I wait, watching her grit her teeth. “I mean, at my father’s house. It’s under my old bed.”
I grin, tapping my knuckle against the table. There it is. Intrigue. “What’s in it?”
Her eyes fly back to mine, jaw sharp. “None of your fucking business.”
I hold up my hands, palms out. “Chill, Little Bird. Can’t I be curious?”
Sharply, she answers, “No.”
I wave this off, not in a mood to push it. “Okay. I’ll break into your father’s heavily fortified mansion, under threat of certain death, to bring you a box of mysterious value. And in return?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she says, scoffing.
I give her a threatening grin. “Oh, let’s absolutely get ahead of ourselves. A guy needs some incentive, doesn’t he?” When all she does is glare at me, I shake my head. “Plus, all the hot water you’re in? I doubt this will be a one-and-done job. This is going to be a service. That means long-term.”
She gives me a threatening grin right back. “This isn’t anything I can’t do myself.”
“You and I both know that’s not true.” I lean back, kicking my feet up on the table, “One of us has been Lionel’s prisoner for the past two years, and it hasn’t been me.” I throw her a sarcastic grimace. “You have that really embarrassing habit of getting caught. Face it, Lavinia, dealing with the Kings requires a certain finesse that you just don’t have.”
“Fuck you.” She rolls her eyes, looking away. But below the table, I can hear her heel tapping against the cheap vinyl flooring. “Cut the shit already. What would you want?”
I’d think that should be obvious. “Say you’ll be our Duchess. Without argument or backtalk, or the need for—” I glance toward the elevator. “—discipline.”
She swings the full force of her glower on me. “Say I’ll suck your dick and cook your meals like a good little cutslut? Go fuck yourself.”
“Who said anything about being a cutslut,” I snap, flinging a hand in the direction of the door. “Cutsluts stay downstairs in the party room. They’re easy pussy. Christ, you’re a lot of things, but easy will never be one of them.” I run my fingers through my hair, tugging on the roots. “The Duchess can be whatever we want her to be. If you want to lay out terms, then let’s hear them.” Before she can start, I warn, “And I’ll lay out mine.”
Her eyes narrow in response, but I can see her mouth purse as she considers. “I get to leave whatever I want.”
I give her an exasperated look. “‘Murder my dad, let me do anything I want’. You really aim for the fucking moon, don’t you?” I dust the bacon grease from my fingers, countering, “You get to leave when one of us is with you.” Her mouth falls open in outrage, but I add, “But no restraints.”
She falters. “None?”
“If you play nice,” I clarify. “And by nice, I mean no biting or kicking or stabbing. No burning. No punching, slapping, shivving, kneeing, head butting, cutting, flaying, slamming—”
“Christ, I get the gist!” She gives me an exasperated look, but I see the spark of hope in her eyes. She must really hate that elevator. “No bodily harm.”
“And,” I add, “you have to sleep in our beds.”
“No.” She brings her bound wrists down onto the table with a decisive clunk. “In fact, I get my own room.”
I peek through the arch that leads into the main room, gesturing with a hand. “Three bedrooms, four people. Do the math.”
She twists her neck to look. “No one’s sleeping up there.”
I realize she’s looking up at the loft in front of the clock face and it’s an effort to keep my face straight. The old Dukes used to make their black lab sleep up there. “You want to make the loft your own space? Fine by me.” No door, no locks, no walls—just bars. She can’t keep us out of it. It’s a cage with the flimsiest illusion of freedom. It’s perfect. “But you still have to sleep with us.”
“No.”
I stare at her, thinking none of this is worth it. I could just force her and forget about compromising. But I think back to the sound of her slamming her body against the insides of the elevator. Her screams—not cries of anger, but howls. Desperate, keening, full of panic.
Can’t fucking do it.
I offer, “On weekdays. You can have weekends off.”
She scoffs. “Fuck that. One night a week, if I want to.”
“Christ, you’re shit at compromising.” I rub the bridge of my nose, my thoughts going to those beers in the fridge. Bitch is about to drive me to drinking. “Here’s my best offer. A day of the week for each of us, and you have to do what we want.” At her horrified look, I reason, “That’s less than half the week, Lav. It’s not going to get any better than that.”
“I’m not being your sex slave for a day!”
The corner of my mouth quirks up. “Who said anything about sex? Maybe we just want you to scrub our floors?”
Her nostrils flare angrily. “Your brother acts like he wants to throw me down that flight of stairs, Remy wants to wear my skin, and you…” She shakes her head, barking a harsh laugh. “God even knows what you want, but I’ll never be into it.” She levels me with a stony look. “Ever. If you fuck me, it’ll be assault. Assault is off the table.”
I let my eyes drop to her body, hidden beneath Remy’s hoodie. “That’s a bit over-the-top for someone I’ve seen get wet for me.” When she just stares at me, unblinking, I yank my feet off the table to lean forward, voice hard. “Maybe this whole negotiation thing is confusing you, so let’s get something straight, Little Bird. Your pussy is mine, Duchess or not.” She pushes away from the table, like she’s going to storm off. I reach out to fist the hoodie, slamming her back to her seat. “If I want to fuck you, then that’s what I’m going to do. If my brothers want to fuck you, then it’s only because I’m allowing them to. So instead of being a brat about your precious fucking virtue, you might want to start thinking about how I can make it good for you.”
She raises her chin, muscles so tense that I can see the strain in her neck. “How can you possibly make it good for me?”
“Easy.” I give the sweater one last crush in my fist before letting it go. “If you’re a good girl, then maybe I’ll take your position on the matter into consideration.”
She blinks, voice a perfect deadpan. “Wow. The possible consideration of my consent. Don’t break your back not being a piece of shit, Nick.”
“I won’t.” I try to stuff another slice of bacon into her mouth, but she turns away, jaw clenched. Laughing, I muse, “God, you really are a Lucia, aren’t you? Every woman in this place knows her pussy is her best bargaining chip, but you think yours is diamond-studded.” Leaning back, I decide to tell her something that may come as a surprise. “You ever think that’s the reason I want it so bad?”
Her gaze meets mine slowly, filling with a suspicious glint. “Bullshit.”
I used to think it was just Daniel and all his rules. Lavinia the jail bird. The one thing I couldn’t touch, and goddamn, my fingers would positively itch for it. I used to lay in that shitty South Side bed at night and imagine taking her. Throwing her into my car, driving somewhere secluded, no cameras or foot soldiers to see me ripping her clothes off and stealing it, touching every inch of her skin, forcing my way inside.
Ruining her.
I reach down to adjust my cock, already full mast just imagining it, but the truth is, it wasn’t just the Kings’ rules that made me want her so bad. She’s just such a haughty little bitch, thinking her pussy is above me. Makes a guy want to own it.
And now I do. “No bullshit,” I tell her, willing my dick to stand down. “But understand one thing, Little Bird. I’m not Daniel Payne. I don’t collect nice things and lock them away to rot. You’ve had no control over anything for the past two years, so maybe this will make sense to you.” I grab her bound wrists, pulling her against the table. “I’m going to fuck you, Lavinia. That’s a given. It’s not something you have control over. But,” keeping my eyes locked on hers, I pull a knife from my pocket, flicking it open, “it’s up to you how it happens. You can make me work for it—I don’t mind that—or you can make me have to hold you down and fuck that nasty attitude right out of you.” With one clean yank of the blade, I cut her zip ties. “For the record, I don’t mind that, either.”
She jerks her hands into her chest, the chair’s back legs clattering as her weight slams into the seat. “So that’s it, huh? You’re going to fuck me and there’s nothing I can do about it?!”
“I’m giving you something worth taking advantage of.” Feeling slightly annoyed, I mention, “And stop acting like you have it so bad. I read the Lords’ contract with their Lady earlier, and you wouldn’t believe some of the shit they put on paper. They micromanaged that bitch down to the soap she washed her cunt with.”
“And how exactly,” she growls, “do you expect me to make you work for it?”
I close my knife, shrugging. “That’s up to you. I don’t mind waiting.” Lowering my chin, I stress, “For a while.”
Her eyes tighten. “And in the meantime?”
Stuffing the knife back into my pocket, I give a cold laugh. “We could do nine months of that.” I point to the elevator and her eyes follow. “But I doubt either of us wants to, so we need to come to some kind of understanding. What’s it going to take to get you to settle the fuck down?”
She looks down at her hands, wringing her knuckles. “I want clothes,” she says, and I refrain from smirking victoriously. She’s actually going to barter here. “Real clothes, not those rags your cutsluts donated to me.”
I don’t bother hiding my grimace. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind. But outside of the tower, there are expectations for a Royal woman. Slut-wear is just part of the dress code. You know this.” Nevertheless, I compromise. “I’ll get you some things to wear around here.”
“And shoes,” she stresses, rubbing her wrists. “I’m not walking down those million flights of stairs in heels. If the three of you want to kill me, there are less annoying ways of going about it.”
I give a slow nod, thinking. “I guess that’s practical. You could always use the elev—”
She slams her palms on the table. “No more elevators!” When I tear my gaze from the red marks across her wrists, I see that there’s a deadly sort of alarm in her eyes. “I’ll negotiate with you, Nick. I’ll try to find some meager fucking illusion of comfort with this, but ‘m telling you now, if you put me into that elevator again? We’re done. I’ll make you have to guard me every second of your goddamn day.” Her eyes turn flinty. “That’s as non-negotiable as the fact my pussy is apparently yours now. Do you understand me?”
The chances of me never having to lock her up again are appallingly slim. But this can at least buy me a few days of peace, so I agree, “Fine. But if you try to run again, we really are done, and that means I won’t think twice about tossing your ass in there. Do you understand me?”
“And if you do make me fuck you again…” she says, eyes tight.
“When.”
She scowls, but continues. “You have to wear a condom.”
I laugh. “Not a chance. And just so we’re crystal fucking clear, withdrawal is off the table, too. The only thing in this tower that pulls out is that sofa over there.”
She crosses her arms, pushing her tits together. “Then no joy. I’d rather jump from one of these windows than get knocked up with one of your demon spawns.”
I pause, half chew into a piece of bacon, turning that thought over in my mind. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to me until just now. Lavinia Lucia, belly all swollen with the things I plan to do to her. Suddenly, it’s all I can see.
Even so, I know better than to push. At least for now.
“You’ll get on birth control, don’t worry.” It’s a statement. No further negotiation. “I’ll set it up. You need a new tracker, too.”
Her back straightens. “No.”
“Yes.”
Louder, “No.”
“You’re fucking terrible at this,” I sigh, head lolling back. “You have to offer me something, Lavinia.”
She tosses her hands up. “Fine, I’ll clean or something!”
“Not good enough.” I rub my chin, thinking. Of course, I want her body. Her mouth. Her pussy. But all of that’s going to be mine, regardless. “I have some rules. Nothing major. Agree to them, and I’ll consider letting the tracker go.”
Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “Like what?”
“Kissing.”
“You want me to kiss you?” She looks distinctly unimpressed.
My eyes zero in on her mouth. This was always an issue with making her Duchess. Sharing her with the others. It’s why it had to be Remy and Sy. They’re the only people I could see her with and not want to shoot. That doesn’t mean it’ll be easy, though. “I want you to only kiss me.”
She takes a dramatic glance around the tower. “I don’t see anyone else lining up, so consider that a done deal. What else?”
“When I’m here or downstairs, enjoying some downtime, I want you in my lap.”
“Should I expect a little collar with a bell on it?” Lavinia’s cheeks get really, intensely red when she’s mad.
It’s fucking adorable. “Don’t tempt me. I do deserve a little something extra from you to sweeten the pot, considering you can’t even be a proper Duchess.”
“You deserve something from me?!” Her cheeks get redder and redder. “How the fuck do you figure?”
“You’re not pre-med,” I point out, swiping a piece of bacon for myself. “The Duchess is supposed to be our cutwoman. Our medic. Now we’re going to have to trust some outsider. It puts us in a bad way.” This is something Sy has reminded me of, frequently and with feeling, for the last two damn days.
“You think I can’t handle your poor little boo-boos?” She gives me a sneering smile. “Please. I was stitching up Royal bitch-boys before you even graduated high school. Find me a pre-med who knows how to handle a dislocated shoulder.”
This is news to me, and I sit up, brows knitting together. “No shit?”
She sits straighter too, eyes flashing. “I’ll do the lap thing. I won’t kiss anyone. I’ll stay in your stupid fucking tower and not kill you all. And in exchange?”
I dust off my hands. “I’ll break into your daddy’s house and get whatever you want. You can also have the loft, new shoes, clothes for home, and my sparkling fucking benevolence.” I slide the fork and omelet to her. “In return, you’ll be in my bed once a week, minimum. The others get a day for themselves. You’ll keep the violence in check, and you’ll act like the fucking Duchess, in this house and outside of it.”
I offer her my hand, and even though I still see the flicker of defiance in her eye, she shakes it, sealing the deal. “And know this.” I tighten my grip and pull her toward me, the two of us meeting over the table. As I speak, low and deadly, I watch a lock of her blue hair sway with my breath. “If you spit in my face again, I’m going to slap the piss out of you.”
Her eyes flick to mine, catching the threat in my tone just as much as my words. “Spit in your face? Is that figuratively or literally?”
I reach up to sweep the lock of hair away, tucking it gently behind her ear. “Fuck around and find out, Little Bird.
