I have to give it to them; the Royals know how to put on a hell of a homecoming carnival. From the brightly lit rides, to the sweet scent of kettle corn in the air, to the long line of students paying double at the beer truck, everyone seems to be having a great time. This, shockingly, includes the Royals, who—as Bianca not-so-kindly suggested—seem to have taken the night off to pointedly ignore one another.
Admittedly, I’ve been worried for a couple of days now. Killian lost the Homecoming game last night, and he’s been absolutely seething. My Lords have been tense, clearly itching for a way to get back at ‘the Princes’. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been tense as well. I have to strike the perfect balance here—shock at being drugged, fear of what could happen next, horror at someone having videos of these three men using me like a pocket pussy with a heartbeat. Luckily, they’re so focused on the Princes that they barely give me a second glance.
Being little more than a fucktoy has its uses, it’d seem.
Today, everything is shiny and bright, like the plushies over at the ring toss, or the clown’s face grinning over the funhouse. It’s a little slice of good out of an otherwise shit pie, and I enjoy it to the fullest, laughing with Bianca as we shake our hips to Rath’s energetic DJing.
Even Killian seems to have taken a break from simmering in rage over the lost football game to make an effort. I watch from a distance as he pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, passing a massive hammer from fist to fist. The lights around the strong man game flash and he gets into position, feet shuffling. He raises it over his head and brings it down in a hard swing, crashing violently into the pressure plate. It sends a ball soaring toward the bell at the top. Loudly, it rings and a group of kids, some wearing Forsyth football jerseys and tiny cheer outfits, shriek in excitement. Izzy and Lizzy are among the fray, and Tristian monitors them while occasionally checking his phone.
“Again!” the kids keep saying, looking bright and delighted.
Shockingly, Killian does.
Well, at least he’s found an outlet for his rage.
My phone vibrates against my hip and I pull it out, thinking I may have caught Tristian texting me. But what I find is a message from my mother instead.
Mom: Sorry we couldn’t make it to your carnival! Daniel had something come up. Miss you-XX
I just barely stop myself from pulling a face. Seeing her and Daniel at Rath’s performance was awkward enough. The last thing this evening needs is the two of them hovering around.
Story: That’s okay. I’m too busy to mingle much, anyway.
I glance back over at Tristian, whose eyes are darting around anxiously. It’s a lot more complicated to figure out how to strike back at him. I watch as he pulls the girls close. Like he said before, the way to get to him is through his sisters. But there’s no way I’d mess with them. Besides, I know him better than that. Rath and Killian were easy. One defined moment of humiliation and revenge is enough to shake their foundations. Tristian requires a longer con. To make him think I’m falling for him. That I’m his, and only his. Then I’ll betray him, just like Gen did.
God, the irony is thick and delicious.
As a bonus, he’s paranoid enough that just the thought of someone coming after him sets him on edge. He’s so caught up in himself, so vain and narcissistic that he’ll never even see me coming.
“Hey,” Bianca says, nudging me. Judging by the blue-zippered pouch she’s carrying, it’s looking like she wants to make an honest liar out of me. “The beer truck is out of ones. We need to call Mr. Payne’s guys and have them send someone over with change.”
I’m learning that my stepfather has his fingers in almost everything that goes on in this town. Apparently, he provides the upfront cash needed to fund the booths, particularly the beer truck. As twenties and higher bills come in, the change decreases and we swap it out with Daniel’s money guy, ‘Ugly’ Nick.
The same Nick from the brothel. I haven’t met the Pretty Nick yet, but if his name is as fitting as Ugly Nick’s, he must be some kind of supermodel.
If I have questions as to why a man who frequents a brothel and sells firearms is somehow participating in the organization of a university-adjacent charity, then no one is willing to give me an answer. Killian had just shrugged and said, “It’s business, and none of it is yours.”
But I know just whose business it is. I’m catching on that Daniel Payne is more than a real estate guy. He’s maybe even more than a real estate guy who employs shady people, like arms dealers and thugs with facial tattoos who are ‘up-and-comers’ on the avenue. Just how deep does this go? More importantly, is it in my interest to find out?
Probably not.
We were each given a walkie-talkie to communicate during the event. I lift it to my ear and press the button. “Eagle Four, this is Lady. I need someone to meet me at the gate.” I release the button and a response comes crackling back.
“Ten-Four, Lady.”
Bianca hands me a zippered bag filled with cash. “Do you want me to walk with you?” she asks, just as Autumn’s voice comes across the walkie-talkie.
“We’re out of cotton candy,” she says, her voice mingled with static. “Can someone grab a bag of mix out of the storage truck?”
The most disappointing thing by far has been the complete lack of reaction from Autumn regarding what Rath and I did to her little nursery. The most I was gifted was a chilly look between her and the Baroness right after we arrived. It’s sowed some discord among them, but it’s hard to say exactly how much.
Bianca raises her eyebrows and I say, “Go help her. I’ll try to grab one of the Lords to walk over with me to meet Ugly Nick.” I fight down a shudder as I say his name.
“Be careful,” she says, nodding at the bag. “There’s, like, two grand in there.”
I push the bag under my arm, hiding it between my sweater and shirt. “I will.”
Starting across the carnival grounds, I look over to where I’d just seen Killian playing the game, but he’s no longer there. Tristian and his sisters are gone as well. I keep looking, but I don’t see Tristian’s blonde hair, nor Killian’s enormous frame, and I’m reaching the gate before either of them makes themselves known.
Ugly Nick is already waiting for me. He looks a lot different from the last time we met, although that had been a brothel. Today, he’s wearing clothes, his hair combed back tidily, and it doesn’t matter that there’s a cigar hanging from forefinger and thumb. He looks like any other man—shirt buttoned down, khakis crisp and pressed. A second guy lurks a few feet behind him, clearly acting as a guard. His hand is on his hip, revealing a gun tucked into the waist of his pants.
I slide the pouch through the gate and watch as he takes it, opening it to inspect the cash inside. There’s a moment where he fans through it, eyes jumping up to observe me in quick flicks. Eventually, he zips it up and nods at the other guy, who hands him a red pouch in response.
“Now, don’t go spending this in one place,” Ugly Nick says, giving me that slimy grin as he passes the pouch back through. But the moment I reach for it, he snatches it back. “Ah, ah. Manners, young lady. What do you say?”
Narrowing my eyes, I clutch the walkie-talkie. “I have to get that back, ASAP.”
He gives me a tsk. “That’s not the magic word.”
Biting down my frustration, I move closer to the gate, fingers curling around the iron bars. His expression changes on a dime when I give him a shy, nervous smile. “I actually don’t really know how this all works. Maybe you can give me some pointers. Or maybe you’d like me to do something for you?”
Coming closer, he rests a forearm on the bars, his posture loose and careless. He licks his lips. “You can do whatever you like, princess.”
His eyes are fixed to my mouth, giving me the perfect opportunity to shoot my hand out, lightning quick, snatching the pouch from him. “I’m not a fucking princess,” I say, smiling at his peeved expression. As I walk away, I add, “I’m a lady.”
I take the money over to the beer truck and leave it with the Barons, who are in charge of that. Halfway to the ring-toss to check their money, my walkie-talkie crackles, Tristian’s voice coming through. “Lady?”
Fumbling for the button, I assure, “I’m here.”
After another crackle, he says, “Your presence is needed at the Funhouse.”
“Is something wrong?” I glance up at the stage and notice Rath isn’t DJing at the moment. He must be taking a break.
“Nothing’s wrong,” says Tristian’s voice, “other than my Lady asking questions in defiance of my direct order.”
I hold back a sigh. Great. Tristian is in one of his bossy and most likely horny moods. Clicking the button, I assure him, “I’ll be there in a minute.”
The funhouse was rolled in on the back of a truck and unloaded like the rest of the rides. The entrance has a funky giant clown hanging over the oversized door that secretly gives me the creeps. It had a long line all evening, but now it’s suddenly deserted, a piece of caution tape adhered across the steps. Marcus stands under the mouth of the clown, nodding at me as I approach.
“Is he inside?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he answers, gesturing inside. “Just follow the path.”
I step inside, taking a wary look around. The sound of the door closing and latching behind me isn’t making me feel any less creeped out, either. I’m in a room of optical illusions, the walls slanted to make it seem like a long narrow hallway. The floor is titled to keep me off balance and I shoot my hands out to steady myself as I navigate it. When I reach the next room, designed to seem like the floor is up and the ceiling is down, I call out, “Tristian? Are you in here?”
“Back here, Cherry,” he calls, and I head in the direction of his voice. I step into a room of mirrors—or rather, the illusion of mirrors. Against one wall, Tristian’s reflection spirals out into a twisted presence.
“Hey,” I say, feeling a little off balance. “What’s going on?”
“We wanted to have a little talk,” he answers, the image disappearing.
“About what?” I ask, distracted by a movement in one mirror. I look behind me, but there’s nothing there but my own reflection. “Come on, guys. Stop messing with me.”
“Why would we do that?” comes Killian’s voice, low and dull-sounding. “Turnabout is fair play. Isn’t that right?”
I whirl at another flash of movement, turning to face my own reflection again. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the messages,” Tristian says.
“About you drugging us,” Killian adds. “Sabotaging us.”
Rath’s voice comes deadlier than the others. “About you turning in that bio.”
My breath stutters in my chest, stomach dropping. I turn, but can’t see anything except the panicked lines around my mouth. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Sour Cherry.” Tristian’s voice cuts me off. “Insulting our intelligence is only going to make this worse for you. Do you really want to go there?”
My limbs feel like lead, heavy enough that I stumble back. But then Tristian’s reflection appears in the mirror, just over my shoulder, and all I can see is that night he pushed me to my knees. All I can hear is the night he told me to open up for Killian. All I can taste is my stepbrother, salty on my tongue. All I can feel is the stab of loss and betrayal when I saw Rath on that video, mocking me for wanting a scrap of their kindness.
Beyond the wild static of dread is something hard as steel. Two images appear in the mirror, flanking him, their faces all clear. This time I don’t bother looking behind me. I know they’re really there. I can feel the pitch-black hatred rolling off them just as tangibly as I can feel their heat.
If they really know, there’s no point in lying.
Raising my chin, I ask, “What gave me away?”
“Oh, you were plenty sloppy,” Killian says, his menacing gaze boring into my reflection. “But in the end, it was something small—something you said to Tristian yesterday. You were out in the hall, talking, and you called him—”
“Big brother.” I remember the way it’d felt coming from my lips, something illicit and sacred, and I’d instantly regretted it. “So that’s it? That’s your big discovery? You just sort of remembered?”
“It was easy, after that,” Rath says, eyes hooded and black. “You’re the one who wrote my bio. You brought us all our drinks. You were away the day before, for two whole hours. But Tristian wasn’t around to compulsively track you, because you sent him a message that would get him out of your hair, didn’t you?”
Frowning, I ask, “What message?”
“We know it’s not the Princes.” Ignoring me, Killian asks, “Only one house is really into drugging people. What is it the Counts offered you exactly? We’re all curious. I mean,” he glances at Tristian, “Jesus Christ, he bought you a fucking car. It must be more valuable than that.”
I narrow my eyes, feeling affronted at the mere idea. “If you want me to stop insulting your intelligence, maybe try showing some. I was never working with the Counts.” Laughing, I spread my arms, refusing to back down at their glares. “The truth is, I was working with the Lords the entire time. The three of you taught me everything I needed to know.” Nodding at Rath, I say, “Framing another house for your retaliation was your idea. And it wasn’t half bad, honestly. I thought the red crown was a nice touch.”
Killian doesn’t look convinced. “Then where did you get the drugs?”
Grinning, I say, “From you, big brother.” His eyes flash, but there’s too many emotions there to pin down what’s sparking in them. “Don’t you remember? The day you took me to the whorehouse, I asked if you were heading down that road for drugs. You told me that’s where I could find them.” Tristian’s absence had been the only reason I took the chance, riding down to the avenue. In a nice car like mine, it wasn’t long before I was approached by someone looking for a customer. “That’s not all I’ve learned from the Lords, though. For instance, Killian taught me how horrible it feels to be publicly humiliated, so I used it on Rath.” I turn my gaze to Rath, looking him in the eye. “You taught me what it means to feel deceived into thinking someone cares about you, so I used it on Tristian.” To Tristian, I say, “And you taught me how it feels to have someone take all of your control away, which helped me take Killian’s.” I end with a glare at my stepbrother, spinning my finger in a loose gesture. “You built the wheel, boys. I just gave it a nice little spin.”
I don’t flinch when a hand comes up to grab my hair in a fist. Killian holds my gaze and asks, “How long have you been playing us, little sister?”
“Me?” I ask, hoping he can see the spite in my smirk. “Since the first second you let them touch me, three years ago.” His fingers tighten in my hair, but I keep my expression completely blank. He doesn’t know it yet, but Tristian taught me that, too. “Or maybe since you saw your father molesting a child in your own house and were spoiled and ignorant enough to think I wanted it, you piece of shit.” I cry out when my head snaps back, scalp straining against his grip.
“You’re a liar,” he growls, nostrils flared wide. “I told them this would happen. That you’re nothing but a whore, just like your mother. I fucking told them you’d play us. I fucking told them!”
“What if I did?” I yell, throat straining. “You think you didn’t deserve it? For everything you’ve done to me?”
“You signed up for this,” Killian says, his voice noxious in my ear. He shoves me forward, letting my hair go, and I stumble, catching myself on the mirror. “You asked to be our Lady!”
Finally, I turn to them, chest heaving. “I did. And you know what’s messed up? I was willing to do anything you asked—be anything you wanted—but that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You just had to take more.” Squaring my shoulders, I tell them, “I know about the game you played. I know about the scores you kept to see who could hurt me the most. I know about how you earned them. I know about the fucking prize.” I spit the word like it’s poison on my tongue, seeing the awareness hit their expressions in a wave. Killian’s eyes are cold and aloof, as though he expected nothing less. Why should he? We’ve been at one another’s throats for years. Voice dripping with disdain, I add, “You’re all weak, pathetic hypocrites. You can dish it out, but you can’t take it.”
Rath lunges forward, his palm shooting out to grasp my throat. He shoves me so hard against the glass that I can’t tell what’s rattling—the mirror or my skull. He crushes his forehead to mine, voice emerging in a venomous hiss. “You made me trust you. You made me think you wanted to help me. And then you turned around and used it to destroy me. My whole fucking future!” He’s shaking with his roar, trembling with rage, which would be a good signal for me to back off.
I don’t.
I dig my fingernails into his wrist and roar back. “You ruined me first!” The crush of his fingers doesn’t faze me—not tight enough to cut off my air supply. Not yet. I stare at the bulging tendons in his neck, breathless. “You’re the worst. Did you know that, Rath? I know you’re the one who really won that game, and I know how you did it, too. Every second with you was a joke.” It doesn’t matter that the lump in my throat makes my voice crack, or that my eyes begin swimming with unshed tears. It feels so goddamn good to finally say this. “I expected Killian to be an abusive asshole. He’s never pretended to be anything better. And Tristian?” I give a watery laugh. “Tristian has the depth of a sadistic robot. He’s too emotionally inept to even understand what he’s doing is wrong most of the time. But you? Oh, you know,” I breathe, crushing his wrists between my fingers. “You knew just how to handle me. By scamming me into letting my guard down. Making me feel pity for you. Making me feel safe with you. By making me think someone as empty as you could ever—” My nails are embedded in his skin, and now I’m the one shaking. I must be drawing blood by now. “My one regret is that I only ruined you a fraction of the amount you ruined me.”
His fingers finally clamp down, squeezing hard around the column of my throat. “I should fucking kill you,” Rath sneers, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. White spots fill my vision, body seizing as I fight for air. His lips pull back, exposing his teeth. “I should watch the life fade right out of your eyes for what you’ve done to me.”
“Rath,” Killian says, his voice quiet and hard. A moment later the hand is gone, and I bend over, gasping for air.
“You know what Lords do to Ladies who betray them, Story?” Rath asks, slamming his hand into the mirror beside my head. He hems me in, dark and looming. “You should. Killian gave you a little taste of it once. Do you remember that? Down on your knees for everyone to see? The way they all laughed? Some of them were hard as nails walking out of that basement. Probably went back home and jacked off thinking of the way it should have gone down.”
Tristian’s voice cuts in, closer than I’m expecting. “A proper Lord would have had you turned toward them in offering. He would have had each of those forty men—one by one—jack off until they covered you with their come.”
“We saw it once,” Killian adds, and from over Rath’s shoulder, I can see him pulling that knife from his waist. He gives the blade a little flick. “freshman year. I can’t even remember her name, but I remember what she looked like when I shot my load down her tits.”
“Cassandra.” Rath hums, scratching a fingernail down my cheek. “Oh, she was so much like you. Sweet on the outside, but scratch the surface?” His smirk is empty and brittle. “Fake. All you bitches are fake.”
I shake my head, saying, “You’re not going to do that to me.” It’s a testament to what I’ve come to know about these men that I say it with an unshakable confidence.
Rath’s mouth curls up into a vicious grin. “Oh, Cherry. What makes you think we wouldn’t?”
“The same reason Killian didn’t do it before,” I answer, tipping my shoulders back against the glass. “You wouldn’t want them marking what’s yours.”
Tristian’s low, malicious laugh rings out. “You’re calling yourself ours now, are you?”
“Am I wrong?”
I’m not theirs in any way that really matters. Not by choice. But they’ve never cared about that, and I can see in their eyes how little they care about it now.
Rath moves aside when Tristian shoulders in, both of them pinning me against the glass.
Tristian grabs my chin, wrenching my gaze to his. Weeks ago, the look in his eyes would have been enough to make my knees weak. It’s just like before—just like that night in high school. The man who’s seen me as someone to coddle and care for is gone. All that remains is a chilling cruelty.
This time, I’m ready for it.
“You’re right,” he says. “You don’t belong to LDZ, Story.”
Killian stalks toward me with the knife. “You only belong to us.”
Rath’s words are a stream of venomous air. “And we keep what’s ours.”
When Killian brings the knife down, I close my eyes and hope for an oblivion I know they’d never be kind enough to give.
