“Wait,” I say, frowning out the window. We’re no longer near campus, but in a different part of town altogether. It’s not quite South Side, but it’s still somehow… well, similar. “Do the Dukes live down here?”
“They may as well,” Tristian mutters from the front passenger seat. “Filthy street-urchins.”
“You know that old clock tower at the back of campus?” Dimitri asks, lolling his head against the seat to look at me. We’re in the backseat, his legs sprawled wide enough to press against mine. Thinking, I recall the tower that looms over the older section of Forsyth. The buildings back there are ancient—maybe even historical—and gorgeous-looking, if a bit rundown. I figured most of it was abandoned or, at the very least, on the cusp of a very extensive renovation. In his smooth, deep voice, Dimitri explains, “The Dukes live there, and this is their territory. They say from the belfry, you can see all the way to Widow’s Rock.”
“Figures the Dukes, of all houses, would get the best view.” Tristian turns to give me a sardonic look. “Completely lost on them.”
I think they all know how nervous I feel about what I’m about to do, but they’re doing me the favor of not coddling me about it. Christmas day was a nice distraction. Fun, to say the least, even though I spent most of the next day feeling unnecessarily embarrassed about what happened in the hot tub.
Even now, I catch sight of Killian’s eyes in the rearview mirror and feel my cheeks heat.
It’d be easy to blame it on the drugs, and I suppose a part of my behavior that night could be owed to how high I was. But it was only the part where I actually acted on something I wanted, without fear or shame or pressure. At first, I was worried there’d be no going back, as if I’d enter my bedroom the next night and find them all on the bed, waiting for me, ready to pick up where we left off.
The week between Christmas and New Year’s was busy. Killian took me to the range to try out my new weapon, spending an inordinate amount of time making sure I knew how to use it. It was impossible to know if he just used the opportunity to give himself an excuse to get close to me physically; hands on my hips, cheek close to mine. Tristian dragged me to the gym to prep for the wrestling match, including private lessons with a trainer. After wearing me out, we’d go back home, and he’d massage my aching muscles, forcing me to relax. Dimitri’s bed was a warm comfort at night. We’d listen to music, smoke a joint, and sleep late. The barriers I’d built are rapidly eroding. I’m defenseless to their touch, their kisses and demands. I was tired of fighting, so I didn’t. But now I have to face what comes next. In truth, there’s something disturbingly familiar about jumping into a ring to make money. At least this time, I’ll get to keep it.
Assuming I win.
Killian goes on, “The Dukes occupy the West End. The Counts, the North Side. Princes, the East End. All of the territories push against one another. The Kings, and therefore us, are always in some kind of bullshit squabble.” Killian turns the truck down a dark road. The buildings on both sides are industrial with high metal walls. “The Dukes do their business down here in the warehouse district. And this,” he slows the truck, pointing out the front window, “is their gym.”
It doesn’t look like much, but I do see the sign over the door; DUKES UP. In a lame attempt at forgotten festivity, Christmas lights are draped over the doorway, and a sad-looking, weather-beaten wreath hangs on the door. People walk down the street, guys and girls slipping in through the door, and again, I remember why I’m here, igniting another wave of nerves in my stomach. Dimitri takes my hand and pulls it to his mouth, lip rings cool against my skin when he kisses my knuckles.
“You don’t really have to do this,” he assures, dark eyes holding mine. “We can find another way. People like us always do.”
Nodding, I reply, “I know.”
People like us. The people who are used to having nothing. We get by because there’s no other option. Others might throw their hands up in the air, but people like us don’t have that luxury. We find a way.
What I don’t tell him is that it’s not the fight that’s got me all twisted up inside. It’s the possibility of letting them down. Of embarrassing them. Of showing all these people that the Lords chose a Lady who can’t handle her own. I don’t care about whatever pissing contest these frats get into, but even if my Lords seem to have abandoned this stupid game to become Kings, it means something to them to be the best, the strongest, the ones at the top, and it’s not just about their egos. In their world, a loss is a target on your back, just begging for someone to come by and hit the bull’s eye. Like it or not, I’m a part of that now. That means I’m either a credit or a liability. A strength or a weakness.
But in the end, I’m not here to gain our frat fighting cred. I’m here to beat the Countess’ ass and earn a fistful of money doing it, and that’s what matters. “I’m good.” Pushing my shoulders back, I open the door, steel filling my voice. “Let’s do this.”
Tristian is already there, extending a hand to help me down from the seat. I take it and lean on him, jumping to the pavement, and when he takes my bag, slinging it over his shoulder, he sends me a little wink.
“We’ve got you.”
They flank me the same way they do on campus, but this time, I feel less like an ornament and more like a prize they’re protecting. I’ve already proven myself. I killed Ugly Nick. I saved Killian from certain death. I negotiated directly with Daniel. I’ve spent the last three years running from a psychotic stalker, and I’m still standing.
No, I’m no longer an ornament. I’m one of them, and tonight, everyone else is going to know it, too.
The interior of the gym is decked out in more lights. It’s flashy and brash, smoke thick in my nostrils and burning my eyes, and loud music blares through the cavernous room, echoing off the eaves. It’s hard to look at the ring in the middle of it and not see the pit, but I try. A banner above it greets us, boasting, “Tenth Annual Screw Year’s Eve!” Beside the dramatic lettering, an illustration of a sneering woman is riding a bear, brandishing a trophy high above her head as her breasts bulge from her bikini top.
Pure class.
We start through the crowd, and it’s not so bad at first. Everyone’s so occupied with drinking their beers and watching the ring that they don’t even notice us walking in.
Until they do.
One by one, heads turn to look, guys nudging whoever they’re with to get their attention, girls pointing and whispering. Tristian casually drapes his arm over my shoulder, tugging me close enough to plant a smacking kiss on my head.
“These people aren’t shit, sweetheart.”
Unlike the pit, I don’t avoid their stares, my gaze passing over them. “I know.”
But my mask of indifference gets hard to keep up. Killian leads us through, clearing a path through the boisterous crowd. People fall away, out of fear of his size or intimidation. Either. Both. But it doesn’t block out the gossip being whispered as we pass. There are comments about Killer shooting his dad. About their Lady being an actual whore. About the real fight that’s sure to come between the King and a Lord.
We’re getting close to the center when some asshole calls out, “Yo, the Lady’s about to give us another show!”
“Don’t react,” Tristian whispers.
But the guy doesn’t stop there. “You gonna take them all this time? Three dicks, one cunt!”
I’m not sure anyone besides the three of them notice me freezing. It barely lasts a second before Tristian nudges me back into motion, but it takes my breath away, the comment stabbing right into the vulnerable part of me that’s still shy about what happened on Christmas.
When I hear the skirmish behind me, feet quick on the hard floor, I realize they know it. I don’t need the glance over my shoulder to know that Dimitri is back there, taking out some of his own vengeance, but I still do it, a quick flick of my eyes. It’s fast enough to catch the punch he lands on the guy’s face, the fleshy sound of bone hitting bone making me wince.
At least he’s not brandishing his knife.
Killian breaks through to the front, stopping by the edge of the ring, and then he turns to me, expression so impassive that one might think this is just another day.
“You need to sign in,” Killian says, pointing to the table set up by the ring.
I glance over his shoulder and see that the normally flat stage has been modified with a large inflatable pool. Inside is what must be hundreds of pounds of red and green Jell-O. My nose wrinkles at the thought of stepping into it. The cloud of cherry-lime smell is practically visible.
“We’re all in luck.” The DKS guy from before—Simon, Pretty Nick’s brother—is sitting behind the table, a metal box opened in front of him. His eyes are fixed to the stack of money his fingers are deftly carding through, counting, but he’s speaking to my stepbrother. “This match just got a whole lot easier. The bracket’s always a bit fucked when there’s five.”
Tristian watches him, jerking his chin. “What, someone drop out?” My stomach sinks at the possibility Sutton won’t be here.
But it’s unnecessary. “Yes.” Simon finally looks up from the money, giving the stack a tap on the table. “As of three hours ago, the Princess took her tiara out of the ring.”
Tristian lets out a loud, harsh laugh. “No shit?” It takes me a moment to catch on. It’s when his blue eyes meet mine, mouth smirking, that it hits me. “Looks like I’m winning all kinds of bets tonight, sweetheart.”
Still, I ask, “She’s pregnant? Already?”
Simon shrugs, jotting something down on the paper before shoving it into the box. “Can’t risk the health of the demon spawn. That means you’re fighting the Baroness first. Whoever wins that match will square up against whoever wins the match between the Duchess and the Countess.” He points to the left side of the ring, where a giant chalkboard has been set up with our four positions.
I give Killian a frustrated look, not expecting this. “I came here to beat the Countess,” I tell Simon, letting Tristian’s arm fall from my shoulders. “So you’re saying if one of us loses, I can’t?”
Simon leans back in his chair. “You’re talking to a future Duke, Lady.” His eyes rake down my body in a way that makes Killian step closer. “We don’t need some sleazy, Royalty-organized charity event to gift someone with a gold-star ass-whooping. But, hey. If you do?” He raises an eyebrow, face stony. “Then my advice is to not lose.” Before I can argue, he slides a notebook across the table, slapping a pen in the middle. “The rules are so basic, even a girl can handle them. First to tap out loses. No weapons, no hits below the belt, eyes are off limits. Other than that, you can consider this no holds barred. So if you’re going to get all precious about a few bruises and a little blood, then there’s the door. Don’t waste our time.”
Killian bites out a sharp, “Watch it, Sy.”
Simon doesn’t miss a beat, pointing to the sheet next to the book. “The rounds last one minute each, three rounds total. The leader is determined by crowd approval, so if you want to win, you better put on a show.” The guy looks up at me with a cold expression. “But that should be no problem for you, right?”
“I said,” Killian slams his hand down on the table, “watch it.”
“She’s a big girl, isn’t she?” Simon holds my stare, and a few months ago I might have withered at the hardness within it. Not now, though. “For some reason, my idiot brother has put down a lot of capital on you winning this.”
“Then he can send me a fruit basket when I do,” I reply, shooting him a saccharine grin. These people might be vipers, but I’ve got fangs of my own.
Simon looks away, head shaking. “We don’t mind a little dirty play, Lady, but don’t forget what this is: A charity match. Try to keep your tits inside your bikini. We host fights, not pornos.”
My eye twitches, but when Killian shoves in front of me, I grab his arm, dragging him back. “That’s rich, coming from a member of the house who chose the sleazy costumes for their sleazy event.”
He gives me a mean smile back. “Wasn’t my decision.” As one last parting blow, he adds, “Oh, and don’t forget. You have to stay on your knees. Or your back.” He glances around, catching sight of the other Royal women. “Probably just another Tuesday for one of you.”
I feel the rage in Killian, seconds from boiling over, but I tug him away from the table, Tristian glowering at Simon over his shoulder.
“Ignore that shit for brains,” he says, bringing a hand down on Killian’s shoulder. “You know how he gets about women.”
The tendon in Killian’s neck is already bulging, and I’d know that simmering darkness in his eyes anywhere. If I’m not careful, he’s going to lose it. “I don’t care if he’s got issues with pulling tail. I’m not going to let him talk to her like that.”
I watch Dimitri make his way over, flexing his fist as he inspects his red knuckles. “You’re not getting into another fight tonight. They might throw us out.” I glance back at Sy, who looks just as scathing as he signs the Baroness in. “He’s probably just trying to rile us all up so we put on a good show.”
Killian’s nostrils flare. “He’s going to lose his teeth.” Everyone thinks Killian is so difficult to handle, like he’s always one second away from detonating. In a way, they’re right.
But they don’t know him like I do.
I touch his chest and strain up on my toes, pressing a soft kiss to the tense line of his jaw. “Well, wait until after I’ve got the money, okay?”
He looks down at me, and it’s like magic. First, there’s a slow exhale, his hand coming out to hold my hip. Then he shifts his shoulders and the tendon in his neck disappears. I know when his eyes fix to my mouth, face losing a tightness that I hate to see there, that I’ve pulled him back from the brink.
“If anyone fucks with you, you tell us. I mean it, Story.”
I run my hand down his side. “I will, big brother. Don’t worry.”
The mild, lopsided smirk he gives me when I call him ‘big brother’ sparks a fire in my lower belly. If he keeps smiling at me like that, I’m going to end up keeping my door unlocked at night.
“Come on,” he says, nodding upstairs. “Let’s get up on the balcony to watch for a minute, then you can go change.”
I have a beer with the guys while we’re up there, my eyes taking in the scene below. The Countess ducks into the ring, followed by the Duchess—Bianca. They each give the crowd big smiles, but it’s clear Bianca is having more fun with it, flexing her muscles elaborately, hamming it up for her Dukes, who are watching against the ropes, cheering her on. The Counts are on the other side, standing silently as they watch their Countess wave to the room.
Tristian stands behind me, arm around my chest as he narrates. “See how the Countess left her hair down? That’s exploitable.”
Dimitri leans on the railing at my side, tipping a red cup to his lips. “Rookie move. Girls are always all over the place when they fight—totally fucking undisciplined—so here’s what you do. Grab a handful of hair and—”
“Guys,” I bark, giving them each a glare. “I went to an all girls’ school for a year. I know how to win a fight against the campus bitch.”
Dimitri holds his hands up. “Excuse me, Lady Thrown Down. Was just saying, the Countess is going to fight dirty, so be prepared.”
This is made evident halfway through. The first round is all exaggerated grimaces in the Jell-O and lighthearted grappling. Bianca howls with laughter for most of it, big and toothy as Sutton grabs for her, feigning growls for the crowd.
But somewhere in the second round, things change. I’m not sure if it’s a solid hold Bianca gets Sutton into, or if the Countess has just been biding her time, but suddenly, her elbow comes up, catching Bianca hard in the nose. Bianca’s hands fly up to her face and Sutton tackles her, getting Bianca flat onto her stomach and smashing her face into the Jell-O. Bianca fights back hard, the vibe of the crowd shifting from fun chants to mean barbed shouts. It turns toxic on a dime, and the Dukes are red-faced as they yell across the ring at the Counts, who are smirking as they watch.
It’s unnecessarily brutal. The Duchess never recovers from the initial blow, blood streaming down her chin as she sneers and bucks and takes swipe after swipe. She gets in a few hits, but the Countess shakes each one off, striking out like the viper her house medallion bears.
“Fuck,” Dimitri mutters. “The Dukes are about to go after them.” He nods to the Counts, where Perez is crouched down, coaching Sutton in a series of shouted orders.
“Take that bitch down!” he’s barking, face contorted as if he’s the one in the ring.
But Bianca is already reaching out to slam her palm against the Jell-O, tapping out.
Tristian hisses as the Dukes all fly into the ring, pulling their Duchess out of the pool. “They’re not going to take that well.”
Stepping away, I grab my bag from the floor. I’m not interested in the frat fallout. I’ve seen what I need to. “Maybe when I win,” I say, grabbing Dimitri’s hand, “the Dukes can send me a fruit basket, too.”
The guys decided before we arrived that one of them would always be with me. I choose Dimitri to escort me to the empty locker room, because that’s what I need. His quiet darkness. The demon eyes. That thrumming, vicious energy that he never has to externalize.
I unpack my bikini, feeling him so close that it prickles on the back of my neck. “You don’t need to guard me,” I say, efficiently stripping off my clothes. “It’s not like everyone out there isn’t going to see me like this.”
“Don’t remind me,” he replies, eyes sweeping over me as I pull the tiny bottoms over my hips. “I’m just here to make sure these bitches don’t pull a Tonya Harding on you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Tonya Harding?”
“You know…” His tongue peeks out to prod his bottom lip, eyes glued to my bare chest. “Took out her opponent before the Olympics or whatever? Nancy Kerrigan.” He makes a bat-swinging motion. “Got her thug of a husband to hit her leg with a pipe.”
I stuff my tits in the triangles, and work on getting the strings tied tight. I know there’s going to be a nip-slip out there, but I’m determined to try my best to keep it minimal, not the least to stick it to Simon for suggesting I wouldn’t. “And you think someone wants to sabotage me. Before the charity wrestling match.”
“You saw how it was out there. There’s a lot of money on the line, but it’s also about The Game points. The Royal woman’s frat gets a lot of points if she wins.” He walks behind me and brushes his fingers over the back of my neck. Goosebumps rise across my skin, and he takes the string away from me. “These assholes have no boundaries. I’m just here to make sure they don’t cross them.”
Using his nimble fingers, Dimitri loops the tie behind my neck. My breasts lift as he tightens the string, and I feel his warm breath. Humming, he says, “That should hold,” before dragging his fingers down my shoulders. He bends to put my clothes into the bag, but pauses, pulling out a bottle of baby oil.
“They said I should grease up,” I explain, gathering my hair up into a high bun. “To, you know, make it more slippery.”
He gives me a devious look from beneath his lashes, straightening. “I can help with that,” he says, popping the cap and pouring a liberal amount into his palm. He sets the bottle on the bench and rubs his hands together. Standing behind me, he starts at my shoulders, palms gentle as they spread the slippery oil onto my skin. His fingers dip over my shoulders and onto my chest, gliding over the tops of my breasts, until he unapologetically slides them under my top. His hips press into my backside, but even though his hardness is obscenely obvious, he doesn’t act on his desire. He just continues to oil up my body, hands gliding down my belly, rubbing below my navel. He crouches, hands curling around my thighs. The touch is firm but unhurried, an almost reverent glide between my legs, covering every inch of exposed skin.
I fight down a shiver as I remember him being in the same place on Christmas night, his head between my thighs as he brought me to an orgasm that had me quivering in Killian’s arms.
When he finishes, he stands, spinning me around. Dimitri holds my gaze with his dark eyes, fingertips skating across my lower back as he watches me, and my stomach swoops at the heaviness in his eyes.
I swallow, letting him pull me close, chest to chest. “What?”
He answers by tucking his fingers beneath my bikini bottoms, dragging them along the crease between my ass cheeks. Voice low and close, he asks, “You know what this stuff is really good for?”
When I do nothing but blink back at him, he curls closer, hand dipping low, and even knowing where this is going, I can’t find it in myself to protest.
I don’t even flinch when the tip of his finger finds my puckered hole. My heart bangs a wild rhythm in my chest, but I hold his eyes, not backing down. Channeling the girl I was in that hot tub only a few nights ago, I reply, “I don’t know. Are you going to show me?”
His jaw twitches, and when his finger pushes past the resistance, it’s slick and easy, making my jaw go slack at the deliciousness of the burn. I curl my hands into his leather jacket, barely recognizing the sound that emerges from my throat.
He pecks a slow, teasing kiss at my lips. “You like it, baby?” I nod frantically, forgetting about the wrestling match, tuition, Sutton—anything but the drag of his finger sinking into me. He licks into my mouth, and his tongue is so warm, as slick as the finger he’s fucking into my ass. “Soon,” he breathes, knuckle curling inside of me, “I’m going to bury myself in this tight little hole and listen to you beg for more.” He kisses down to my jaw, my throat nosing into the space below my ear. “We’ve been arguing about it for days. Who should be the one to take it?” His voice is a low, hot whisper. “I won.”
“You guys talk about me like this?” I wonder, feeling breathless. “Fight over me?”
“We talk about you all the time. You’re our Lady.” He continues kissing down my neck. “Usually it’s cordial, but sometimes, like with the big stuff, your virginity, or… this,” he curves his finger slightly, applying more pressure inside, “we have to fall back on the system—the points—to declare the winner.”
“Please.” I barely know what I’m asking for, but I know I want it. Whatever it is. Fingers. The cock I feel hard and eager against my belly. I’ll take anything. I’ll take any of them. All of them.
The thought alone has me gasping, knees shaking.
Suddenly, he pulls away, eyes flashing at the sound of my agonized whimper. “Sorry, baby. Now it’s your turn to win. If you want it, that is.”
“You,” I pant, squeezing my slicked-up thighs together, “are such a jerk.”
Smirking, he extends a hand toward the door. “After you, my Lady.”
Tristian is the first to grab the back of my head, hauling me up against the ropes to take my mouth in a short, but no less scorching, kiss. He pulls away to say, “Good luck,” and Dimitri is next, planting a hard kiss onto my lips.
“Eye on the prize, baby girl.” He gives me a dark, devilish grin before reaching down to give my ass a light slap.
Instead of a kiss, Killian takes my hand, looking around with a weirdly hunted expression as he tucks something into my palm. “Don’t lose it.” Confused, I uncurl my hand to find a tattered, faded ribbon. I immediately recognize it as one of the crazy, superstitious game day trinkets I’d stolen, and then later, given back to him. “Trust me,” he plucks it from my palm, “this is better than a kiss.” I hold still as he ties it around my bare wrist—the one without the cuff. “I’ve never lost a game with this. Not once.”
“What is it?” I ask, turning it on my wrist. Obviously, it’s a ribbon, but it must have some significance.
He looks up at me, brows knitted together. “You don’t remember?”
I frown, but before I can pay much mind to it, a Delta Kappa Sigma guy announces my match.
I’m not sure if it’s the escalation of the atmosphere or the fact everyone’s had time to ply themselves with the beer they’re paying seven dollars a cup for, but the crowd seems louder than it had the previous match. I stare at the Baroness, who’s kneeling in the Jell-O across from me, and offer her only this: “No hard feelings.” It’s a lie. The only feelings I have for the lot of them—Bianca excluded—are of the hard variety. I call up the memory of that day in the courtyard, when the three of them looked me in the eye, laughed with me, and treated me like the friends I was so excited to finally have. I remember the way it felt, so happy to have people who understood. Who I thought understood.
I remember what it felt like to be betrayed.
The match against Marigold is admittedly a bit of a blur. All that runs through my head is the knowledge that she’s standing between me and beating Sutton’s ass. The way I go after her is borderline mechanical. It’s a vicious instinct, just like the sharpness that was present in the locker room with Dimitri. I don’t need to showboat it, it just happens, her skin beneath my hands as I wrestle her into the stick gelatin.
She gnashes out a word now and then. “Fuck,” and, “Bitch,” and, “Let go, whore!” but I hardly hear them. I’m so focused on taking her down.
In the end, I don’t even know what makes her tap out. Maybe it’s my forearm against her windpipe, or the way my knee is jamming into her pelvis. Possibly, she’s just not built for this. The fight, the struggle, the pain of the blows. Not everyone is.
Either way, her palm comes down, smacking hard against the floor. The next thing I know, Killian is dragging me away. Hell, it barely registers that it’s over, my arms and legs flailing as I’m rudely lifted out of the pool.
“Save it,” he says, grunting with the struggle to hold me when I try to lunge for her again. “Come on, little sister. You won, you got her.”
He drags me to the others, holding me up when I slip in the gelatin. Tristian shoves a water bottle in my hand and starts wiping off my face. Dimitri just laughs, bragging, “You wiped the fucking floor with her! Look,” he points over my shoulder, “she’s crying.”
The first match was just a warm-up, and I don’t let myself decompress one damn bit. I slick back my hair, retying it as Sutton takes Marigold’s place. Eyeing her across the pool, I’m fueled by the obnoxious smirk on her face. I’ve felt adrenaline before; back in the illicitness of my sugar baby days, driving the get-away car, setting that fire with Tristian. But this is different. Raw, full-on vengeance.
“That’s the bitch I want to make cry,” I tell the guys.
Dimitri takes the water bottle out of my hand and replaces it with a shot of something amber. “Here, baby. Drink that and go ruin her fucking face.”
I expect Tristian to argue before the liquor hits my lips—likely some bullshit about dehydration—but he doesn’t say a word. Killian stands in front of me and adjusts the triangles of my bikini, saying low, “Sutton twisted her left knee freshman year at the intramural softball match. She should have had surgery, but she brushed it off.”
“She’s also probably high as a fucking kite,” Dimitri says, taking the empty shot glass from me. “The only girls who go for Perez are the ones with bad habits, feel me?”
Tristian adds, “From what I saw earlier, probably coke.”
I give them a long look. “How the hell do you know all of this?”
“Honestly?” Eyes narrowing, Killian brushes his fingers over a bruise I can already feel developing on my jaw. “Dad.”
“Yeah.” Dimitri kneads his fingers into my shoulders, like he’s trying to get me to loosen up. I don’t. “The first thing Daniel taught us was how to assess an enemy for vulnerabilities.”
“Any weakness,” Tristian points out. “The Royal women have always been a weak spot. For all of us. That’s why they kidnapped you in the first place.”
Rath’s voice drops, hands skating down my arms. “And why Daniel put you in the pit.”
But Killian’s the one who drops the biggest bomb. “It’s the reason Royal women exist, Story. Everyone thinks the Kings gave us Ladies and Duchesses and Princesses as a privilege. They think you’re just toys to be played with because we’re entitled enough to find it fun. But if you want to know the truth?” He levels me with a long, intense stare. “Put three horny fuckers in a house with a nice piece of tail, and they grow…attachments.” His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t look away. “You’re here to be our weak spot, little sister. And it worked.”
I glance between the three of them, trying to process that confession in the middle of all this chaos. It was never about us—the women, the house girls, the tail. Of course, it was always about the heirs to Forsyth. It was about giving them something to lose. A soft, vulnerable underbelly. The more I think about it, the more it fits.
I straighten my bikini strap and roll my shoulders, and there might be alcohol pumping in my veins, but there’s also something else. It’s too complicated to be called anger, but it burns just as hot. “You’re not seeing the whole picture, big brother. Love doesn’t just give you something to lose. It makes you stronger because it gives you something to fight for. Something worth more than some stupid game. Can you think of anything scarier?” The bell rings, cutting through the noise of the gym, and I glance back at the ring, grinning. “Hold that thought. I have to go ruin this bitch’s whole goddamn year.”
I leave them behind me, blank-faced and in varying degrees of stupor. It isn’t until I lift my foot to climb into the pool that I hear Tristian’s voice.
“Fuck me. She’s right, isn’t she?”
I don’t hear anything else, not over the yells of the crowd, but even if I could, I can’t concentrate on anything but Sutton stepping into the cool gelatin across from me. The energy of the crowd amplifies just with us getting in position. Everyone’s here, and it’s not just the Royalty. Right behind my Lords, stands the whole of LDZ’s frat, cheering me on with loud whoops, beers held high. Truthfully, I used to hate them all. For seeing me that night in the basement. For acting like it was fun. For not doing a thing to stop it. For being a part of this whole twisted system and vying for their own places within it.
Now, I shamefully find their cheers putting steel into my spine, because these forty guys would kneel at my feet if I told them to.
One day, I just fucking might.
But the Counts’ Kappa Omegas are here, too, and pushing up to the front, the Dukes’ Deltas look angry and severe. I know there’s money on this fight—big money—and everyone wants a share. Fuck them. That cash and the title is mine.
A man’s voice blasts through the speakers, echoing off the metal ceiling. “It’s time for the final event! Who will win the Throw Down Crown and become our New Year Queen? The Conniving Countess or the Shady Lady? The Lady can take care of herself, but we all know the Countess bites!
The noise of the crowd swells as Sutton and I wade toward one another, gliding through the smooth gelatin.
“Sweet little innocent Story,” Sutton coos when we’re a few feet apart, “Guess your Lords decided to let you out of the whorehouse to come out and play?”
Just like Dimitri said, her eyes are dilated, wide and bloodshot at the edges. I look down, noting that she favors her right leg. “At least I don’t have to be drugged up just to get through the day. Can’t say I blame you, living with those three pieces of crap.”
“Me?” She bends, bracing herself on two knees, and I do the same. Her eyes flick down to my tits. “My Counts haven’t carved me up like a fat turkey. I wonder if they’re going to give you some new letters tonight? I can think of five.” Her lips curve into a snarling grin. “L-O-S-E-R.” Laughing, she points to my cleavage. “I guess they can tack it on to the ‘R’ you’ve already got. You could be a crossword by the time you graduate.”
That taunt hits home, because she doesn’t know what I did to earn these letters, no more than she knows that the guys have scars of their own inflicted by me. The second the bell dings, I lunge forward, using all of my force to slam into her. We crash to the ground, grunting, and her fingernails dig painfully into my shoulders. Baring my teeth, I grapple her, rolling around, fighting for dominance. It takes a laughably short amount of time to get on top of her, but it means freeing her arm. When I do, she strikes out and clamps her fingers on my nipple, pinching hard.
They’d warned me she’d fight dirty.
“Owwww! Motherfucker!” I shout, but when I fail to bat her hand away, I decide fuck it, and slap down hard across her boob. She yelps, letting me go instinctively, defensively covering her chest. The crowd absolutely loses it. Yeah, nothing better than two women tit slapping each other to victory. “You fucking cunt.”
She reaches her claw fingers out again, but I’m ready for it, this time. I snatch her wrist into a tight, bruising grip, and when she struggles to get free, I grab the other one, tightening my fingers like a vise. I pin them beside her head, and then I dig the heel of my foot into her knee.
She tries to hide her wince of pain, but I see it.
I lower my face to hers to snarl, “I should have let my Lords defile you the way you’d planned on letting Perez take me. You think he’s bad? It’s nothing like having the three of them on your bad side. You wouldn’t walk for a week.” I bring her hand up to her temple and force her head to the side. “But there’s no goddamn way I’d let them near your skanky, diseased-riddled pussy. So I’m going to have to finish this here.”
She tries to buck me off, but there’s this little thing where I’ve been held down before. I know just how frustrating and futile it is to find no purchase with my feet, my elbows, my weight.
I increase the pressure on her knee and she yelps, jaw gaping wide with a pained cry. I release her hand to grab a fistful of Jell-O, and then I shove it into her mouth, jerking around as she thrashes. There was a time I would have been wary of something like this. What if she chokes? What if it goes too far? Am I a killer?
I know the answer to that now.
If I need to be.
She gags, coughing up gelatin as she lashes out with her free hand, but I don’t stop, cramming more and more of it in her mouth, into her nose and eyes. Her hand strikes out blindly, catching me hard on my mouth, but even though it stings like a bitch, I forge on, ruthless, until she’s flapping around like a fish. “They blindfolded and gagged me,” I growl, smashing another handful into her face. Distantly, it registers that I’m tasting blood. “How do you like it, Cuntess? How does it feel?”
The sad thing is, I get it. I understand why the Kings brought women into the Royal fold. It might have even been a good idea, giving spoiled little jerks like this something to love and protect. Teaching them that there’s something more important than ego and power. But people like Sutton and Perez have corrupted it too much to be anything but perverse. Royal women should be stronger than these bitches. We should look at each other and see an ally. We should form something worth a damn, because no one else in this place could ever understand what it’s like. Not like we do. Instead, it’s just another game.
God, I am so fucking sick of games.
No one needs to pull me off. I kneel up, digging my knee into her stomach, and watch breathlessly as she fights for air, unable to rear up far enough to spit it out.
“One! Two! Three!” the crowd chants. The Dukes’ Delta Kappas are against the ring, pounding into the floor with every second. “Four! Five! Six!” LDZ is behind my Lords, and all of them are heaving their fists into the air. “Seven! Eight! Nine!”
“Get up!” Perez shouts from across the ring, face mangled with a sneer. “You’re going to let this trash take you down?!”
When the crowd rings out with a booming, “Ten!” the bell dings, and then everyone is jumping and screaming, and here’s the hard truth.
I look down at her sputtering that Jell-O out of her throat, and mostly, I just feel pity for her. For whatever her Counts are going to do as punishment. For the next sad Royal girl who falls under their spell. I feel pity for all of them, because when the Counts walk away, leaving her there, I know I’m right. Love makes you stronger.
And they’re the weaker ones for not feeling it.
