“Shit, here she comes,” Dimitri says, shoving his phone into his pocket and pushing to his feet.
We’ve been in the waiting room for half an hour, and Ms. Crane finally comes hobbling through the double doors—even though an orderly is pushing a wheelchair behind her. She looks over her shoulder to shoot him a nasty look. “Bean-shaped looking motherfucker.”
“Christ, Ms. Crane,” Killian mutters in a disapproving tone.
Dimitri curls an arm around her protectively. “Give the guy a break. He’s just doing his job, you dusty old cunt.” The orderly’s jaw drops in outrage on her behalf, as if he hasn’t been subjected to her mood for however long now.
“Find me a bat. I’ll give him a couple of breaks.” Ms. Crane flaps a hand, shooing him off, and then turns to us. Her gaze takes us in, seeming apathetic at the reception. “So this is my welcome party? I see you spared me the balloons.” Tristian’s eyebrow arches, and then he whips out the bouquet of wildflowers he purchased in the gift shop twenty minutes ago. The oddest thing happens. I’m not sure at first what I’m seeing, but Ms. Crane stares at the bouquet, her mouth clenching up into a tight purse. Her shoulders curl inward, and it doesn’t even matter that she mutters, “Fucking limp-dick wasting money on glorified weeds that grow for free,” I could swear she’s blushing.
Dimitri notices, too, head snapping back as he scrutinizes her through his dark sunglasses. “Delores. Are you flattered?”
“No,” she snaps, seizing the bouquet. “You three are about as flattering as the selfish love pump your daddies made you with.”
“Guess I’m not your favorite anymore, you fickle hag.” Dimitri smirks, covertly pulling a brand new pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his leather jacket. “I know how to win you back, though.”
Ms. Crane’s eyes actually twinkle as she grabs for it. “Hallelujah. Now move out of the way so I can get out of here and smoke one of these.”
But before they do, each of them press a kiss to her cheek, causing more of that grimace-shoulder-curl-blushing, and by the time I get to her, she’s stiff, uncomfortable, and—I don’t care what she says—flattered.
I hug her gingerly, whispering a soft, “I’m sorry,” near her ear.
“What the hell for?” she asks, shifting restlessly until I step back. “You didn’t hit me over the head and hold a knife to my throat.” I don’t tell her what I feel in my heart, which is that I’m indirectly the cause of all of this. Jack, Vivienne, Daniel, the home invasion. She sees it on my face anyway, mouth flattening into a grim line. “You’re going to have a lot of fuck-ups in life, girl. No point in taking on someone else’s.”
With that, she gestures to the door, leading us through. There’s a moment outside, as Killian goes to get the car and pulls it around, where she tips her face up to the sun, soaking up the warmth. It lasts for as long as it takes Dimitri to find his lighter.
“So,” I say, pointing to the doors. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
A shadow passes over Tristian’s and Dimitri’s faces, but Tristian is the one to step up to me, palms framing my face. “You don’t have to,” he says, blue eyes moving between mine. “If there’s anyone left, we’ll find them.”
I wonder if my smile looks as artificial as it feels. “It’s not just about the intel.”
“Then one of us can go with you.” He tips his head to the side in that way that makes my stomach flip. Tristian is a lot to take when he’s being cool and unflappable, but when he’s like this—soft eyes boring right through the façade I’ve built—it’s nearly too much.
I place my hand on his broad chest. “It’s just something I have to do.”
He searches my face for a moment, giving me a solemn nod. “I trust you.”
I turn to Dimitri, who lifts his sunglasses, revealing his battered eye. To Ms. Crane, I plead, “Would you see that he gets that checked out by someone? He’ll listen to you.”
She sucks another drag from her cigarette, eyes pinging between us. “You’re going to see the thundercunt.”
“Killian made some calls before we came,” I explain, nodding up at the building. “She’s still here.”
I don’t miss the ring of disappointment in Ms. Crane’s tone, but she does me the favor of not showing it, giving me a nod instead. “I’ll take care of your little fuckface, Lady. Don’t you worry.” I think I do a good job of hiding my surprise. It’s the first time she’s ever used that word with something other than mockery or derision. Lady. She points her fingers at me, cigarette wobbling between them. “I’ll tell you what I’ve told all these fuckers at one point or another. Just because someone brought you into this world doesn’t mean they made you.”
I reach out to take the hand hanging at her side, giving it a squeeze. “Thank you.”
When I walk through the double doors, back into the hospital, I can feel the weight of their eyes on me. I take it into myself, fortifying these bones that hold my shoulders straight, because Ms. Crane is right.
My mother didn’t make me.
She didn’t break me, either.
Looking back, I see a lot of things how they actually were. The way my mom was with Daniel, her letting me leave, not trying to find me, being surprised when I returned, but not happy. Not sad. Not angry. I think back to that Thanksgiving where she left me in the diner, disappearing into a truck for a quick holiday trick. “They pay extra on days like these,” is what she said after, mussed and unaffected. I realize now that my mom’s always been exceptionally good at bartering with people’s loneliness. And that’s exactly what she gave me, with long nights spent alone in hotel bathrooms. Holidays at truck stops, watching happy families on fuzzy TVs. Mornings spent fending for myself while she slept off another rough John. My mother, through years of carefully balanced affection and neglect, created such a loneliness inside me.
And then she exploited it.
I see that now, as I stand in the door to her hospital room. Her hair is ratty and limp, skin sallow, lips dry and tense—a far cry from the sleek, elegant woman I’m used to being awed by. She’s cuffed to the bed, which has a uniformed officer parked in the chair beside it. The room is meant for two patients, but the other side is vacant. A television in the corner is running an old soap opera that the officer is paying more attention to than my mom.
I gather up the steel in my bones and clear my throat, getting their attention. “Officer Maddox?” I ask, clutching my bag close. “I’m Story. Story Austin. Killian spoke to you earlier?”
His shrewd eyes sweep over me, losing some of the glazed boredom as he stands. “Five minutes,” he says, adjusting his belt. I step inside as he leaves, relieved that Killian has this sort of pull now. All it took was one phone call to secure me an unsupervised visit with my mother.
Her laugh makes my gaze whip to hers. “You’re hot shit now, aren’t you? The King’s little concubine.” The smile she gives me is bitter enough to choke me. “I never knew you were so easily bought.”
I place my bag on the chair the officer just vacated, remaining standing. “Why not?” I ask, holding her stare. “You were.” I spent all morning anxious about this, worried this would be difficult. Looking her in the eye. Facing her down. Reconciling my sweet, misguided mother with the ruthless cruelty of Ted. The reality is a lot more simple than I’m expecting.
She looks frayed and tattered, her glare as toxic as her heart. “So this is how you repay your mother?” She yanks at the cuff binding her to the bed, metal rattling. “After all, I’ve done for you?”
I look at her bound wrist, fighting the urge to touch the cuff covering my own. “You forced me into a family with a man who wanted to sell me. You terrorized me for years. You watched me cower and subject myself to cruelty, all because of a fear you caused.” I meet her gaze, voice hardening. “I’d say you got off light.”
She looks up at me, her expression filling with an acrid-edged wonder. “What have they done to you?”
I shrug, walking nonchalantly to the end of the bed. “Nothing you didn’t know about and willingly let happen.” Her leg is elevated, and all wrapped up. Curious about the damage, I pick up her chart and start flipping through. “I suppose I see now how you knew so much. Access to Daniel’s security gave you access to ours. I’d be disappointed in myself for not seeing it sooner, except you were such a non-factor to me.” I slide her a look. “It must have been so easy.”
She erupts with an indignant, “Easy?!”
“Well, it’s just that I had this idea of Ted.” My eyes skim over the writing, but it’s all gibberish to me. Vitals, medical history, pain medication, all signed off by a doctor who bears the sloppy initials ‘RM’. I put the clipboard back on the hook. “Like he was some unbeatable, omnipotent mastermind. That’s how it felt, you know. Like I was truly helpless.” I turn to her, feigning casualness. “But it turns out everything just fell into your lap.”
I didn’t get into trouble much as a child. There was the usual stuff, of course. Being too messy. Being too loud. I stole a candy bar once, which up until high school had been my greatest crime. But whenever she was angry at me, she threw it around, unable or unwilling to hold in her frustration, even for the sake of a confused little girl.
That’s what I see now—the flare of outrage in her expression. “You have no idea,” she seethes, lips pulling back into a snarl, “the things I had to do to get you where you are today. The pieces I had to move. The people I had to pay. The men I had to fuck.” She spits the word like its venom, which is smart. A few days ago, having that thrown in my face would have cut me somewhere deep. Now, I don’t even blink.
“Daniel and Martin must not have been too bad,” I hedge, picking at my fingernail. “Ugly Nick, I’ll give you. But that’s just one lousy lay, and he did kill for you. That seems like a bargain.”
She barks a low, biting laugh. “Oh, if you want to know the truth, Ugly Nick was the best of the four.”
Four.
“Yeah?” I ask, letting my disgust bleed through. “And who was the worst? Daniel always struck me as particularly sleazy.”
“Daniel was nothing.” There’s a glaze to her eyes that I’m glad to see. Her chart had made it clear to me that the IV bag to her right has some nice drugs in it, but it isn’t until she babbles on that I realize how beneficial they are. “Daniel, Nick, Martin…all so easy. Nothing like him.” Her head drops back, eyes rolling sluggishly to the ceiling. “But I needed to get into that tracker he put in your neck…”
My blood turns to ice.
I dive for my bag, pulling out my phone and pressing it to my ear. “Did you hear that?” I ask, ignoring my mom’s baffled expression.
“Ray.” Dimitri’s voice is quiet, but no less severe. The Lord’s ‘medic’ has been busy with more things than patching up injured soldiers and tagging their women.
“That’s not all,” I rush out. “The doctor on her chart? The initials are RM.”
There’s some energetic chatter in the background, Tristian’s voice mingling with Killian’s, and then Dimitri responds. “That’s him. We’re on our way to take care of it now.”
“Ms. Crane,” I protest, but Dimitri makes a sharp, dismissive sound.
“We just dropped her off at home. Go there and wait for us, okay?” His next words are low and dangerous. “This won’t take long.”
The phone cuts out, leaving me alone with the slack, betrayed expression on my mother’s face. “You played me,” she breathes.
Learned from the best, I think. This was the easiest way of finding out who else had her loyalty. Certainly better than standing around waiting for them to make themselves known. We’ve had quite enough of that, thanks.
I ignore the angry, wounded thing swimming in her eyes as I collect my bag. Keeping my voice even and sure, I say, “If you try to contact me again—letters, phone calls, messengers, anything—Killian will kill you.” I hold her stare, making sure she hears the steel in my voice. “This time, I’ll let him.” A gentle rap sounds out against the door, but I don’t flinch. It’s just the officer letting me know my time is up. I take in my mother’s shocked face, the eyes I used to think of as home, the hair I used to press my nose to for comfort. “And if you try to harm them again? I’ll do it myself.”
“No, you won’t.” I know she’s high when she shakes her head, eyelids heavy as they fall. “You’re my little storybook.”
“I might be…” I get close. Close enough to say goodbye to the woman I loved. Close enough to finally overlay the concept of Ted against the crease in her brow. Close enough to let her go. “But I’m not your fairytale, mom.” When her eyelids flutter, I lean down to sweetly whisper, “I’m a motherfucking horror novel.”
Freedom feels nice.
That’s what I’m thinking of when I get home from classes, pulling up in my Dodge. There’s no more Ted. No Daniel. No Martin or Ugly Nick. The final three are all dead. Ted? Well, he never even existed.
After that hospital visit three days ago, there’s no Ray, either.
“Clean kill,” is what Killian had said to me afterward. I didn’t ask for details, and they didn’t offer any. I’ve had enough murder for the year, and it’s barely March.
I bound up the steps toward the brownstone, taking in the crisp air and hints of a slowly budding spring. I still remember the first day I came here, standing in front of this door and feeling sick with dread. Now, the sight of the skull on the door knocker unwinds the tension from my shoulders.
Home.
I’m glad we’ll be here again next year, since Killian’s decided to play out his tenure as Lord and graduate before ceding it to the next bunch of degenerates. I’m proud that he’s focused on getting his diploma and not just control of South Side. Hopefully, a second academic year of being a Lady is a lot less fraught than my first has been.
Walking inside, I’m greeted with the muffled, distant sound of an argument. Rolling my eyes, I follow the source to the den, dropping my bag in the foyer.
“I just want to be sure,” Tristian is saying as I approach. “Not all inks are vegan. I read it online.”
Oh, right. Tristian is vegan this month. I’m getting better at seeing his cycles. The vegan thing comes and goes. He must have a meeting with his dad coming up, or a test or something.
“What’s going on?” I ask, entering the room. They all turn to look at me, and my brows hike all the way up at the scene. Tristian and Killian are shirtless—nice view—while Dimitri lazes back on the couch, looking on with amusement. There’s a strange guy doing something to Killian’s back. He’s tall, with messy, platinum blond hair, and almost as full of tattoos as Killian, and green eyes that somehow still feel dark.
“This here is Remy,” Dimitri explains, noticing my discomfort. “Remington Maddox. Don’t worry, he’s Sy’s friend. Another Delta Kappa.” Oh, I know the name Maddox. It’s as well-known around here as Mercer. Tristian and Dimitri had used Maddox towers as their alibi.
Remy plants those piercing green eyes on me, making me squirm. “I think you met my uncle recently.”
I nod, remembering the call Killian had made. “He was the officer guarding my mom in the hospital.”
“Real stand-up guy.” The smile Remy gives me is cold and embittered, but doesn’t feel directed at me.
I suspect we’re all still a little twitchy about having people in the house, but they know as well I do that we have to work past it. A King can’t do business in isolation. Dimitri explains, “Remy’s the best artist on campus. He’s giving Killer some new ink.”
“Really?” I take off my jacket and get closer. “Can I see?”
Remy backs off so Killian can twist, showing me the design. I’ve seen it before, tattooed on Pretty Nick Bruin, tagged up and down the Avenue, even in bathroom stalls sometimes. It’s two ‘S’s in an old-fashioned, spiky style. South Side.
I reach up to touch his arm, getting a better look. It’s been slathered with something shiny and thick, and the edges are red, a bit raised. “Does it hurt?”
Killian’s intense eyes are staring back at me when I raise my gaze to his. “Not anymore.”
Before my hand can fall away, he catches it in his own, pulling me into his chest to brush our lips together. “How was the study group?” he asks, as Remy bandages the area.
“Fine,” I assure, giving the ‘S’ scar on his chest a little caress. “No problems.” There’s a Baron in my group, but aside from an initial nasty comment—“Lord’s trash.”—he hasn’t paid me much mind.
Dimitri’s still smarting from the original comment, though. “Jackoff’s just salty the Barons are losing The Game.”
Tristian wryly points out, “We’re losing The Game.”
“First of all, we’re doing fuckloads better than the Barons, and second…” Dimitri thrusts a hand toward Killian. “He’s a King now. That’s the ultimate win. Points don’t matter.”
“Tell that to the LDZ guys,” Killian grumbles, gently pulling a shirt over his head. I give him a hand, easing it over the bandaged portion of his shoulder. “They really want to kick it up these next few months. Try to get the lead.” His tone clarifies that he’s ready to facilitate this, and I understand why. We’ve been so shut up and isolated from the frat since the holidays. It’s easy to forget we’re leading something here, other than ourselves.
Tristian clears his throat, nodding at Remy. “Come on, guys. We’re hosting the opposition here.” It’s not said super seriously. It’s almost like after all the drama with the Kings, the frats’ big ‘Game’ seems laughably low-stakes.
That’s when I notice Remy is pulling out more plastic-sealed, sterile supplies. Tristian is sitting on the stool in the middle of the room. The one Killian had been occupying. And he’s still suspiciously shirtless.
“Uh, Tris?” I mosey over to him, eyes glued to his deliciously toned abs.
“Yes, sweetheart?” He gives me a cocky grin, like he knows just how hard it is to tear my eyes away from his perfect body. He’s definitely flexing his pecs.
Somehow, I manage to lift my eyes to his face. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it kind of looks like you’re about to get a tattoo.”
Remy’s gaze passes dubiously between us. “You haven’t told your Lady you’re getting ink?”
“She doesn’t mind,” he insists with an easy confidence. He grabs one of my belt loops and drags me between his knees. “She likes her guys a little trashed up.”
I bury a half-hearted punch into his shoulder before winding my arms around his neck. “I like my guys as they are.” The last thing Tristian needs is to be any sexier, anyway. His ego is already too big to fit through standard-sized doorways. “What are you getting?” I ask, unsurprised when he dips forward to steal a kiss.
He answers against my mouth, “You’ll see.”
“Okay, we’re ready,” Remy says, shooting a pointed look at the way I’m wrapped around my Lord.
I reluctantly peel myself away, walking to the couch to unceremoniously flop into Dimitri’s lap. He catches me easily, as if I weigh nothing, and adjusts me so I’m twisted, legs folded beneath me. When I lean in to press a gentle kiss to his healing eye, they slide closed. “It’s getting better,” I notice, running a ginger fingertip around it. It’d looked so gruesome those first couple days, but the swelling’s almost completely gone now.
He hums, chest vibrating beneath my palm. “Ms. Crane has a worrying amount of traumatic injury lifehacks.”
I peck a lingering kiss to his bottom lip, indulging in the feel of his lip rings against my skin. “When is he going to ask her?”
“About the Velvet Hideaway?” Dimitri shifts his gaze To Killian, who’s perching on the edge of his leather chair, eyes fixed to his phone. “Killer, when you gonna ask Ms. Crane?”
Killian only spares us a brief glance. “Tonight, probably. I wanted Augustine to be there.” He pauses at this, locking eyes with me. “If that’s okay.”
Satisfied, I nod. These last few days, we had a lot of conversations. None of us are particularly down with working in the flesh business. I wasn’t really expecting Killian to completely let it go—it is a significant part of the Payne empire, after all. But while he owns the property, he doesn’t have to own the business that occurs within it. It’d make sense to pass it to Ms. Crane. She knows the business, and at least half of the girls there were hers first.
“She’ll say yes,” Dimitri comments, sweeping my hair from my face. “Let’s face it. She’s bored stiff here.”
“You’re probably right.” I look down at where his shirt meets his neck, thinking of Auggie coming to dinner. Sitting at our table. Looking across at Dimitri. Wanting him. Not being able to have him.
I’m already halfway into sucking a large, obnoxious bruise into his neck when he snorts. “And you say we’re territorial.”
I pop off, admiring the dark bloom of blood beneath his skin. “You are territorial. And you only have one person to be territorial over. Imagine how I feel with three.”
His dark gaze holds mine, jumping back and forth between my eyes. “Then you’re going to enjoy what’s about to happen.” Before I can do more than raise a questioning eyebrow, he touches my chin, slowly guiding my gaze to Tristian.
Remy’s doing something to his chest, hunched over and laser-focused. It isn’t until he pulls back that I realize he’s applying a stencil. He gives it a few pats before peeling away the edge, revealing the design.
It’s an ‘S’.
In the same spot Dimitri and Killian have their ‘S’.
In the same spot I have his ‘T’.
Tristian catches my gaze, shrugging. “I love you, but I’m not slicing some bacteria-infested, toxin-laden knife blade into my chest. Remy keeps his shit exceptionally sterile.”
“Thank you for noticing,” Remy says, looking genuinely pleased.
“This is going to be fantastic,” Dimitri mutters into my ear. “He’s been ‘researching’ all day about the various ways tattoos can go wrong. Look at that. You see the eye twitch? He’s dying to tell this guy how to do his job.”
Tristian’s glare burns into us. “I can hear you, dickface.”
Well, I suppose this explains the situational veganism.
I lay my head on Dimitri’s shoulder, giving Tristian a soft smile. “It’s not really necessary, you know.” But the thought makes a happy little zing rush through my chest. I suppose Dimitri is right. Apparently I am territorial.
Tristian carefully inspects the design, giving Remy a thumbs up before the tattoo gun buzzes to life. I worry at first it’ll hurt, which is stupid. Tristian carved his initial into my chest in a far more painful way. But even though we’re bound by the blood of pain and the scars of wrath, we’re also bound by the grace of mercy.
I don’t want him to hurt.
Luckily, the needle touches his skin, and he doesn’t look bothered. It’s not a very large design. I imagine it won’t take long at all. I look into Tristian’s placid blue eyes for the duration, hoping he sees the truth in mine.
These initials we bear are forever.
Dimitri and Killian are just as quiet as they watch, and it’s almost as if this is a sacred moment. I have no idea what the future holds, but I know it won’t be easy. It’ll be a thorny path, because we don’t know any other road to take than the one that keeps us together. None of us are built for it—least of all me.
This strange, sacred ritual only takes fifteen minutes. Remy’s tattoo gun ceases its shrill buzz, and he swipes over the new ink, cleaning it diligently. “How’s that?” he asks, waiting for his approval.
Tristian never breaks my gaze. “Perfect.”
Remy does this half-nod, half-shrug, and begins treating it the same way he must have Killian’s. Ointment slathered over the skin. A bandage ready to go. Idly, he inquires, “What about you, Rathbone? You’re still a virgin. Ready to finally get some ink?”
Dimitri shakes his head, arms looped loosely around my waist. “I like my needles to go all the way through and leave some metal behind. Sorry.”
I chew on my lip for a moment before making the decision. “Could I get something?” One by one, they look at me. Killian’s face is carefully blank, but Dimitri’s eyebrows are disappearing behind his messy hair, and Tristian… well, he looks like he’s trying very hard to push down that disapproving thing pinching the corners of his eyes. “I still have some money from the wrestling match,” I add, gaze passing between them. “I can pay.”
“No,” Killian bursts, tongue sweeping out to wet his lips. “Remy’s here to pay a debt. Get what you want.”
Remy finishes applying the bandage on Tristian and gestures to the stool. “You’re up.”
Dimitri lets me go, fingers dragging against my hips as I make my way to the center of the room. The stool is still warm from Tristian, who stands off to the side, not bothering to put his shirt on.
Remy shucks off his gloves and pulls out a sketch pad. “What do you want, and where do you want it?”
“I want it here,” I say, showing him my wrist. There’s a thin scar, barely noticeable unless you know what you’re looking for. It was made upstairs in the ruins of my bathroom, a shard of glass pressed against my wrist. This isn’t like the letters on my chest. It’s the only scar on my body that hasn’t been touched by the beauty of something worthwhile. That’s why I decide, “I want a daisy.”
Remy glances at me, perking up as he puts his pencil to paper. “Yeah, that’s easy.”
Before he can get too into it, I add, “With three thorns.”
“Daisies don’t have thorns.” He says it matter-of-factly, but still begins outlining them down the crudely sketched stem.
I look at my men—my lovers, my fighters, my Lords—and grin. “They do if they’re lucky.”
