Lords of Wrath (Royals of Forsyth University, #2)

by Angel Lawson

Now she needs to understand what that means. Her virginity might be off the table, but she’s still under our rule—under my rule—and now that I’ve gotten a taste for her, I’m not letting go.

I was foolish enough to think that, despite the contract and abuse, we’d developed a bond.

Every encounter I’ve had with the Lords was fake, from the meals Tristian so painstakingly chose for me to the soft, comforting safety of Dimitri’s bed.

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 ...

These three aren’t the only ones who can play games.

“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.”

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.

I might be theirs, but in some deep, fundamental way, they also feel like mine.

Mine to know. Mine to injure. Mine to beat.

They might think they’ve taught me subservience and deference, but mostly they’ve taught me I enjoy pushing my sexual boundaries.

But right now, I’m playing a game just as much as he is. He’ll get points. I’ll build equity. One day I’ll burn them all down, just like Perez’s prized car.

“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.”

Sometimes, it’s that one of them shows me something soft and incongruous, leaving me to face the reality that perhaps everyone—even these harsh, cruel men—are made up of both light and dark. But sometimes, it’s that one of them hurts me more, better, more perniciously, lowering the bar with every act of brutality.

“Mercer,” I say, using his last name, “in the last week, I’ve been kidnapped, lost my virginity to my stepbrother, set fire to a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar car, had a fucking tracker implanted underneath my skin, and was forced to organize a stupid homecoming charity event with the bitchiest girls on campus. Name one person here who deserves to get wasted more than me.”

It’s been days since I contacted Ted. He was supposed to be here by now. He was supposed to stop this. He was supposed to blow everything up and make it new. But maybe I’m the fool, always running and waiting and leaving my fate in the hands of small, awful men. For the first time in a long while, I realize that I’m sick of waiting. After all, if you want something done right, then do it yourself.

“I’m yours,” I say with ferocity. “I’m your Lady and you’re my Lords. I belong to you; body, mind, and soul.”

I’ve made her declare herself to me, give me her everything, and I’ve taken every piece for my own. But if there’s one person in the cab of the truck who owns the other, it’s her. I belong to Story Austin. And I’m pretty sure I always have.

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.

Hallmark doesn’t exactly make a fucking card for that.

The hard truth is that Tristian probably loves her. The harder truth is that maybe we all do.

I’ve got nothing but a phone, a gun, and a score to settle. He can fucking try me.