One of the pluses about fucking Killian yesterday is that there was very little pressure about the sleeping arrangements for the night. Killian didn’t seem to expect anything, and from the way he avoided my eyes when we arrived back at the brownstone, it seems like he didn’t want to call attention to what happened in the truck.
He called me beautiful.
It wasn’t just the words, and I think we’re both too smart to pretend otherwise. It was the way he said them. It was in the weight of his stare and the sweep of his thumb on my cheek. It was the tone of it, all soft and gentle and full of awe. We might have had a hard, rough fuck, but the moment after was contrastingly and confusingly tender.
It’s not a look I’m used to seeing on Killian.
The sex was almost too intense. If I had to use only two words to describe it, they’d be ‘dulcet brutality’. Much like sex always is with Killian, it’d been slightly terrifying. Unlike sex with Killian, my terror had nothing to do with the man inside of me. It was that captivating build of energy, like the lightning outside had struck right inside my veins, turning my blood to chaotic lava. It was mindless, driven by something stronger and far more complicated than mere need. I’m not sure I liked it.
Possibly, I’ll have to try it again.
Just to make sure.
Now, I’m standing in front of my mirror, turning from side to side to make sure the sleek black dress I’m wearing hides any marks. My hair is a thick, tousled cascade of unruly curls. The dress is tight, with a deep, loose, plunging neckline. My eyes are ringed in a soft charcoal black, lids fading from a vivid purple to a smoky gray. The lipstick I chose is called ‘decayed orchid’, and it makes me look two shades paler in contrast.
I’m Rath’s perfect date.
His performance at Forsyth’s annual homecoming alumni banquet necessitates a bit of arm candy, which is a role I’ve been expected to fill since the moment I set pen to paper. I know very well that he’s been preparing. I’ve heard him up there every night, the familiar notes floating down to me from a floor away. At least I’ve stopped imagining myself in his bed at the sound of it, his arms wrapped around me, his even breaths tickling my ear.
The truth is, I don’t feel much of anything but a low thrum of nervousness about what’s to come. I’ll be Rath’s arm candy. I’ll kiss him on the cheek and wish him luck. I’ll pretend the things he said to me in the parking lot meant very little.
And then I’ll watch him fall.
I walk down the stairs carefully in my heels, so focused on my footsteps that it isn’t until I reach the landing that I realize Killian isn’t alone. Tristian’s blue eyes have followed my approach, eyebrow cocked as he lets out a low whistle.
“Sweet black Cherry,” he greets, head askew as he inspects me. Tristian has been gone for two days, and aside from a couple texts and photos with him and his sisters, I haven’t heard much from him.
“You’re back!”
“Miss me?” His eyes flash with pleasure when I throw my arms around his neck. He lifts me from my feet and gives me a spin. “Couldn’t miss seeing our Lady all dressed up, could I?”
But when I pull back, I realize I’m not the only one who’s dressed up. Tristian is in a crisp, white suit, his blond hair styled impeccably, and Killian is dressed in dark navy, tattoos all but hidden beneath the neat drape of menswear. My stepbrother is lazily gnawing on a piece of gum, eyes fixed to my cleavage. Idly, I wonder when I’ll be expected to be this for him: a date who’s been tailored to his tastes, someone to show off instead of someone to hide behind doors and bed sheets. I wonder if I’ll be ready when it happens.
Rath’s transformation is the most noteworthy.
I turn when I hear him coming down the stairs, struck speechless at the sight of him. He’s taken his piercings out for the occasion, and he’s dressed in all black. His hair has been pushed out of his face, but is still messy enough that I can recognize the troubled man underneath. Barely.
When our eyes meet, he pauses, his dark gaze leaving mine only to take in my black dress. His long fingers fasten the button on his jacket, a quick and skilled motion, and then he clears his throat. “Ready?”
I leave Tristian to go to him, smoothing my palm up his crisp lapel. “You clean up nice.” I catch his gaze, giving him a soft smile. It’s an olive branch that I desperately need him to take.
The crack in his exterior comes in the form of a slow exhale as he watches me, unblinking. Finally, his arm winds around my waist, pulling me close. He bends down to whisper into my ear, “How am I supposed to focus up there when I know you’ll be in the audience, looking so fucking obscene?”
I try not to shiver at the feel of his fingertip skating down my cleavage, sending him a slow smirk. “I’m sure you’ll manage.” I strain up to glance a kiss off the corner of his mouth.
If he hears anything suspicious in the words, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he just takes my hand and tucks it into the crook of his arm, leading me toward the door. It’s strange to imagine the way I look, covered in Rath’s darkness and flanked by Tristian’s light, Killian’s hardness. I wonder if I’m finally learning what it means to be a Royal woman. To be both ruthless and smiling. Rigid and yielding. Sincere and synthetic.
There are a lot more alumni than I’m expecting lingering in the lobby of the auditorium. For a quick moment, I have second thoughts about going through with it, but then I look down at the cuff on my wrist and find my resolve. Over near a bronze bust of the program founder, I can see some of the other Royals. The Baroness plays violin, and I can see her Barons in the front row, stoic and still. The Counts, including Perez, are dressed in all black, presumably here to support the Countess, Sutton.
The Princess is alongside two other upperclassmen at the entrance, handing out the programs. Tristian cranes his neck to get a good look at her, and then leans forward to smirk at Killian.
“Did you see the Princess?” he asks.
“Yeah, I saw. No ring.”
Tristian shakes his head. “What’s it been now? Three years?”
Killian agrees, “Three years, three failures.”
Frowning, I ask, “What do you mean?”
“The princess can’t get knocked up.” Tristian’s lip curls in an amused smirk. “No baby, no heir.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Killian snorts. “They’re fucking obsessed with it. The Princess has three months to get pregnant or they start all over again with a new girl. Autumn, or whatever her name is, is probably on her last month if she’s not knocked up yet. The pressure is intense because of all their traditions and legacies.”
I think back to the conversations at the homecoming meeting and it all makes a little more sense. Well, sort of. Not that creating an heir to a bunch of stupid frat boys makes any sense, but more and more I’m learning Forsyth isn’t like most places.
“And she knew this when she applied to be their Princess?”
“Definitely,” Tristian says. “The application to be Princess is more than just an interview. There’s a whole masquerade ball and selection process. Apparently, it’s an honor to carry around a prissy prince bastard.”
“Idiots,” Killian mutters. Our eyes meet for a brief, hot moment before he quickly looks away.
“Well, don’t you boys look handsome.” The three of us turn. My mom, dressed in a gold shimmering gown, grins widely at us, while Daniel finishes up a conversation with another patron and walks over to join her. “Don’t they clean up, well, Daniel?”
“Son,” he says, clapping Killian on the back. Then thrusts his hand out. “Tristian.”
Tristian shakes his hand, and I sense a ripple of tension between the two. My mother, as always, is oblivious. “My little novel,” she says, pulling me in for a hug. “You look so pretty, although the makeup’s a tad heavy, don’t you think?”
I roll my eyes. “You look nice, too, Mom.”
She releases me, leaving me in the awkward position of needing to greet Daniel. I give him a tight smile and prepare myself for a hug. Before I can, Tristian’s arm slips around my waist, pulling me close. “Mrs. Payne, you look outstanding. I was about to extend an invitation to the frat party this week. You look like a sorority girl.”
Mom giggles, tittering like a schoolgirl, before tossing Tristian an admonishing look. “Tristian, how many times have I told you to call me Posey?”
“Thought you couldn’t come tonight?” Killian says to his dad, mouth pressed into an unhappy line. “Didn’t you have a business meeting?”
“He did,” my mom says, cutting in, “but I told him we needed to be here to support Dimitri on his big night. He’s worked so hard to get here. All those long days and nights practicing.” She gives me a look. “Shows how successful you can be if you put your mind to it.”
My mother isn’t shy about her disappointment in my running away from boarding school. She felt like it was disrespectful to Daniel, who spent so much money to send me there. You’d think a woman with my mother’s life experience would have better self-awareness, but I suppose I can’t blame her for living in the land of denial. It’s only one letter off from ‘Daniel’, after all.
A woman dressed in black comes out and announces the program is about to begin. Tristian rests his hand on my lower back, ushering me toward the door. Neither my mother nor Daniel miss the gesture, taking in Tristian’s claim with varying degrees of curiosity. I take my program from Autumn and try not to look at her ring finger or her stomach. I fail at both.
Nerves tickle my spine as we enter the auditorium and locate the seats reserved for us by Rath. Again, I wonder if I should do something, like pull the fire alarm, turn off the lights, but it’s too late. The deed is done.
The seats fill around us and I’m hyper-aware of the cream paper programs in the hands of every person in the room, including the other frats. It’s as if there are two hundred ticking bombs and I’m the only one who knows they’re about to detonate.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Tristian asks, always watching. “You look a little pale.”
I cast my gaze at him, pushing my hair back off my neck and giving him a sweet smile. “Just a little warm.”
Thankfully, there’s movement on the stage, drawing everyone’s attention. Tristian rests his hand on my leg, and I’m all at once relieved and nervous about him making such public gestures in front of my mother. From the gleam in her eye, I’m betting the prospect of me landing a Mercer has her brimming with excitement.
Once again, I think about the Princess and her attempt to willingly get pregnant. Jesus. That’s definitely a no-no with the Lords. It’s in the contract that I’m required to take birth control. Although, with the way Killian obsesses over filling me with his come, I have to wonder what would happen if I actually got pregnant.
They’d probably strap me to a different sort of table and take care of it.
That’s what I think about as the lights dim; how these people—these men—want absolute control, particularly with me. I have no autonomy over my own body, even down to the clothes I’m wearing right now. Sure, I picked it out for Rath, but only because he’d chosen it first. The small things I do to take back my control are growing consequential in the greater scheme of things.
At least until tonight.
My heart pounds anxiously as the room falls into a soft hush, focusing on the stage. I open my program, skimming the list of performers for one name: Dimitri Rathbone. My heart skips a beat when I read his biography.
It’s exactly as I’d turned it in.
Tonight everything changes. I’m not just going to fuck with the little things anymore. After tonight, I’m going to destroy the big things, too.
We sit through each performance, the cello solo, the trio of violinists, the acappella groups. From what Rath told me beforehand, it’s a presentation for the alumni and other esteemed guests—the people who provide the financial donations to keep the music school flush with new instruments, equipment, and the best instructors. But it’s more than that. There are important people in the audience. The conductor of the New York Symphony, my mother tells me, plus the various organizers of art & performance grants. There’s big money in this room, and even though Rath told me he’s trapped in this godforsaken world of Daniel’s, I know he wants out. He wants options.
Too bad he’s a manipulative asshole who doesn’t deserve any of it.
I barely hear the musicians as they’re introduced and trotted out to perform. The hammering of my heart is louder than the deep bass that fills the room. Nausea rolls in my belly, pushing bile into the back of my throat. I’ve been a sugar baby, a thief, a getaway driver, but this is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done. And I’m doing it all while wearing an expensive gown and spike-heeled shoes.
There’s no going back. Every person in the audience has a copy of my deceit in their hands. My revenge. Rath’s comeuppance.
I’m focused on those slips of paper, watching as people in the audience check their programs right before each performer is announced. I pause on the cellist who appears before Rath, reading his biography.
David Grayson: A junior from Winston-Salem, North Carolina. He’s played the cello since he was twelve-years old. The winner of the National Orchestra Award and the Guthman Scholarship.
The whispering starts the moment David leaves the stage, carrying his cello with him. A few chuckles teeter through the quiet room, and then the woman next to me gasps and thrusts the program at the man with her, whispering furiously. I glance slyly at Killian and Tristian. Killian is dozing next to me, eyes shut. Tristian is not-so-discreetly playing on his phone with one hand and stroking my thigh with his other.
There’s no going back. It’s showtime.
I straighten in my seat, which instantly draws Tristian’s attention. Staring at my program, I fake a surprised breath, saying, “Oh my god.”
“What?” he whispers, slipping his phone in his jacket pocket and pulling out the program. “Is Rath next?”
I nod. The panicked expression on my face isn’t fake in the least. “There’s something…fuck. Tristian, his biography.” I place a trembling hand over my mouth. “Please tell me it’s just my copy.”
Tristian reads it over, his features going eerily still. “Is this the biography you turned in?”
“No, of course not,” I blurt. Killian shifts next to me, rousing. “I mean, I turned it in, but it didn’t look like this. This is not what I gave them.”
“What’s wrong?” Killian asks, rubbing his fingers into his eyes. “What are you freaking out about?”
“Rath’s bio,” Tristian hisses, leaning forward to look at Killian beside me. “Someone fucked with it.”
I push my folded program in Killian’s face and watch as he reads the words I know by heart.
Dimitri Rathbone: A junior, majoring in classical piano. Dimitri is the winner of the prestigious Forsyth Music Award. Although an accomplished student with a four hundred on the SAT, he’s a barely functioning illiterate who graduated high school by threatening and bribing his peers, teachers, and administrators into overlooking his crippling learning disability.
“Holy shit,” Killian breathes, looking suddenly more alert. Although he and Tristian exchange a panicked glare, I can’t help but notice that neither says a word about it not being true. Every word of it is a fact.
“I’d like to present our next performer,” the announcer says from the corner of the stage. “Dimitri Rathbone is a junior, majoring in classical piano. Dimitri is the winner of the prestigious Forsyth Music Award. An accomplished student with a four hundred on the SAT, he’s a barely functioning illiterate who graduated high school by bribing—” Her voice cuts off sharply, mouth snapping shut as her eyes read the program. For a long moment, she seems unsure what to do. Ultimately, she gives the audience a flawless grin and introduces, “Dimitri will be performing an original solo piece, titled Triste Historia in C Minor.”
Rigidly, Rath emerges from behind the curtain and a loud burst of laughter rumbles from the front row. Sutton glances back with a smirk, and I feel both guys tense beside me. I can tell from the pale, stormy look on his face that Rath heard the introduction—or what little of it she read before catching on.
His body goes tight and coiled the instant he hears the laughter, and I remember him so clearly telling me about those times in grade school, how the mocking laughter of his classmates still haunts him. At first, he tries to keep his reaction from his face, eyes blank and emotionless, but I see the tick of his jaw, the anxiousness in the tense curve of his shoulder. He perches on the bench and reaches for the sheet music, but his trembling hands fumble with the pages, sending one skittering to the floor.
The audience erupts with a renewed wave of laughter.
When he curls over to pluck it from the floor, the tendon in his neck is stiff and bulging and his face is already shimmering with sweat.
I’m surprised to feel relieved when the first notes ring out. The truth is that, even knowing how badly he’s hurt me, it’s hard to watch this. The way his mouth purses into a jagged grimace. How his fingers stumble over notes I know he’s practiced for weeks. This is something he could probably play in his sleep, but now his fingers lurch over the keys—the same fingers that have brought me such rapture and such misery—and his shoulders grow stiffer with each error.
I wonder if it feels like it felt for me, that night down in the basement. Is he trying to ignore us? Is he on the verge of crying? Does he imagine he’s somewhere else—somewhere softer and kinder?
Does he want to fucking die?
He finishes the piece, but only barely, fingers stilling on the final discordant note. The audience waits a long, awkward beat, until Tristian begins aggressively clapping, filling the silence. It’s too little, too late, and when Rath rises, picking up his sheet music and bowing before the crowd, I get a good glimpse of his dark, empty eyes.
That’s when I know.
This thing I’m doing with the Lords is dangerous. One day, I’m going to slip up and get caught, and Rath isn’t going to forgive me. He’s going to do his best to rend away all the satisfaction that’s swelling in my chest at the sight of him up there, sweaty and defeated.
So I’d better hold it tight.
I stir, knowing that Killian is watching me from the foot of my bed.
I can feel the weight of his stare like a palpable thing. It doesn’t scare me like it used to. It’s actually a bit of relief to know he’s come for me, to know that little knot of anticipation inside my belly can finally loosen and ease. He’ll make it feel good, and if I can pretend I’m still asleep, he’ll even make it soft and slow.
I keep my breaths even, waiting. There’s a small rustle of movement from the foot of the bed, but nothing more. No fingertip skating up my bare legs or mattress dips to signal his approach. I wait for so long that my body responds like one of Pavlov’s dogs, a rush of slickness building between my legs.
I inhale deep, pushing my breasts out, hoping to spur him into action. A slide of my heel against the mattress as my thighs rub together. A breathy little whimper, as if I’m dreaming of his touch. A hitch of breath when I touch my belly. The rush of air on my skin when I spread my legs invitingly…
There’s a low scoff, and then, “Christ, does he really buy that?”
My eyes fly open.
Rath is tipping a bottle of something amber to his lips, his dark eyes slashing over me like razor blades as his throat jumps with three hard swallows. “Has he ever really seen you sleep? Because I know how still you get when you hit that REM. You’re like a goddamn corpse.”
The words seize my lungs as much as the deadness in his eyes does. My heart kicks into overdrive, because I thought I’d seen Rath at his worst, but clearly, I was wrong. He looks like a shadow of a person, his glazed eyes rimmed red with the poison he’s pouring down his throat. He’s drunk and pissed off, and I’m the reason for all of it.
Maybe he knows it was me…
Swallowing, I arch my back, brushing my fingers over my inner thigh. I can turn this around if I just use the tools at my disposal. I let my legs fall open, eyes sliding shut as I push my fingers into my panties, bucking into the pressure.
If he thinks I’m nothing but their whore, then that’s exactly what he’s going to get.
“What are you doing?” It’s barely phrased as a question, lacking in inflection and anything approaching curiosity. He sounds bored. “I’m not here to fuck you, girl.” He waits for my eyes to open—for my fingers to slide away from my center—to tell me, “Wake up and get dressed.”
My chest rises and falls with panicked breaths. “Why?”
Despite his disinterest, he still looks, those dead eyes of his fixed right to my damp crotch. When he finally looks away, he takes another swig of the booze and then caps it, twisting away to slam it onto my dresser. “I need a ride.”
“A ride?” I finally sit up, blinking the sleep from my eyes. At least my secret seems safe. “Where?”
“You’ll see,” is all he says, opening one of my dresser drawers. He begins pulling out clothes, tossing some on the floor and others on the bed. It isn’t until he hunts down a pair of black pants that I realize it’s the same outfit I’d worn that night with Tristian and the fire.
Of course.
He wants revenge.
“Rath, wait.” I stumble out of bed, stalling him with my hand on his arm. “What are you going to do? Because last time, there were consequences, and Tristian was sober enough to actually plan it through. This?” I gesture to the whiskey, the pile of black clothes. “This isn’t going off half-cocked. It’s going off a quarter cocked.”
He stares down at me, and I realize he’s put his piercings back in. They glint in the light of my lamp, and I know if I touched one, it’d be warm from his skin. “If you don’t get dressed and drive me where I need to go, I’ll do it myself.”
It’s as much of an empty threat as it is an empty promise. He knows I wouldn’t let him drive in this condition. Sighing, I rip my tank top over my head and reach for the clothes.
That’s how I find myself behind the wheel of my car—Tristian’s car—well, my car—Rath slouched low in my passenger seat as I drive toward campus. I hadn’t been able to pry the bottle of whiskey from his hand on the way out of the house, so he’s got it tucked snugly between his thighs.
The only words he utters are slightly slurred commands. “Turn left at the next light.”
Tense and uncertain, I ask, “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
Coming out like this was a bad idea. Tristian could find us in a heartbeat if he wanted to. I could call, and Killian would answer. But drunk or not, Rath is my Lord, too, and I have no idea how to tell him no.
“We’re going to the Purple Palace,” is his answer, head tipped back against the seat. His voice hardens, the chill within it making a shiver roll up my spine. “It’s where the Princes and their little cunt cow live.”
“Jesus,” I groan, turning left. “What are you going to do?”
“You don’t need to worry,” is all he says, head lolling to the side to look out the window. “This is something I’ve had planned for a while already. Everything is set.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, not feeling the least bit put at ease. Before we’d left the brownstone, he’d heaved a bucket into the trunk of my car. It’s sealed with a lid, so I don’t know what it’s inside. Maybe it’s gasoline? “But I’m guessing all that whiskey wasn’t a part of the plan, so maybe you should save it for tomorrow.”
He doesn’t answer.
It’s not that I don’t think the Princess deserves whatever he’s got planned for her. Because she does. Full stop. She helped Perez kidnap me. She’s been nothing but a petty bitch afterward, as if I’m the one in the wrong here. No, I’d love to see that bitch go down.
But not at our expense.
“It doesn’t need to be all bad, you know.” Shifting my grip on the steering wheel, I try to make my words come breezy. “Now it’s out there. People know. You don’t have to have it hanging over your head all the time. You can get help now—real help, because I’m not—”
He cuts me off, voice rusty and harsh. “Do you have any idea who was in that audience?” I can only spare him a quick flick of my eyes, but when I do, I wish I hadn’t. He’s still that same shadow person I’d found at the foot of my bed, only now I realize why it’s so unnerving.
It’s the look of a man who has very little to lose.
Exhaling slowly, I hedge, “Your family?”
There’s a long pause, and then a raspy laugh. “Good one.” He shakes his head, lifting the bottle of whiskey. “Talent scouts. The three biggest Forsyth has ever seen. Not only do they think I’m a fucking idiot who can’t read—”
“You’re not—”
“But I also bombed the fucking performance because of it.” He tips the bottle back before adding, “So yes, it needs to be all bad.”
I hadn’t known about the scouts. My stomach twists in something like regret, but I shove it down. I can’t say I was doing Rath a favor, because it’d be a lie. I did it because I’ve been humiliated at the hands of the Lords time and time again. I did it because of that smirk to the camera he had set up in his bedroom. I did it because he thinks I’m his whore. Someone to toy with and manipulate and use.
I did it because he fucking deserved it.
And I refuse to feel guilty about it.
It’s foggy, and the visibility is shit, but I can still see the Prince’s palace beyond the gate. It’s a large house that takes up a full square block of the street. It’s not actually a palace, but I can see where it gets its name. It’s old—Victorian, maybe—and an enormous stone wall surrounds the building. There are turrets on either side, and I’m guessing when one stands in those rooms, they have an almost complete view of campus.
“How are we supposed to break into that?” I ask, eyeing it skeptically. “Where are they?”
He stands beside me, following my gaze, and sets the bucket down. “What do you mean, where are they?” Flippantly, he tosses a hand in the house’s direction. “Sleeping in their great big communal bed. Fucking, maybe. Filling that cunt up to the brim so they can keep her.”
I whirl on him, jaw dropping. “They’re home?!” He barely wobbles when I shove his arm. “We can’t break in while they’re there! Are you insane?”
Wordlessly, he takes the knife from his pocket, flipping it open with a snick. I flinch back, but he just crouches down to a little gray box below a number pad. “We won’t be going in that side of the house. That’s the Princes’ weakness.” He speaks as he uses the tip of the knife to work a screw. “The Barons, too. They’re given these big, shitty-rich-people houses, and they stick to one room like they’re a pack of wolves.” He looks up to cock an eyebrow at me. “Could you imagine sleeping with all three of us every night?”
I wrap my arms around my middle, eyes anxiously scanning the street. “Yes.”
There’s a pause before he asks, “…you can?”
I look down to watch him open the front of the gray box, revealing a nest of wires. Shifting from foot to foot, I babble, “You’d be wrapped around me like a greedy, pot-scented monkey. Tristian would be completely naked and flexing his pecs, even in his sleep. And Killian would probably spend two hours pacing around the bed, trying to find the most subtle way to jerk off into my mouth with the two of you blocking his usual runway.” Sighing, I meet his gaze, concluding, “It’d be insufferable.”
He gives me a slow, glazed blink. “Tristian flexes in his sleep?”
“Rath, this is stupid.” I nod at the box of wires. “We’re going to get caught. Can we please just—”
I’m going to ask if we can come back tomorrow night, but at that word—‘stupid’—something in his eyes catches the light and hardens. He reaches into the box and curls his fist around all those wires, yanking it back with a silent grunt.
The keypad goes black.
Getting onto the grounds involves Rath prying the gate open enough for me to squeeze through, then pulling the bucket through, and then watching with my heart in my throat as he squishes himself between the iron, arms trembling with the strain of keeping the gap open.
From there, things are easier than expected. We walk around the exterior and Rath checks door after door. The side door leading out onto a veranda. The French doors in the back. A utility door off the main garage.
Infuriatingly, it’s the front door that’s unlocked.
When the knob gives, Rath sends me a look, rolling his eyes. “And you think we’re arrogant.”
The easy mode of entry doesn’t make my heart pound any less as we quietly enter the foyer. Rath carefully closes the door behind us and then lifts a finger to his lips, as if I’m the one who needs to be told to be quiet. He ignores the panicked glare I send him, picking up the bucket and stalking noiselessly for the stairs.
I’m seriously rethinking that whole idea of calling Killian as we climb to the second floor, pausing on each step to assess any creaks. I have a fistful of the back of Rath’s black hoodie, the fabric soft and worn against my palm as we creep slowly down the hall. I’m running scenarios over and over in my head. When—not if, when—we get caught, what will happen? Will they call the police? Or are they like Perez and my Lords, happy to take things like revenge and justice into their own hands. And if so, what will they do to us?
Sickeningly, the tracker implanted beneath my skin is bringing me comfort right now.
I’m still feeling disgusted at the notion when Rath stops, turning to a door. It’s open only a crack, and I watch tensely as he reaches out to gently push it open.
My blood runs cold at what I see.
There’s a gigantic bed—larger even than Killian’s—and only a single slash of light, perhaps from an en suite bathroom. But there’s no mistaking three Princes and their Princess, all sound asleep as we watch. The four of them are stark naked, the Princes’ cocks and balls on full display as the Princess rests between two of them, back rising and falling with her even breaths.
It’s a surreal moment, the realization that I’m watching these people at their most vulnerable. Rath—my Lord—could go in there right now and sink that knife of his into soft flesh, and there’d be nothing I could do to stop him. There’s fear and dread, yes—so thick that it makes my stomach turn. But there’s also a sense of power in looking up at my Lord and seeing that violent glint in his eyes.
I give his hoodie a furious tug.
Soundlessly, he leads me away.
Whatever he’s looking for really is on the other end of the house. We go through one hall, and then another, north to south. The light is dimmer over here, but there are rooms that still look used. One with a vanity and clothes strewn about—dresses, skirts, tops—clearly Autumn’s. There’s another room with more masculine décor, probably belonging to one of her Princes.
And then there’s the room I follow Rath into.
“What is this?” I breathe, taking in the room with a stunned apprehension.
After setting down the bucket, Rath carefully shuts the door behind him, hand easing the knob flush. His answer comes on an exhale, carried tonelessly by the same indifference on his face. “The nursery, of course.”
It’s like something out of an advertisement. The entire room carries the faint scent of baby powder. There’s a crib against the wall made of intricately carved, dark wood. It looks old, like maybe it was made with the house itself. The bedding inside is a soft, pristine yellow, with little twinkle lights hanging from the mobile like a constellation of stars. On the wall above it is a finely embroidered tapestry that looks just as antique as the crib itself—a large-bellied woman with flowing golden locks and a crown perched on her head.
A Princess.
I stare at it all with a building sense of awe. “These people are all fucking crazy.” I thought the Lords were unbelievable with their thuggishness and rules, but this is another level entirely. Recruiting some random girl to carry their Royal spawn is so ridiculous that this is seriously approaching LARPing territory.
When I turn to mention this to Rath, I find him bent over, wedging the tip of his knife below the lid of the bucket.
Wringing my hands, I ask, “What is that?” As much as I hate the Princess, I can’t get on board with burning their house down—especially not with them still in it. I’ll wake them up myself before I let that happen.
He acts like he doesn’t even hear me, wedging the knife in deep and giving it a twist. The lid pops up, and he peels it back, tossing it aside carelessly.
I peer reluctantly at the contents, forehead creased with a confused frown. “Is it…paint?”
“No.” He throws me a look, closing the knife with a flick of his thumb. “It’s five gallons of blood.”
“What?!” It’s all I can do to keep my voice to a whispered yell. “Where did you get five gallons of blood?“
“Baby,” he says, pausing to hold my gaze. “Is that really something you want to know?”
After thinking about it for a moment, I decide, “No.”
I watch in a mystified silence as he unzips his hoodie and shrugs out of it. He reaches up to grab the neck of his shirt next, tugging it up over his head. It rustles his hair, making it fall over his eyes, but I can still see his gaze through the fringe, dark and challenging. Chin raised, he tosses his shirt away, the cords of his muscles shifting with the movement. I know instinctively what he’s asking me to do.
I hold his stare as I copy him, peeling off my sweater, and then my tank top, standing in nothing but my bra and jeans. “What are we going to do?” I ask, voice cracking in uncertainty.
He bends down to sink one long, bare arm into the bucket of blood. When he looks up to smirk at me, he’s transformed into the same man I’d seen that night in the tub. A demon, black-eyed, piercings glinting like fangs. Only now he rises and brings a red-soaked arm with him, blood cascading down his fingers in thick rivulets.
With a whip of his arm, it splashes gruesomely against the wall. The crib. The tapestry.
Me.
I flinch at the spray of blood, slashed in a fine line across my torso.
“They won’t suspect us,” he says, grabbing another handful of blood. He flings this one against the crib, the blood staining the yellow bedding like a crime scene. Then, he starts walking around, flinging more. “Blood is a Baron trademark. They use it in their weird, fucked up rituals. Some say they even drink it, although, to be fair,” he turns to look at me over his shoulder, “people around here do tend to exaggerate their gossip.” He punctuates this with a splat of blood against the window, using his palm to smear it around. “Which is something I’m sure they’ll all be doing tomorrow. Talking shit, spreading it across campus, having themselves a real good laugh.”
There’s a basin in the corner, one of those old-fashioned porcelain things that used to have a purpose but are mostly for decoration now. He snatches it from the table and dunks it into the bucket, wrenching it up in one quick motion. The blood splashes sickeningly across the wall, dripping down like something out of a horror movie.
“Well?” He’s watching me, waiting, his chest heaving with angry breaths.
Swallowing, I walk forward, staring into the surface of the thick blood. It’s so dark that it’s nearly black, and it feels gooey and cool against my hand when I dunk it inside, grimacing. I choose the door, splattering a sloppy ‘x’. It’s strangely mesmerizing, a bit like a paint project I had in second grade art class. While I’m admiring my work, blood dribbling sluggishly from my hand, Rath is behind me dousing the crib in the stuff. The blood pours in a waterfall over the little mattress, and at some point, he’s gotten blood smeared across his side.
He looks like something out of a post-apocalyptic film. Eyes both empty and crazed, covered in blood, jaw set in grim determination. The blood he throws splashes like an explosion of crimson on the rocking chair in the corner. The changing table gets a coat of red, and then the lampshade and all its crystal tassels. I splatter it over the walls, feeling the wildness grow inside of me as I desecrate this place meant for innocence and birth. If the Lords’ house is full of dead things, then the Purple Palace is full of things that shouldn’t be created. The potential is there, but it’ll never be right. There is nothing nurturing about this house or the people within it.
I shudder to think of anyone bringing a child into this place.
I dip a throw pillow into the bucket and slap it against the closet door, creating a bursting flower of grisly red. When I turn to do it again, I find Rath in front of the cleanest patch of wall, the muscles in his arm shifting as he paints a design with his fingers.
A pentagram.
Getting an idea, I cover my palms and curl my fingers into them, pressing the pinky-sides of my fists to the wall. Five dots above each and they look just like little baby footprints. When I look over, Rath is watching me, the corner of his mouth pulled up into a loose, wicked grin that I can’t help but return. He copies me, and for a few minutes, we make a little path around the pentagram, tapering them off to the blood-soaked corner. I finish it off by scrawling two words over the textured wallpaper:
The Barreness
Maybe Rath thinks it can’t get any better, because suddenly, he’s lifting the bucket, walking to the crib, and dumping the rest of the blood into it. It streams from between the bars in rivulets, gushing to the floor in thick ribbons.
I can only imagine the looks on their faces when they open the door to find this.
I wish we could plant a camera.
When it’s done, Rath stares into the crib like he’s hypnotized by the sight of it. I watch him drag a wrist across his forehead, leaving a gruesome smear of blood in its wake. Reaching into the crib, he pulls out a blood-soaked teddy bear. It was yellow when we first arrived, joyful and bright and kind of creepy.
He shoves it up against the wall, takes his knife from his pocket, and stabs it right through the heart. When he pulls his hands away, the teddy bear remains, nailed there like a crucifixion.
The second our eyes meet, I’m the one who’s hypnotized. He stalks toward me like a malevolent entity, blood spattered and black-eyed, and when he pushes me against the wall, I go willingly, feeling a bone deep awareness that he can never find out the truth.
Because Dimitri Rathbone will destroy me.
I can feel it in the way his eyes search mine, fingers feathering down my face. They leave a cool, sticky, wet path from my forehead to my chin. This is Rath, dressing me in his war paint. He’s saying, This is how you belong to me.
I feel the kiss all the way down to my curling toes as his slick body surges into mine. His hands are slippery, gliding over my ribs and breasts as if I’m his new canvas. I clutch at his hips when he wedges a thigh between my legs, calling up that same dark magic that had gripped me when I found him at the foot of my bed. My body flares to life in a whirr of harsh breaths and firing nerves, desperate for his expanse of skin and heat and taut muscles.
It’d be so easy to give into it—just like with Killian and Tristian—so easy to open myself to him, to let him pull and push and take.
And then I’d have nothing left.
He grabs my face between two strong palms when I try to pull away, his forehead grinding painfully into mine.
“Why won’t you fuck me?” he asks, so close that his eyes are nothing but a vague obsidian blur.
Swallowing, I answer, “If we stay here much longer, we’ll get caught.”
He pushes my head against the wall with a barely controlled jolt. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Story. I know you want it.” He punctuates this by raising his knee, grinding it into my center. When my jaw goes slack, he takes the opportunity, licking hotly into the seam of my mouth. “You want it, but you’re pushing me away. Tell me why.” His voice is a low growl, daring me to lie again.
I don’t bother.
Looking into his empty eyes, I tell the truth, chewing out the words like they’re gristle. “Because you’re cruel and heartless, and the thought of letting something so dead into my body makes me want to heave.”
There’s a long pause, his chest brushing my own with every breath passed between us. “You think I called you a whore to be mean? You think I did it to hurt you?” He tips my head back, thumbs digging into my cheekbones. “I know you, girl. It’s the lowest you can possibly think of yourself. And I accept it. Don’t you get that?” He looks frustrated and pinched, the divot between his eyebrows begging me for something I can’t comprehend. “Because even if it’s true, I don’t fucking care. That’s enough for me—you’re enough for me. I didn’t say that to hurt you. I said it to free you.” The smile that comes over his face is sharp and bitter and full of viciousness. “But I’m not enough for you, am I? That’s the real rub. Tristian has money and Killer has glory, but I’m just the stupid fucker who hangs off their coattails. Is that it?”
“You think I don’t want you because you’re not rich or elite enough?” Shaking my head, I reach up to touch his jaw. “Everything you hate about yourself could be loved. They’re the best part about you. Your mind is beautiful, Dimitri.” It almost hurts to see the flash of hope in his eyes, all that fury melting away. “But your heart is ugly and twisted.”
That flash of hope is extinguished by his falling eyelids. “What does that—”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish.
Our phones go off at the same time, wrenching us from the moment. It’s almost as painful to leave it as it is to remain within, but I know the second I see Tristian’s name on my screen that our time is up.
Rath is silent and somber as he gathers our clothes, stuffing them into the bucket. I follow wordlessly when he slips from the room, fingers tucked into his waistband as leads me back through the halls. I hold my breath as we pass their bedroom, knowing that they’re all lying there wrapped around one another, these arrogant people playing their hands at creation when they’re not even smart enough to know they’re hosting two intruders.
Drunk or not, if push came to shove and they woke up, I’m betting Rath could beat them, because they might not realize it yet, but he is enough.
I wonder if it was like this for the other Royal women. Did Sutton find herself feeling like this, that day in the parking lot, when she led me to Perez’s van? Did she look at her Count and think to herself, Mine is better than yours? Is that where all her fucking audacity comes from?
If so, it’s feeble.
I know where I want my strength to come from, and I refuse to draw any of it from these cold, empty boys.
