Rath is ruled by his emotions.
He’s always been a moody little bitch, quick to hold a grudge, slow to cool his head. On anyone else, it’d be juvenile, but Rath is also ruthless and filled with conviction. It just makes him a scary son of a bitch. I used to think it put him at a disadvantage, always so quick to lose his shit about something, but now I know better. Despite being hotheaded and vicious, he’s also calculating and patient. Always spicy.
By contrast, most people think Killian is a robot.
He’s a pro when it comes to hiding a weakness, a little too good at coming off unaffected. His ability to set aside all emotion, to get a job done, is a big part of what makes him dominate on the field. It’s also why we’re so good at what we do down in South Side, able to hold this town in the palm of our hands. People are scared of him precisely because they can’t tell what’s going on under that hard, blank exterior.
I’m better at harnessing both.
I might be pissed, but you’ll never know it. Not unless I want you to. The ability to read people—to understand their desires, their fears—and use it to my advantage is a classic Mercer trait. My dad is a master at it, owning any room he enters. Manipulative, my mom would always call it. But to us, people are putty, easily out-maneuvered. All it takes is some good, old-fashioned bullshitting.
It rarely works on Killer and Rath. They know me too well, for one. But mostly, their personalities are just the worst for it. Neither of them bend. Everyone knows it. If you took one of us away, the whole pyramid would probably crumble. It’s not easy being Lords of the school, and even less easy being three north side elites. There are responsibilities, obligations.
That’s why, despite his perfectly still expression, I know the instant Killian walks through the door that he’s in a tangle.
“What’d she say?” I ask, knowing he’d gone to talk to Story.
To the other houses, having a girl is probably nothing but fun. That’s how it was always meant to be—a display of mastery to the campus and alumni, a way to let off steam, having a little pet to come home to, to bring to parties, to parade around like a prize. There’s a lot more riding on it for the three of us. We can’t afford to just let anyone in, and it takes a special kind of girl to handle our brand of ownership.
Killian strides across the library, straight to the bar to pour a drink. Rath and I share a look. Killer isn’t a huge drinker—especially not during the playing season—but it’s not unexpected. Story showing back up was a shock to all of us, but it’s hit him harder than us.
His voice is rough from the whiskey when he answers, “She seems to understand.”
Rath snorts, a biography of Jimi Hendrix fanned open in his lap. He thinks we don’t know, but he’s not reading it. “Somehow I doubt that.”
I disagree, “She knows what she’s getting into better than most.” And it’s true. Story’s been under our heel before. She’s felt our anger, our praise, the brutality of our appetite for her. It was only once, but it was more than enough. Story knows us in a way all these other bitches never could. These two underestimate her. “So she’s agreeable?”
Killian scoffs. “A little too agreeable.”
“She wants something,” Rath guesses.
“Wrong,” I say, slipping my phone into my pocket. “She needs something. Her showing up like this could only be out of complete desperation.” Both of them meet my grin with blank faces and I roll my eyes. Fuck, these two have zero imagination sometimes. “Desperation makes a person do just about anything. Don’t you get it? We’re holding all the cards here. Lighten up.”
Martin appears in the doorway, holding a stack of papers. “I have the contracts you requested.”
Martin is a little older than us, but most people couldn’t even tell. He’s a scrawny nerd. He’s also wicked smart. As a junior lawyer with Jackson & Wolfe, he’s been assigned to work with the Lords. Exclusively. It’s part of the legacy—having a connection with the firm. Each set of Lords had one before us, and the ones who follow will, too. The Jackson and Wolfe families were Lord-bred long before the three of us were born.
Killian swallows the rest of his drink and walks over, taking the papers from Martin. He skims the information while handing a set to me and Rath. The top section is a copy of the contract that Story will need to sign before she steps foot in the house. It outlines the expectations very clearly. It’s a lot of legalese, but I’d made sure the language was plain enough to a layperson. It’d be easy to rope this girl into something she doesn’t expect, but that’s the wrong play here. Better to let her see just how much we’re going to own her—every move, every moment, every strand of hair on her pretty little head. Her agreement will seal what I already know.
Story is in some dire-ass straits.
“You got all the conditions down?” Killian asks, eyebrows raised as he moves to the second part of the paperwork. “Including the additions to The Game that we made last night?”
“Yes, sir,” Martin says. “They’re added to the bottom of the current list.”
The Game is a long-standing tradition with the Lords. Having a Lady who’s obligated to meet our every whim is a bit too easy for men like us. We need a challenge, a difficult pursuit, which is why none of the other girls passed. They were too fucking easy, chomping at the bit for a pat on the head, ready to service us however we saw fit.
Yawn.
But not Story. Maybe she’s changed—matured—but even though she’s obviously desperate, I could smell the fear rolling off her body. The nervousness. The dread. It’s going to be tooth and nail with her. It got my dick instantly hard.
The three of us sit quietly for a moment reading over the points system of The Game. The idea is simple. Each item gets a point. Since we won the game last year and are already living in the brownstone, we needed another prize. We’ll no longer be a team, because for this, we’ll be competing against each other. The Lord with the highest number of points by the end of the year wins. The prize?
Sweet Cherry’s cherry.
Each of us want it, but only one can take it. It’s probably Killian’s, by rights, which is something that was brought up with feeling during the discussion. He’s not wrong. We just don’t give a shit. Killer had his chance with her. They lived under the same roof for a year. Whatever drama was going on between him and his dad has fuck-all to do with us.
So that’s the endgame. One of us is going to take her virginity, and these two dumbasses don’t know it yet, but it’s going to be me.
The problem with a house having a girl is that it’s a delicate balance. Just look at the Princes and their Princess. It’s too easy to humanize them, to make them seem like…girlfriends. They’re not. They’re owned. Subservient. For the Lords, the prize isn’t in the Lady herself. It’s in the possession of her.
Our history with Story complicates matters.
We’ve already had a taste of her, for one. Plus, Killer’s got all his baggage. Rath and her seem to have a brief history, too. I’ve got none of that. To me, Story’s just some girl who gave me a really thrilling blowjob once upon a time. But I’d be lying if I said her ability to get my boys all tangled up didn’t bother me.
That’s why we had to revise The Game—to keep us on task. We agreed to a few changes this year because of our history with her, mostly because Killian has massive control issues and is obsessed with his stepsister. Everything is put on a point scale. The way we won last year was by the three of us accomplishing every task on the list. There’s nothing we won’t do. No degradation too small. No female we can’t convince or manipulate into our beds. For Story, that has to shift a little. It’ll be about the small things; how often she wears an outfit we picked out, if we provide ‘correction’ for insubordinate behavior, how, when, and where she sucks our cocks. There are more points for voyeurism or exhibitionism, and humiliation. There’s less for willing cooperation, unless it’s explicit, enthusiastic consent, but more for tactical coercion. The art of the mindfuck will be my own personal specialty.
I suspect this will be a high-points game.
“You all need to sign the top copy,” Martin says, holding out a pen.
I read through it once more, since my position is a little more vulnerable here. Killer is all brute aggression, and Rath is all about the slow, simmering tension. Their own strategies are up-front. Mine are far more subtle.
It only takes me a moment to find the right clause; anyone who informs Story of The Game will be summarily disqualified from the competition for the prize.
“So,” I say, once the paper is signed and Martin has left the room, “any particular plans on how to welcome Sweet Cherry into the house?”
“We don’t,” Killian says, pouring us each a glass of whiskey. “As a reminder that she’s not special, we won’t be here when she arrives. There’s business we need to attend to in South Side. I say we take care of it and let her fucking stew.”
Rath and I both take a glass and stand, holding our glasses out.
“Let the mind games begin,” Rath says, smirking.
I thrust my glass out, clinking the crystal with the others and repeating Rath’s words, “Let the mind games begin, indeed.”
