Killian snores. I hear it all night under my ear as his chest rises and falls. I didn’t realize he’d be so easy. All it took was some pretend sleeping, whispered names, a show of weakness, a little vulnerability, and some sweetly offered gratitude.
He fell asleep smelling my hair and skating his fingers up my spine.
I sleep in fits and bursts, unwilling to move from my spot against him. It’s the first time I’ve been touched like that—satisfied like that—and felt no remorse or shame. Killian didn’t trick me. I tricked him. I manipulated him into pleasuring me, and my stepbrother may be a monster, but he’s good at burying his face between my legs and bringing me off. My bones still feel mushy and full of phantom tingles.
Idly, I hope I can make him do it again.
Soon.
I leave just before dawn, not because I want to, but because it’s what he’ll be expecting. Truthfully, I could play with him a little more, see if I can get him to do that thing with his tongue again. But it wouldn’t do to put it on too thick.
I finally get my shower, standing under the steam, and it’s different from yesterday morning. I don’t feel like I’m reclaiming my body. It was never anything but mine. It’s a thrill so intense that my hand wanders down, wet and slick, to the place between my thighs. I exhale into the steam as I push against my clit, replacing the memory of Killian’s tongue with my own touch.
I freeze when I realize what I’m doing.
I think I might be horny.
Not because some creep is forcing me to be, but just because it feels good. I wait for the rush of humiliation and shame, but all I feel is the thrum of my heartbeat, eager and waiting.
Still, rules are rules.
That’s what I tell myself as I duck out of the shower, reaching for my phone. But this has nothing to do with obedience. I open up the group chat and type out my request.
Lady: Good morning, Lords.
Lady: I need permission.
I was up earlier than them, so I have to wait a few minutes to get any response. I spend it choosing my outfit for the day, almost regretting that I’d destroyed all those cute dresses Killian had chosen for me. It would have been the perfect play, dressing for him after what happened last night. That may be too much…
I dress for Tristian again, instead.
Finally, my phone dings with a response.
Lord Tristian: Permission for what?
Lady: I’d like to…enjoy myself.
Lord Tristian: Are you asking if you can get yourself off?
Lady: Yes. Please.
Lord Tristian: Can I watch?
Lord Dimitri: denyed.
I stare down at Rath’s badly misspelled message, anger swelling hot in my chest. He’s still mad that I chose Killian over him. If I plan to get my revenge, then I’m going to need to smooth that over. The idea of bowing and scraping to him makes my stomach roil, though. It’s harder with him than it is with the others. Tristian has a cruel streak that I don’t want to see myself on the wrong side of, but in his own strange, twisted way, he cares for me—even if it’s just as a prized possession. Keeping Killian close was always going to be a tall task, but the more I do it, the less terrifying it feels.
But Rath was the first to break a little piece of my heart.
Since I won’t be getting off any time soon—and I’m not stupid enough to believe they wouldn’t know if I did—I check my old email out of habit. I’ve been refreshing the inbox for the last three days, waiting for a response from Ted. I’d sent that picture hoping to provoke him. I’d cuddled up to Killian last night to make sure he’d still be a viable defense against him. I’ve made a dozen small, yet monumental moves to position the four of them at each other like cruise missiles. It’s a dangerous game, a decision made impulsively, but there’s no backing out of it now.
My blood still turns to ice when I see the email in my inbox.
I drop like a sack of rocks to the foot of my bed, and the spots at the edge of my vision are the only thing that alerts me to the fact I’m holding my breath. I let it out in a choppy exhale, thumb trembling as I open the email.
Did you think I’d be surprised, Sweet Cherry? I’m not. Of course you’re a whore. You could have been cherished, but you’d rather be used like a cheap hole. I saw it in you all those years ago. Always flaunting yourself around, giving your body away to all those old men, making eyes at the younger men. Foolishly, I thought I could sway you to reason. Now I know the truth. You’re no better than the other trash.
Such a waste. You really were such a sweet, pretty thing. Now you’re just another slut looking for your next deposit. You want to know what I plan to do about it? Very well.
I take my restitutions in flesh.
TED
I read it over three times, the reality of it all becoming too real. This isn’t some intangible strategy that’s been brewing in my mind. This is playing with something hotter than fire, sharper than a blade. For a brief moment, I’m overtaken by a wave of pure, bone-numbing terror.
It doesn’t last long.
This was always the way it was meant to be. Killian, Tristian, Rath, Ted…they all deserve whatever fate awaits them. If I can keep playing the game, then there’s a chance I can win. And if I lose?
It’s better than rolling over and just accepting defeat.
The guys, all of them, are gone when I get downstairs. It’s mostly a relief, since I’m still off balance from receiving the email, and I’ve completely lost the thread of action regarding Killian. How should I act around him? Should I sit in his lap? Should I give him a kiss? Somehow, I doubt either would be welcome or subtle enough to go under the radar.
“They’re off handling Lords business this morning,” is what Martin tells me as I take my place at the table. Whatever the rush may have been, it didn’t stop Tristian from making sure I get a nutritional breakfast.
“Here,” Ms. Crane says, dropping a plate of something white, green, and gross looking in front of me. “Don’t ask me what the brown slop is. Ignorance is bliss.” Watching me, she says, “Well? Down the hatch, missy! I’m not about to hear that fucker’s bellyaching when he finds out his precious little fucktoy didn’t get her minerals and vitamins.”
“Any chance there’s a Pop-tart in the kitchen?” I ask, pulling a face at the bland egg white omelet. I pick at it with my fork, revealing spinach and some kind of fake meat substance. That must be the slop. “Even a toaster waffle? A bowl of cereal?”
“This is what I was told to serve you,” she says.
“And you always do what you’re told?” I ask, genuinely curious. “That doesn’t really seem like you.” The more I think about it, the more I wonder about the dynamic. Ms. Crane doesn’t have a problem back-talking them, and they don’t have a problem taking it. Yet, she still follows their orders.
She gives me a smile that’s more derisive than anything. “Having ourselves a little rebellious streak, are we? How cute.”
Shrugging, I offer, “Maybe it’s not rebellion. Maybe it’s just about integrity.”
“Integrity?” She barks a rough laugh. “God, spare me from another pretty fucktoy crying about her integrity. Want to know where integrity will get you? Nowhere, doing jack shit. People in the gutter have integrity. I’ll take a roof over my head and a safe place to sleep, any day. Survival means sacrifice. You should know that better than anyone at this point, little girl.”
She’s probably right.
I pick up my fork and stab it into the gummy eggs. The menu is only half the problem. Ms. Crane isn’t a very good cook, so the eggs are overcooked, the spinach is a wilted gray, and the brown slop is not remotely identifiable. I’m about to take the first bite when the fork is yanked from my hand.
“Just forget it.” She jerks her head, her wrinkled lips all pursed into a scowl. “Follow me, little fucktoy.”
She moves quickly, and I jump from my chair, rushing after her into the kitchen. She dumps the plate into the sink and enters the pantry. The Lords’ pantry isn’t a standard small closet lined with shelves of food. It’s an entire room with enough food to feed an army barrack. It’s not surprising. She feeds three ravenous men, plus the rest of the frat several times a week. She might not be a good cook, but she still has to do a lot of it.
Ms. Crane stops at a shelf holding industrial sized packages of basics like salt, sugar, and flour. She reaches behind a container of rice and flips a small lever. A moment later the door swings open, revealing a second room.
“What’s this?” I ask, following her in. The room is cozy, with a comfortable-looking chair and a nice TV mounted above a desk. Bookcases line the wall. There’s a small, separate kitchenette, and doors throughout—perhaps a bedroom and bathroom. She walks over to one cabinet and pulls out a cheerfully colored box of cereal.
“Milk is in the fridge,” she grunts, grabbing me a bowl and spoon. I open her refrigerator and pull out the carton, marveling at the living quarters. She nods at everything set up on the counter. “Go on, fix yourself a bowl.” Lower, in a grumbling tone, she adds, “Getting fucking soft.”
I do as I’m told. “Do you live here?” I ask, pouring a generous bowl of the sugary cereal, then covering it with milk. The first bite is a burst of precious, sweet, unhealthy heaven.
She nods at another door. “Through there.”
Shoveling more cereal into my mouth, I muse, “I didn’t know this house had secret rooms and stuff.”
Her eyebrow arches. “There’s a lot about this house you don’t know.”
She’s right again, although I learn more every day. Like the cameras and the locks that don’t actually work. I chew my cereal slowly, savoring the sugary mix. “Is there anything else I should know about? You know, to help be a better Lady to my Lords?”
She shrieks an abrupt laugh. “Don’t bother putting that act on for me, girl. I’m not a dick-brained frat boy.” Shaking her head, she pulls a pack of cigarettes from her cardigan, tapping them on the small table. “They’re men. Men are simple. All they want is a nice pair of legs to spread and a mouth that opens for something other than yammering. They want nice tits and a tight, slippery stroke to their egos. Be a pretty little fucktoy for them. They’ll eat that shit up with a spoon.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” I say, putting my bowl down. The title is quickly destroying my appetite.
She mockingly puts a hand to her chest. “Do you want me to dress it up, Lady?”
“No,” I argue, stomach sinking at the meanness. “I just like to think I exist for something other than…that.”
“Not to them, you don’t.” She plucks a cigarette from the pack, pinching it between her two forefingers. She uses it to point at me. “You take the parts of yourself you like—the parts you want to keep for yourself—and you lock them away when those dogs are around. You become their little fucktoy, and you get good at it.”
“That sounds so…” I grimace, pushing my cereal around in my bowl. “Awful.”
“You know what your problem is?” she asks, sitting in a chair. “You think it’s bad. You look down on it because you’re stuck-up. You think you’re better than the other fucktoys. This is all very beneath you, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think—”
She cuts me off. “Of course you do. You’re not stupid, are you?” The arch of her eyebrow is shrewd. “Truth is, I say it with affection. Probably the highest compliment I can lower myself to give. The most power you’ll ever have over a man is when you’re on your knees for him. Get his dick hard and you’ve got him in the palm of your hand. That’s what I was meaning before about using that thing between your legs.” She points her cigarette toward my crotch, sniffing. “You got that young pussy. Might as well put it to use while it’s still fresh and interesting. Quality cunt’s got a shelf-life, believe you me.”
I gape at her, my face blooming with warmth. “You’re kind of crass, you know that?”
“I don’t need you to tell me I’m crass, little fucktoy. I know.” She looks at me, eyes full of something that could only be called softness on her, and I possibly see it now. The affection in it. The compliment. Holding my gaze, she admits, “I know a lot about what goes on around here.”
Swallowing thickly, I’m startled by the awareness in her eyes. “Like what?”
“I change the sheets, girl.” She gives me a dark smile, uncaring of the way my face pales. “I collect their dirty laundry, and then I wash it. You can take that as literally as you please.”
In that heartbeat, I realize the truth of it. She does know everything. Every sordid detail. She knows about the game they played for my virginity and what Killian does to me at night. She knows about Rath’s manipulations and Tristian’s control. But she must also realize I’m a survivor, just like she is.
“Oh.”
She flicks a hand dismissively. “Nothing shocks me anymore. He tear you up? God knows he’s been riding you every night since.”
Stuttering, I answer, “I-I’m fine.”
She clicks her tongue. “Young pussy might be resilient, but I’m still seeing some blood on those sheets. Don’t bullshit me.”
“Look, no offense,” I tell her, shifting uncomfortably, “but this is kind of…private.”
She rolls her eyes. “You think I want the gory details about that meathead fucking you raw? I might have a bit of a soft spot for him, but I could do without it.” Sniffing, she picks up a lighter. “Like we’ve already established, I do what I’m told.”
I realize then that she’s been ordered to ask me about this. By whom—Tristian, Killian, or Rath? From the brashness of her gaze, I doubt the question would be answered. “It’s a little rough,” I confess, throat dry. “But I think…I think it’s getting better.”
“Finally learning how to tame your stallion, eh?” She cackles a laugh. “Good for you. Better give that thing a rest for a night, though. And if it gets—hey! Look at me, girl.” Her voice is firm, brooking no argument. She waits until I meet her gaze to say, “If it gets too rough, you come down here and tell me, you hear?”
Face flaming, I mutter out a quick, “Yes, ma’am.”
She opens a drawer and pulls out a small plastic container filled with white powder, pushing it next to my bowl. “Run yourself a warm bath—warm, not hot. Add this to the water and let it dissolve. I’ll help with the swelling and any tearing.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“Eat,” she says, never lighting the cigarette, “and don’t tell that big blond prick I gave you something out of a box. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I scoop the last few spoonfuls into my mouth, eager to leave. “Thank you.”
I clean up and grab my school bag, searching the house for Martin. I’ve never gone to school alone and after already disobeying Tristian’s food orders for the day, I don’t want to make any missteps.
I find him in the library, talking to a guy I recognize as a LDZ member. He’s also one of Killian’s teammates, and I take a moment to remember his name; Marcus. They’re standing by a white board mounted to the wall. It’s organized into a grid with names in one column and stars in the others. Each name has a different number of stars—some have none, some have a couple, and others have a dozen. A number is totaled at the bottom.
“Last night,” Marcus is saying to Martin, his mouth spread into a grin. “It should be worth a solid ten points.”
Points.
An unsettling churn builds in my stomach. The Lords accrued points to determine who won my virginity. All of their points were earned by manipulating me—getting me to do things, sexual acts, favors, kindnesses. I had no idea it was going on until after I had sex with Killian. That’s when I saw the spreadsheet on his computer. I stare at the whiteboard, unable to avoid the memory of that night. The betrayal and shame. The knowledge that I’d been duped.
This chart is similar, but different. Bigger. Is there a larger game going on? Am I still part of it?
Unnerved, I turn to leave the room, bumping into an end table in my haste. A plaque topples over and clatters loudly against the wood.
Fuck.
“Ah, Lady,” Martin says. “I was hoping you’d find us.” I turn, knowing the surprise must be registering on my face. He wanted me in here? “Marcus will escort you to campus today since the Lords are unavailable.”
Marcus waves, and I give him a tight smile. “Great. Thank you.”
“Are you ready?” he asks, lifting his backpack off the ground.
“Yes, whenever you are.”
I take one last look at the board, trying to get a better sense of what game they’re playing, but it doesn’t have any specifics—just a lot of code. I shouldn’t be surprised. The Lords aren’t dumb enough to leave valuable information out in the open. At the same time, it doesn’t exactly seem like they’re keeping a secret.
Marcus drives a truck like Killian, and as I sit in the front seat I build up the courage to ask, “What was that board for in the library?”
He glances over, fast and wide-eyed. Anxious. Could be from being near me, the Lord’s prized Lady, or from the question. “Oh, that? Just a frat thing.”
“It looked like a points system.” I keep my voice even. “Is it a game?”
“Yeah, kind of.” Marcus is a handsome junior who’s almost as physically intimidating as Killian. Unlike my stepbrother, however, he has a soft face and kind eyes. “You know how the different Royal frats have a rivalry, right?”
Scowling out the window, I mutter, “Intimately.”
“Well, every year the frats compete against one another,” he explains, not seeming bothered by the explanation. His anxiety must be about me. “Points are given for different things.”
“Like sleeping with girls?” I ask, feeling sick. “Virgins?”
He cuts me a glance, forehead creasing. “Uh, there’s a tally for that, sure. But it’s small fries in the grander scheme.”
Strange. That spreadsheet I saw didn’t seem like small fries at all. He could be lying. I doubt he’d want to be the one who informs me just how much of a little fucktoy I am. Curious, I wonder, “Then what do you do to earn points?”
“The Lords haven’t told you about all this?” he asks, looking more confused than anything.
“There’s been a lot to take in,” I say, smiling bitterly.
Shrugging, his words come out casually. “Some stuff is just tradition. Stealing something from a rival’s house. Sabotaging a Baron ceremony. Winning the annual boxing match against the Dukes. Sneaking a girl into the Prince’s masquerade party. Every frat has their thing.”
I blink at him, completely lost. “Their thing?”
“You know, like how the Lords have territory. The Barons have their freaky, dark shit. The fighting Dukes. The Princes and their—” He gives me a sharp glance, lamely finishing, “Prince…stuff.”
There’s something he’s not telling me.
There’s a lot he’s not telling me.
Narrowing my eyes, I ask. “What’s the prize?”
“Internally?” He looks nervous again. “The top three winners get to be the reigning Lords, live in the house, and keep a Lady.”
“And externally?”
“Well, duh,” he says, laughing. “The people leading the winning frat get to be the Kings.”
“The Kings of what?” I worry at first he won’t answer, what with all the anxious fidgeting, but oddly, this answer comes easier than any of the others.
He pulls onto campus, tossing me a smirk. “Everything.”
