Rath might be a midnight cuddler, but Killian is anything but. He spends the entire night eerily still, contained to the other side of the bed. He doesn’t snore. If it weren’t for the rise and fall of his chest, I could almost imagine he’s dead. It’s the only reason I’m able to sleep at all.
My escape from his room the second I’m anywhere approaching awake is swift and silent. I leave him there in the bed, naked and as motionless as stone, and slip out before his alarm can wake him.
I take my time in the shower, washing the scent of him from my skin. His dried spunk from my thighs. The phantom feel of his lips from my neck. Inch by inch, minute by minute, I gradually reclaim my body. Funny how this used to be a process that took me months, days, hours, but now I can do it in the span of a single shower, stepping out of the steam and back into the skin Killian has borrowed.
When I open my closet, I see immediately what to discard. The tight pants. The cute dresses. Instead, I go for something straight out of the Tristian Mercer collection—a low-cut top and a short, pleated skirt.
Downstairs, I pause outside the dining room, the scent of eggs and bacon thick in the air, and eavesdrop on the discussion they’re clearly in the middle of.
“…acting like a child because you’re still fucking salty that I won the game,” Killian is saying, the sound of a fork on ceramic loud and startling, as if he’s stabbing whatever’s on his plate.
“You didn’t win the game,” Rath replies, voice flat. “I won the game. Plus, what’s there to be salty about? We all know why she chose you. Nothing special about factory-sealed pussy, anyway.”
There’s a small clang, and then Tristian’s voice rings out. “Would the two of you focus on the big picture for one goddamn minute? There’s another game going on here—a bigger game—and it’s more important than our little competition to pop a cherry.” There’s a momentary pause, tension thick in the air, and then Tristian says, “We need to retaliate.”
“And what the hell do you suggest?” Killian responds, voice hard.
Tristian offers, “There are a few options on the table. We go after Perez directly, just like he did to Story, or we go after something that belongs to him. The Countess. His beloved G-Wagen. His pretty fuckboy face.” Tristian’s voice lowers, tinged with a quiet intensity. “I can make this happen tonight, but I need your go-ahead.”
“Can’t do it,” Dimitri says, sounding bored. “I have a mandatory rehearsal for the alumni event during homecoming.”
“Killer?” Tristian asks.
“Who are we, the Dukes? We can’t just walk up to him in the courtyard and string him up by the balls. We’re Lords. We take the time to do it right.” A fork clinks on a plate, and Killian adds, “Plus, this is a bad time. We’ve got more shit to do this week than ever. Like Rath said, it’s homecoming. You know there are a ton of obligations for me. Both on the field and in the frat.”
After a tense beat, Tristian’s chilly voice responds, “You mean like forcing our Lady into your bed at night?”
The dining room goes silent.
There’s a burst of quick breaths I recognize as Killian’s quiet, humorless chuckle. “Neither of you seemed to have a problem with that yesterday. Rath obviously gave the green light because it’s his way of punishing her.”
“Fuck you,” Rath snaps. “You don’t know what’s happening in my head.”
But he does—I know he does. It’s so unavoidably, malevolently Rath. I don’t know how I didn’t realize it before. My chest swells with a slow-burning fury, remembering all too well the way he looked in that video, smirking up at the camera as my head bobbed in his lap. I used to think Tristian or Killian were the worst of the three, but now I know better.
Killian might be a monster, but he’s never worn a mask to conceal it.
Tristian might be a creep, but he’s never dressed it up in pretty lies.
Rath is the kind of evil that infects you. He gets inside your blood and hides there, wounding you in places that won’t become apparent until he’s done with you. He’s an internal catastrophe you don’t see coming.
He’s by far the worst.
“Please,” Killian scoffs. “No one knows you better than we do. But I had wondered what Tristian’s angle was.”
“This isn’t about an angle,” Tristian argues. “If she wants out of your bed, she’ll tell us. This is about you getting distracted during the play because you already scored the trophy.”
“I’m not distracted,” Killian insists, sniffing. “Parameters needed to be set. Her status doesn’t change because I popped her cherry. She’s our Lady. She needs to be reminded of that.”
Neither guy argues with him, which pretty much proves where they stand on it.
“Look, I don’t want these guys to think they’re off the hook,” Tristian says. “The longer we wait, the weaker we seem. Do we really want the Lords—and the Lady—to come off like pussies here? We need to do this now.”
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders as I step into the room. “You’re right.” All three gazes rise to mine, faces showing varying degrees of surprise. “I’ll go with you.”
Killian’s eyes narrow. “Like hell you will.”
It’s hard to meet his eyes, knowing what he did to me last night, but that’s exactly what I do. I lift my chin and shrug. “Why not? I’m the one they hurt.”
Killian plants his palms on the table, pushing slowly to his feet. “Because this is Royal business. You were just a pawn in a bigger game—a game you don’t even understand. The last thing any of us need is for you to cause more problems.” There’s a flash of warning in his eyes that I pay no mind to.
Yeah, I know all about their fucking games.
I look to Tristian. “I’m not going to cause problems. I can help. I’m not some pathetic little damsel who can’t take care of myself. I survived on my own for two years.” I’ve survived the three of you, I don’t say. “I’ve been through more than any of you know.”
“Like what? Never learning basic fucking gun safety?” Killian snorts. “Because if that’s how you learned to take care of yourself, you’re going to need a few more lessons.”
“Fine!” I snap, feeling my blood heat. “I don’t know how to use a gun. But that doesn’t mean I can’t take care of myself.”
It rankles, knowing that he had to save me from Perez and the others. I’d been so grateful at the time that I hadn’t thought to really consider how it looked. Like I was just some pitiful little girl who needs her master to protect her.
The part that pisses me off most is that it’s true.
Rath pushes his plate aside and shoves out his chair, rounding the table only to stop in front of me. “Killian’s right.” He reaches out to touch a lock of my shiny hair, gently tucking it over my shoulder. It’s probably meant to seem affectionate, but now that I know to search for it, the cool glint in his eyes gives away the lack of sincerity. “It’s not your problem. It’s ours.”
I curl my hand into a fist, barely restraining the impulse to slap him across the face.
“Car in three minutes,” Killian says, giving me a dark glance as he and Rath walk out of the room.
“They have a point,” Tristian says, cutting off any more arguments. “The Royals are more than just regular frat boys. It’s bigger than that.”
“So I’ve gathered.”
He wraps my breakfast in a napkin and looks up at me, eyes sweeping from head to toe. “Well, it seems like you’re in one piece, but we didn’t talk yesterday. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He approaches and slides a palm up my thigh. “You look sexy today.” I manage not to flinch when he dips his hand under my skirt, gently cupping my center in his large palm. “Sore?”
Swallowing, I meet his icy blue eyes, knowing the sincerity there might have nothing to do with me. He probably just wants to know when he can have his turn. “Yes.”
His mouth slants unhappily. “We told him to give you a break for a few nights, but you know how he is.”
“Yeah,” I say, my mouth feeling dry. “I do.”
“I know it’s been a rough few days, but things will go back to normal.”
I laugh. “What’s ‘normal’, Tristian? Not getting kidnapped, or just the regular Lords-inflicted torment? I’m kind of lost on what’s ‘normal’ anymore.”
His eyes shutter, hand falling away. “Normal is you remembering your place, Sweet Cherry.”
I swallow back the rage I feel for them. As depressing as it is, Tristian is the closest thing I have to an ally right now. I can’t afford to tarnish that. Plastering on a rueful grin, I say, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m taking out my frustration on you. They really scared me the other day, and the thing is? I want to make them pay, Tristian.” Looking away, I grimace. “Plus, there’s all the stuff with Killian…”
He reaches up to touch my chin, forcing my gaze to his. “I know he didn’t leave any visible bruises, but was he too rough? Did something else happen?”
It’s almost worse when he’s like this, all gentle and worried. As if he cares. As if he didn’t take part in the bet or agree on my sleeping in Killian’s bed, knowing all the while what would happen.
“It wasn’t…rough,” I admit, hearing the distant sounds of Killian’s truck roaring to life. “But it still hurt.”
A wrinkle appears between his eyes as he searches my face, like he’s trying to find the truth. He never will. The last thing I’ll openly admit is that fucking my stepbrother wasn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me.
Tristian tilts my head upward and gives me a kiss—sensual and unhurried—his soft lips coaxing against mine. “It’ll get better,” he says, voice smooth like velvet. Like this, I can almost imagine he cares about me. And then he gives me a smile, adding, “We just need to break you in a little more, that’s all.”
That effectively shatters the illusion.
The ride to campus is quiet, bad country rock blaring from the satellite radio. I sit in the back, suffocating as I breathe in the same air as these liars. Twice I catch Killian’s eye in the rearview mirror. Both times, my eyes dart away. I can’t help but think about it now—what his reaction will be when he comes face-to-face with Ted. I wonder if he’ll be more angry than scared. I know neither of them will make it painless.
It’s the first day I’ve returned to campus since the kidnapping, and I sense the looks the second I climb out of the truck. Usually, we have a routine wherein Killian will immediately walk off, leaving Rath and Tristian to handle my instructions for the day.
This time, he drags me roughly into his side.
I go stiff against him, nearly tripping in my surprise. Tristian loves kissing me on campus, pushing me up against a wall and staking his claim. Rath is less flashy about it, but he’s been known to lead me around with his arm slung around my neck. Unlike the other two, Killian has never made a public display with me.
Never.
Today, he reaches down to cup his wide palm on my ass, leading me toward the campus. Dumbly, I follow, face going hot at the sudden increase of attention. We’re flanked by Rath and Tristian, who seem aware but uncaring of the eyes on them, strides loose and purposeful at our sides. The three of them move like a single malevolent entity, dragging me along in their wakes, and the other students part for them, giving the Lords their berth.
“…more than just regular frat boys.”
I guess everyone is aware of that much.
Mutely, Killian walks me all the way to the building that houses my classroom, his hand on my ass like a brand with the way it squeezes when we pass a group of rowdy underclassmen boys.
The three of them stop at the steps and the hand clenches almost painfully as Killian jerks me close. I stumble into the solid wall of his body, the bulge in his pants unmistakable.
His fingers fist in my hair, forcing my gaze up to his. Blinking at his intense stare, I know we’re on display. Obviously, he wants everyone to know who owns me. He’d be less subtle if he whipped it out and pissed on me. I wonder if Ted has found us yet. I wonder if he’s watching this. I wonder how seeing this makes him feel.
“Don’t speak to anyone or walk anywhere alone,” Killian demands, eyes pinging down to my mouth. “Don’t trust anyone, including those Royal bitches.”
“I won’t.”
For a second, I think he might kiss me.
He doesn’t.
“Good girl.” He gives my ass another little squeeze, looking away to say, “Tris, you’re on Story duty. I won’t be home until late.”
I have to twist my fingers in his shirt to steady myself. I hate myself for needing to ask. “Do you want me in your room again?” He’d given me the order last night mere hours before bed. It’ll be better like this, knowing what to expect, being able to anticipate it and prepare myself.
He looks at me, the sharp edge of his jaw going tight. “Eleven. Before that, you can do whatever you want.”
Swallowing, I nod. “I’ll be there.”
He stills for a moment. There’s something contemplative about his eyes, even though the hard lines of his face remain unchanged. “One more rule, though.” This, he leans down to say into my ear, voice low and cutting. “From now on, you come to bed naked.”
My pulse stutters, but I’m getting used to the wash of shame that follows the hot twist in my belly.
He releases me, and it’s obvious that they expect me to walk into the building while they wait. I feel their eyes on me as I climb the steps, wondering how long it’ll take until Ted makes his move. Until then, I’ll have to carve out my own plan.
These three aren’t the only ones who can play games.
“I had them hold the sprouts,” Tristian says, sliding the tray in front of me. We’re in the dining hall, where I’ve waited at the table while he ordered our food. “I know you hate them.”
“Thank you.” I pick up the turkey and avocado sandwich and take a bite. “What did you get?”
Tristian is getting better at knowing what I’ll eat—what I like—and I’ve gotten better at seeing it as one of the scant benefits of my Ladyship. Word has it that the Princes coddle their Princess. Apparently they wait on her hand and foot. They pamper her. They worship her.
The Lords will worship nothing but themselves, but this may be as close as any of them get.
Taking a seat next to me, he removes the lid off a container, revealing a bowl of brown mush. “Lentil soup. It’s high in protein. I’m trying to bulk.” He holds out the spoon. “Want a taste?”
I pull a face. “No thanks. It’s all yours.”
“How did the morning go?” he asks. “Did you see any Royals?”
“No.” But that’s not entirely true. “Well, I saw Sutton, but I turned around and went the other direction.”
He throws an arm over the back of my seat, scoffing. “You don’t need to be afraid of her.”
“Oh, I’m not afraid,” I reply, my jaw going tight. “I’d actually really enjoy bashing her face in. But Killian said I couldn’t approach her, so I guess I have to follow orders.” I give Tristian a look that tells him exactly what I think of this.
He smirks, taking a big bite of mush. “He’s just being cautious.”
I roll my eyes. “I told you, I’m not as stupid and fragile as you guys think I am.”
“So you’ve been saying,” he says, giving me a calculating glance. “I’d heard you ran away from the boarding school. Why?”
Why? Well, a letter was waiting for me on my pillow that included a creepy note and current photos from my stalker.
Tell me? Are you still a virgin? I hope that by being at the all-girls school, you’re able to stay pure. I want to be the one that claims you. Now that I know where you are, I’ll be waiting and watching for my opportunity. I can be patient, for a bit…
I had to get the fuck out of there—fast.
“I just didn’t fit in,” I lie, picking at my crust. “I hated the teachers and the elitist attitude. An all-girls school meant constant drama. I just wanted out of there.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Then why didn’t you just come home?”
I glare at him. “Gee, I wonder.”
His mouth stills mid-chew, like he’s remembering. He’s apologized for what he did to me that night years ago. Forcing me to my knees. Making me swallow him down. But even though he’s said the words, it’s hard to believe he’s changed in any actual way.
“I was in a bad place…”
No one knows better than me that ‘bad places’ can pop up at any time. What happens next time Tristian finds himself angry and insecure? I can’t let myself forget that even though he’s nice now—even though he’s caring for me—Tristian is a razor-sharp edge that could cut me whenever the whim strikes him.
“Okay, but we’d graduated by then. Killian was out of the house. We were out here banging sorority pussy.” He shrugs. “You could have come home and picked back up where you left off.”
That was exactly the problem. Ted would have predicted it. Plus, Killian wasn’t the only Payne under that roof who proved to be an issue.
I push the remains of my lunch aside. “I wanted to be on my own.”
“You’re lying,” he says, sounding unimpressed. “Something happened. Something changed.” When I give nothing but a vague hum, he changes tack. “What did you even do when you left the school? Where did you live? How did you live? You were…what, barely eighteen?”
I think about lying here, too, but I don’t see the point. “I went to Colorado. Found an apartment with a couple of roommates. Got a shitty job waitressing at a diner in town.” Shifting uncomfortably, I add, “It wasn’t pretty, but I made it work.”
He leans back, mouth spreading into a devious grin. “A waitress, huh? Did you wear one of those cute little uniforms? Blue? Green? Mustard yellow?” He reaches down to…adjust himself. “Please tell me you served hot, delicious pie.”
My face screws up in distaste, even though my cheeks heat. “Shut up.” After a beat, I wryly add, “Like you’d ever lower yourself to eat something as trashy as diner pie.”
“Not in a million years,” he says, dragging a hand up my bare thigh. “But if I did, it’d be a nice, hot slice of cherry.”
I give him a bland look. “Really? This kind of flirting usually works for you?”
“Oh, Sweet Cherry,” he mutters, fingertips tickling my skin, “you have no idea.”
It’s pointless, anyway. If Tristian wanted me, he could have me. I wouldn’t have a choice. I’m at his mercy, always watching for a signal, waiting for the moment he forces me to my knees—to the place that’s haunted me for years now—looking up into his cold, emotionless eyes as he ruthlessly takes his pleasure from my mouth. It makes moments like these all the more fraught, as if some part of me will always be waiting to meet that harsh, malicious boy again. Sometimes, I wish he’d just get it over with. Rip off the Band-Aid. Free up some headspace for far greater worries.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Then the girls you go after really must be dumb.”
“Your tips were shitty, weren’t they?” His lips quirk into a smirk. “I bet they were. You’ve got a pretty bad attitude.”
“I’ll have you know my tips were excellent.”
“Hm, maybe.” He squeezes my leg. “You are a pretty fast learner, and I know from firsthand experience that your dedication to serving others is…” His eyes sparkle, mouth quirking. “…top notch.”
I hate the way my skin tingles from his touch. I’m mad at him—at all of them. They lied and manipulated me with their stupid little game. They got me to do things I never would have. Degrading, exposing, violating things. Yet all it takes is a little flirting and a gentle touch and I’m caught like a fly in a web. It’s stupid and reckless. I didn’t make it this far just to be the fly.
I want to be the spider.
“I’m a survivor, Tristian. That’s all. I get up every day and try to make it to the next. I work, study, serve. I do what I need to, even if I’m not always proud of it.” I peer across the room at a table of Royals. They’re beautiful and poised. Controlled. Tristian follows my gaze, and I don’t hide the sharp, steely thing that must harden my features. “I had to do things to make it on my own—primarily, not letting assholes get in my way.”
“Sounds like you were handling it.” He lets his hand slip away, reaching for his drink. “Why come back at all?” Despite the question, he sounds more surly than curious.
Shrugging, I say, “I wanted to take my life back,” and it’s not a complete lie. “Then Daniel offered me a chance at a college education, and it seemed stupid to pass up the opportunity.”
Tristian looks at me for a long moment, his features so sharp and painfully beautiful that I pick up my sandwich again just to give me something else to focus on. “You’re right,” he says, voice decisive.
“About what?” I ask around a mouthful of turkey.
“You are a survivor,” he answers, something firm and resolute coming over his features. “And if you want to get back at those bastards, you should get your shot.”
Pausing, I wonder, “What about the guys? They both said no.”
“Eh,” he says, draping his arm around the chair. “They don’t know you like I do. We’ll start small. Baby-steps.”
“What?” I stare at him wide-eyed, refusing to acknowledge the part about him knowing me best. “You mean it?”
“Yeah.”
“When?” A flicker of adrenaline licks up my spine and I clutch onto it for dear life.
He looks away, forehead creased in thought. “Tonight. After dark.”
He digs back into his soup, and suddenly I find my appetite has returned. Sitting around the Lords’ house, playing the victim, waiting on Ted’s next move, is going to drive me insane. This is real. It’s action. I have no doubt there will be consequences for what Tristian is proposing, but I’m tired of looking weak. I’m tired of feeling weak.
It’s time the Royals of Forsyth learn I’m not completely pathetic.
Especially my Lords.
“This is your car?”
There’s a shiny black Porsche idling at the curb in front of the brownstone. Tristian is behind the wheel, looking sexier than ever as he pops the door open and steps out.
“Yep.” He rounds the front, stopping at the passenger door. “Got it when I graduated. I keep it at my parents’ place, because the parking on campus is so shit-tier, but occasionally I take her out to play.”
I run my hand down the sloping, sleek exterior. It’s a glorious piece of machinery, no doubt. It’s clearly been impeccably kept. Carefully maintained. This is something Tristian values. “How many horses is it?”
He raises an eyebrow at the question. “Six-forty.”
Damn. I’m so focused on the car that I don’t take in Tristian’s clothing until I’m a foot away. He’s dressed in a tight, long-sleeved black shirt that’s stretching over his broad chest, and black jeans and boots. He grabs a black stocking cap and covers his fair hair with it, and for a moment, I’m at a loss for words.
Tristian always looks like such a golden boy around campus. No one knows better than me that it’s a lie. His blond hair and blue eyes, the charming grin, all his swagger and chilly politeness—these are all a predator’s bait.
But this? The dark shirt that outlines his lean, toned muscles. The frost in his eyes. The sharp lines of his jaw and the way he moves, economically and controlled.
This is the hook.
“I see you found something to wear.” Propping an arm against the roof of the car, he hems me in, one fingertip tracing the collar of my shirt. He hums in thought. “Remind me to have you dress as Cat Woman for Halloween. You look sexy as fuck dressed like this.”
I fight down a shiver, at least grateful that I’d managed not to completely embarrass myself. I’m wearing a mixture of Lords’ purchased clothing and my own. The black ripped jeans are mine, along with the scuffed, worn combat boots. But the shirt is from the closet—Rath’s choice, most likely—tight enough to fit like a second skin. Tristian pulls a matching cap out of his pocket and tugs it over my head, gently tucking my hair underneath. After giving me a once-over, he steps back and opens the passenger side door, sweeping a hand out.
I enter the car with far less reservation than I should, inhaling the scent of expensive leather and Tristian’s cologne, waiting for him to settle behind the wheel before asking, “Don’t you think this is all a little overkill?”
“Oh, sweetheart.” He cranks the engine, giving it a couple revs as he smirks at me. “I always know just the right amount of kill.” A chill runs down my spine at the cold, predatory flash in his eyes.
His hand grips the gearshift, and then he punches the gas, peeling out. Music fills the car, but it’s not that country shit Killian plays. It’s something dark and rhythmic, the bass squirming its way into the pit of my chest. Butterflies flutter in my stomach.
“So when are you going to tell me your plan?”
“First, we need to pick up a few things,” he says, getting on the highway and driving away from campus. Forsyth University is in town, but not downtown. “Basic supplies that can’t be traced back to either of us.”
He slams on the brakes and mutters, “Fucker,” at a car in the lane next to us as we’re merging off the road. The Porsche hums beneath us, smooth and with the barest vibration.
“She drives like a dream,” I say, running my hand over the dash. “You ever take her out on the road? Push her to her limits?”
“You’re one of those girls, huh?” His mouth quirks into a grin and he shifts gears. “My dad has a place out in the country. All back roads. Maybe I’ll take you sometime.”
He passes through the touristy part of town, with its quaint restaurants, specialty stores, and boutiques, to the side of town where the streets grow uneven and narrow, the buildings a mix of industrial and low-income housing. We pass a group of kids on the corner, and then a homeless encampment tucked under a bridge. In the middle of all this is a massive house—more of a mansion, really. It sits behind low walls and a gate, warm lights glowing like a beacon in the windows.
“What the hell is that?” I ask, peering out as we cross.
He looks over and chuckles. “GussyZ built that monstrosity for his mother. It was in foreclosure for a while but, but now it’s,” he tosses me an expression I can’t decipher, “a private business.”
Snorting, I joke, “You keep up with the South Side real estate market?”
He shrugs. “A little. We have diversified interests, but at the end of the day, we are Lords.” Giving me a grin, he elaborates, “Territory, little Cherry.”
It feels foolish to be down here in a car this flashy, but Tristian obviously knows where he’s going, zipping quickly down the streets until he makes a sharp turn into a dark warehouse parking lot.
“We came here for supplies?” I ask once we’re out of the car.
He turns on the car alarm with a sharp beep. “Yes.” He takes my hand like it’s nothing unusual, tugging me toward the building.
I glance between his strong, shifting shoulder and the warehouse. “What is this place?”
“Storage, mostly,” he replies. He approaches a door and deftly enters a password into a keypad lock. Seems a little upscale for the shitty surroundings, if you ask me. I know the Lords are involved in some kind of South Side ‘business’. Is this where it takes place?
The inside of the warehouse is dark when we enter, but Tristian reaches out knowingly, easily finding a switch. When the harsh flash of dim fluorescents blinks to life, I find we’re not in the larger building, but instead a smaller, square room.
Quietly, he orders, “Wait out here.”
I stand nervously as he turns away, striding into the room, and I can’t help but peer into the doorway. The room smells musty with oil and dampness. I watch as Tristian heads straight to a tall shelf against the wall, picking mechanically through supplies. Whatever this place is, it seems like he knows it well, not having to rummage much. As I follow his sure movements, the nearest shelf catches my eye. It’s stacked with identical little boxes, tidy and painstakingly organized, almost like something you’d see in a store. This doesn’t seem like mere supplies. It looks like a stockpile. I don’t need to go too far into the room to make out the large numbers and letters on the boxes.
It’s ammunition.
I jerk back, spine rigid as I watch Tristian heft a bag over his shoulder.
“I think I’ve got what we need,” he says. He’s carrying a gas can and a bottle of lighter fluid. God only knows what’s in the bag.
I eye the gasoline as we walk back out, feeling antsy and uncertain. I know Killian has a gun, of course. I’ve held it in my hand, have touched the cool metal and the heavy weight of it. But I just figured it was a macho power-trip thing.
I shiver at the sound of the door locking behind us. “You’re going to burn down their house?”
Tristian turns to me, arching an eyebrow. “Who’s overkilling now?” Shaking his head, he clicks the key fob, making the car chirp. “As much as I’d love to burn the Counts’ house down, I think this calls for something a little more subtle and a little less ‘attempted murder charge’.” The trunk opens, revealing a large plastic tub. He places the gas can and bottles inside. “I think just his car will do.”
The flicker of a memory, more like a rumor, makes me pause. senior year after Genevieve cheated on Tristian—a few days after he…
Well. The laundry room.
There was a fire down at the marina, and I heard the boys at school joking about it. They’d called Tristian a ‘firebug’. I left town a few days later, but now we’re here, and I have to ask, “You’re serious about this?”
“As a heart attack.” Slamming the trunk, he turns to me, face melting into an indecipherable silhouette of a sharp jawline. His head tilts as he watches me. “Is this too much for you? Because you told me you could handle it.”
“I can.” I frown down at the closed trunk, remembering that shelf of bullets. “It’s just…”
His fingers are warm on my jaw, his broad palm cupping my cool cheek. “Sweetheart, they hurt you.” His thumb moves against my skin, right in the place I was bruised. “They took you from us. They tied you up. They wanted to…” I see, feel, and hear the harsh exhale he releases at the idea of Perez raping me. “They wanted to damage what belongs to us. I’m a Lord, Story.” He tips down to press his lips to mine, chaste and gentle. “I’m your Lord. That means I have to make them pay. But if you’d rather me drop you back home first—”
“No,” I say, cutting him off. A ball of heat burns in my chest. It’s wrong, and I know it’s stupid, because these men don’t see me as a person. They see me as an object, as something that’s important only because they own it. Much like Tristian’s Porsche, I’m a possession he means to have impeccably kept, carefully maintained. It’s dehumanizing. But the Lords are also the only people who have ever fought for me.
And Tristian is the first who’s allowed me to fight for myself.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “Let’s do this.”
