When I reach the second floor landing, I’m just hanging up with Izzy, who’s having a Thanksgiving dress crisis of proportions that I apparently can’t grasp the magnitude of. Since she and Lizzy are going with my dad to spend the holiday with our great-grandmother, I’ve been spared an invitation. The Mercer matriarch has never thought much of me, but she adores the twins. Who couldn’t?
I’m slipping my phone in my pocket when I run into Rath, who appears from out of nowhere. Well, no. Not from out of nowhere. From out of Story’s room. Through the wall, I can hear the distant hiss of her showering. I look at the hand he’s got shoved in his pocket, and then toward her open door, raising an eyebrow.
“Dude.”
He doesn’t even attempt to pull off a defensive expression. “So?”
He’s practically daring me to say something, which is fair. We’re all coping with our Story-imposed sexile in our own ways, and Rath sneaking into her room to abscond with her panties is probably something she’d find most preferable of the three. Hell, Killer stomps around the hall at night, waiting for her to unlock her door, and he’s still more subtle than I am. I have absolutely zero room to talk.
So I just sigh, asking, “What color?” He pulls his hand from his pocket just far enough for me to catch a glimpse of blue lace. I give it an appreciative look. “That’s a good pair.”
It’s the same pair she was wearing the day I fingered her in the library.
He clears his throat, cramming them back into his pocket. “I’ll be down in a few.”
Before he can pass me, I grab his arm, giving him a more critical look. Killer and I have been giving Rath his space. We know everything that went down—his being outed like that at his performance, what happened in the pit—has been hard on him, but Christ. All he ever does now is drink, smoke, and jerk off.
Our boy is on a serious bender.
I ask, “When’s the last time you slept?” He’s got dark bruises beneath his eyes, already bloodshot, still a bit glazed. His hair is limp. “Or showered? Or ate something with a vitamin in it?”
He sneers, “Don’t mother me, Mercer,” and yanks his arm from my grip.
Before he can slink off, Killian’s door opens, and he steps out, giving us a suspicious look. “What’s up?”
Rath says, “Nothing,” but I jab a thumb at him, cutting in.
“He’s going to jack off into your sister’s panties.”
Killian gives Rath a long, unreadable look. If I’m expecting support for any kind of intervention, then I’m highly disappointed, because Killer just nods, saying, “Send me a picture,” and then walks away.
Rath throws a lazy salute on his way up the stairs.
Rolling my eyes, I briefly consider waiting in the hall for Story to emerge, but decide that there’s no reason to. She won’t kiss me. Not if we’re at home, alone. On campus, sure. We have to keep up appearances for the sake of Royal business, so it’s fine there. I get to hem her in against a pillar overlooking the courtyard and lick into her warm mouth. I’m allowed to let my hands wander to her ass, giving it a nice little squeeze. If I kiss down her neck to leave a bruise beneath her ear, then that’s just expected. Our weekly parties have some leeway, too. I can pull her into my lap and let her weight press into my hardness. I can take her earlobe between my teeth and stroke her thighs. I can grab her chin and turn her to face me, taking her mouth in a filthy kiss—as long as it’s just for show.
But when it’s just us?
I can barely get her to brush up against me.
And it’s driving me slowly, fucking insane.
I let myself be distracted by the day laid out before me, which is pretty easy. Dinner with the Paynes—aptly named—is bound to be some sort of torture. It’ll be our first interaction with Daniel on a social level since Killian shot him. His injury wasn’t bad. His son made sure about that. It was a warning, but there’s going to be fallout. Something tells me the rings under Rath’s eyes may not only be about being cockblocked. He owes Daniel something for saving Story in the pit. No one knows what.
I guess we’ll find out soon enough.
The sound of banging pots is the sign that Ms. Crane is already awake and working in the kitchen when I get downstairs.
“Did you pack the mashed cauliflower?” I ask, peering into the cooler. “And the Brussel sprouts? I told Posey we’d bring them.”
“You mean the stuff that smells like a hooker’s twat?” Ms. Crane shoots me a glare as she flings open a window. “They’re in there. I don’t know why anyone would want to eat something that smells like rotten spunk, but go ahead. Pass it around.”
“Because word on the street is Story’s mother isn’t the best cook,” I reply, lifting the cooler. “Thanksgiving for her is probably heavy on the carbs with a side of turkey. If everyone else wants to get a heart attack during dinner, that’s their business, but I’m eating this.”
“Like anyone else would eat that putrid smelling garbage.”
“Sure you don’t want to come?” Rath asks her, strolling into the room. He doesn’t look much better than when I saw him in the hall, but I can tell he’s showered and changed, and the sunglasses he’s wearing hide what are sure to be bloodshot eyes.
She snorts. “Unlike some people, I prefer to spend my holidays with people I trust, not a houseful of thugs.”
“You live in a houseful of thugs,” I point out.
“And you’re all leaving,” she volleys back, giving me a disdainful look. “Best hope you come back in one piece. All of us know better than to think Daniel Payne is going to be hospitable to the likes of you four.” The old crone vanishes into the pantry and shuts the door, sealing herself in her tomb.
Rath stares at the closed door for a moment, but then his face scrunches. “Jesus, what is that smell?”
I pull the cooler defensively closer, pointedly ignoring him. “That was quick,” I note, nodding toward the stairs. “Usually it takes you forever.”
Rath chomps on his piece of gum, giving me a lazy shrug. “It was a functional nut. Clear the tension. Get the blood flowing. You know what this dinner is all about.”
Sighing, I pull my jacket off the hook beside the door. “It’s an ambush.”
“Nah,” Rath says. “Ambushes, you don’t see coming. This is Daniel trying to measure us up.”
“I guess that’s what it is for us, too.”
We both turn at the sound of her voice, finding our Lady standing in the doorway. She’s wearing a knee-length black dress with a scalloped neckline and short lace sleeves. To my eternal fucking torment, she’s wearing her hair up off her neck, which is adorned with a string that’s been wrapped around it three times and secured in a knot at the base of her throat, the ends dangling toward her cleavage.
I could seriously use one of those hour-long, jack-off sessions right now, but since we don’t have time for that, I try to pry my tense jaw apart long enough to greet her. “Story. You look—”
“Like I’m going to a funeral?” She glances down at her dress. Sure, it may be dark and a bit less revealing than I prefer, but it looks good on her.
It’d just look better on my floor.
“You look beautiful,” I say, giving her a smile I don’t feel the spirit of. This girl is going to kill my dick.
She points to her face. “Even the rings under my eyes?” She sighs, giving her skirt a testing sway. “I heard Ms. Crane before. Maybe she’s right. Why are we going to dinner with a man who’s proven himself to be a despicable, perverse, immoral human being?”
“Because he’s my father,” Killian says, strolling into the kitchen, a limp tie ends hanging around his neck. “And although he is all of those things, he’s also the most powerful player in South Side.” He not so discreetly stops to sweep his eyes over Story. I can’t help but notice the matching bags under his eyes. His nighttime roaming is fucking with him. “People are watching. Whoever shot me is watching, and whoever killed Vivienne is watching. We have to present a unified front—it’s just part of being a Lord.” He reaches up to adjust the tie, grimacing when his elbows lift higher than mid-chest. The pain from the gunshot wound limits his range of motion. “Goddamn it.”
“You’re right. I know it, but I hate it.” She sighs and approaches him. “Here, let me fix that.”
Killian’s jaw tightens, but he relinquishes the ends of the tie and goes still. Carefully, she wraps and tucks the length of the tie together, making a clean knot. Where she learned to do this, I have no idea, but when she finishes she looks up at him and asks, “Is that good?”
He doesn’t even check. “Yes. Thank you.”
Facing her, I say, “None of us are excited about today, but it’s part of being a Lord. I can promise you one thing, though; you won’t be alone in that house for even a second.”
We’d agreed on it.
Her eyes dart to Rath’s and that same undercurrent of stress that has been flowing between them for weeks flickers to life. “He’s right,” Rath says. “No one’s letting you near Daniel alone, got it?”
She nods. “I’ve got it. Thank you.”
It’s been a strange few weeks, but we load up the truck and settle into our seats. Story and Rath sitting awkwardly in the back, Killian and I in the front. The truth ebbs between us.
After everything we’ve been through, we’re determined to come out stronger. We have to.
We’re in this together.
“If Detroit doesn’t get their defense together, they can kiss this game goodbye,” Killian says, frowning at the players in formation on the screen. “Geoff can’t cut it as the QB. It was a stupid move to trade Stafford.”
“They’re rebuilding,” Daniel says, lifting his beer with the arm he doesn’t have in a sling. If he feels any pain, he doesn’t show it. Wouldn’t. Weakness and vulnerability aren’t acceptable traits for a King. “Every organization has to do it. Trading Stafford was a long game move.”
Killian barely hides the curl of his lip. “One I hope the owners don’t regret.”
“They’re building toward the future. You see, son, sometimes you have to make sacrifices now for strength later.” This thinly veiled football metaphoring has been going on since we got here and were ushered into the den. Story, meanwhile, has vanished with her mother into the kitchen. I’d started to follow her in, but she shook her head and nodded for me to go with the others. I don’t like it, but Posey doesn’t offer much of a threat. Killian and his father, however? There could be more bloodshed before pie is served. “That trade for Stafford didn’t just get them Geoff. They also got two first round picks in the future. That’s thinking ahead.” He nods at me. “Tristian, the bottle of Lagavulin I was saving for today is behind the bar. Care to serve it?”
“I’d be glad to,” I say, happy to have something to do with my hands while these two circle one another like wolves. I locate the bottle of scotch and four glasses, opening the freezer to pilfer some ice for mine and Killian’s. Daniel and Rath take their scotch neat.
I pour into each glass, but when I get to Rath’s, he covers it with his hand and says, “I’m good.” Killian looks away from the TV for the first time since we got here and shares my look of surprise. Rath shrugs, not meeting our gazes. “I don’t want to fill up on drinks. Just saving room for all of Posey’s cooking.”
That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard, but I’m not looking too deep into it. Could be he doesn’t want to lower his guard here. I can’t blame him. Something dark transpired between him and Daniel at the Velvet Hideaway. Rath may be determined to ruin his liver, but he doesn’t have to do it today.
“Smart man,” Daniel says, taking his glass, “but you did always know how to make the right choice, didn’t you, Dimitri?”
Rath’s hand balls into a fist by his side, and if I’d had to place bets on who lost it first on Thanksgiving, it wouldn’t have been him. He wouldn’t have even been second.
Killian senses it too, and says, “Any word on Vivienne?”
Ah, got to hand it to Killer. Like Geoff up there on the screen, he’s always playing offense.
His father hums, not deigning to look his son in the eye. “You mean, do I know who carved and mutilated her body with your initials before slitting her throat and letting her bleed out?” He swirls the ice in his glass. “I have my theories.”
After a long, weirdly aggressive beat of silence, Killian asks, “Do you care to share? Because it wasn’t—”
“I’m well aware it wasn’t you,” Daniel says, eyes dropping to the gunshot wound in Killian’s gut. “You had no problem shooting your old man, but going after an innocent? That’s a line you’re too weak to cross.” Despite the clear insult of the words, his voice is measured and casual. “I know a message when I see it. The hit on you. Taking such…vicious efforts on Vivienne…” He swallows thickly. He won’t admit it—can’t, really—but Vivian was more than a secretary. She was his confidante, his right hand, and probably also his lover. Although it’s hard to know how deep that went—sex doesn’t mean much in Daniel’s world—going after her was personal. As personal as going after his son. “Cartwright and his little band of heathens comes to mind.”
“The Dukes?” Killian repeats, sharing a glance with me. Saul Cartwright’s name is already gracing our list of suspects, too, considering he’d been one of Story’s sugar daddies back in the day. “You really think they’re behind this?”
On the TV, the announcer’s voice raises with excitement. We all look up to see Geoff throw a spiral down to the receiver at the other end of the field. Before it gets to him, a player from the other team leaps up and intercepts, snagging the ball out of the air and tucking it into his chest. He carries it twenty yards before Detroit figures out what’s going on and tackles him.
“He recently had to pay restitution to the Kings. Hand over assets that are important to him. It was all conducted fairly, but you know how Kings are. We don’t like to lose.” He swirls the liquid in his glass, eyes pensive. “He’s always been a little petty. I can see him lashing out.”
“Do we need to look into it?” I ask.
“Not yet,” he says, throwing his drink back. “Saul is only one suspect.”
“And the others?” KIllian asks.
“I have no doubt it’s someone close to me.” Daniel looks away from the screen, eyes darting toward the kitchen. “Someone determined to hurt me. Personally. Which is a mistake, because when I find out exactly who killed her,” he finally looks his son in the eye, giving him a chilly smirk, “they’re going to pay.”
