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

by Angel Lawson

I’m not stupid. Last night, I fucked her like she was someone worth savoring. I fucked her like I wanted it so intensely, I didn’t even care if she realized it. I fucked her like I was getting a prize. All of that was true. 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.

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.

“Good girl.” She looks up at me through her lashes, so quick and demure that it could have been tailored for Killian himself. That’s the irony of it all, that Story unfolds so sweetly at the one thing Killian would never bring himself to give her; a simple word of praise.

Pressing my palm to her back, I inhale the scent of her hair. Softly, I answer, “I’d fucking kill them.” She nuzzles her cheek into my shoulder. “Okay.” Okay. It gives me an uneasy feeling, like I’ve just signed a contract I don’t know the terms to. It’s just so hard to care when she’s falling asleep against me, not flinching away at my touch.

There’s a large claw-foot bathtub at the end of the room, illuminated by only the light of the candles and the moon shining through the open window. The air is heavy with steam—steam and pungent smoke. Rath has his head tipped back. His eyes are closed, arms draped leisurely around the lip of the tub. In one hand, he’s pinching a blunt between forefinger and thumb. The fingers of his other hand are rising and falling against the porcelain, as if he’s following along to the melody coming through the speakers.

“It means the woods are lovely, dark and deep. But we have promises to keep.” Exhaling, I open my eyes to meet her stunned gaze. “And miles to go before we sleep.” “Robert Frost?” She gives me a slow blink. “You were listening earlier?” I reach out to snuff the blunt into a nearby tray. “Who wouldn’t listen to a beautiful girl reading them poetry? Just had this bitch of a headache. Like I said…”

I know I smoke too much, and the creative side of my brain works best when I’m full of vodka and too tired to see straight. I know that Van Morrison is a legitimate god, Debussy is overrated, and electronica can be really good in the right hands. I know that Killian and Tristian give me a dozen reasons to hate them every day, and that I’d take a bullet for either of them in a split second, without even having to consider it. Most of all, I know that wanting something and not being able to have it is nothing more than the mark of failure. Sweet Cherry is freezing me the fuck out. What I know, I know. Time to grease these goddamn wheels.

Tipping my mouth to her ear, I softly ask, “Would it be easier if I made it an order?” Her jaw goes taut, gaze dropping. I know what she’s about to say a moment before her lips part. It’s in the flash of shame that fills her eyes. “Yes.” Fucking called it. “Spread your legs, Lady.” Her thighs open for me. That’s the thing about Story. She likes what we do to her. She gets off on it.

“You’re right,” he says, after a long, pensive moment. He lifts my hand, holding my gaze as he presses a kiss to the cuff around my wrist. “You’ll let me give you your treat, though?” My face falls. “Oh.” He looks confused at the reaction, and then even more confused when I reached for his fly, asking, “You want it here?” He captures my wrist, frowning. “What are you doing?” “Didn’t you want…” I look at him, baffled. “You said you wanted my mouth.” His expression blanks out, and then he chuckles, low and mischievous. “Sweetheart, of course I want your mouth. But that wasn’t the treat I had in mind.”

I look at the keys, feeling my face crack with a reluctant grin. “There it is,” he whispers, brushing a knuckle under my chin. “Lay it on me, hm?” He taps his cheek, grinning like the cat who got the cream when I bounce up to give him a peck. “That’s my good girl. You think you can handle this thing?” I pluck the sunglasses from the collar of his shirt, putting them on. “I think I can manage.”

Okay, maybe Tristian isn’t the worst. For now.

He pitches forward to steal a slow kiss. The chaste nature of it is belied by the words he speaks next. “I’ve thought about tossing you on my bed and driving into you so hard that you cry out my name. I’ve thought about bending you over the edge of the couch—the one right over there—and making the other two watch as I take you. I’ve considered doing it a million different ways.”

Truth be told, Tristian is better at this than the rest of us. Taking care of what’s important. Keeping people happy. Protecting the things he cares about. I’d trust him with her life over anyone else. Even me.

He holds up a hand, voice even. “I know. But I also know she slapped you yesterday and you’re pissed off about Cartwright. You can’t control yourself, Killer.” He glances at Story, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. “I’m not going to let you hurt her. If you want to fuck her, then you’re right. I can’t stop you. But I’m also not leaving.”

My cock weighs heavily between my legs, the ache deep in my balls. The desire I feel for her, the all-consuming want… It never abates. It just gets worse. The guys call me obsessed. Addicted. Pathological. They’re probably right. Nothing this girl can give me will ever be enough. I should stop. I can’t.

I want her incapacitated like this because it’s the only time she can’t reject me. She can’t pick someone else over me. Not Tristian or Rath. Not the sugar daddies. Not my father. Only me.

Something was always missing with Gen. It wasn’t just the lack of eagerness to please me—she would never lower herself to suck my dick—it was also the lack of passion. Need. Devotion.

“I want to be inside you, Sweet Cherry. I want to feel what it’s like when you come on my dick, quivering around me.” I lick her lips, wet and obscene. “I want to feel you swallow me again. That hot mouth around my dick, taking everything I give you. I want to hear you struggling to breathe because you’re so full with me.” Her eyes look as hooded and captivated as mine feel. “But right now, I want to know that whatever you do, you’re doing it because you want to please me. Only me.” Pressing my thumb into her jugular, I demand, “I want to see your complete devotion. Show me.”

I have to pull her off my dick, fingers fisting tight in her hair. I forget about Genevieve and her lying, cheating, whore face the second my Sweet Cherry looks up at me, eyes wet and wide as she sucks on the tip of my cock. Humming, I give her hair a pulsing tug. “You’re such a good girl for me.”

It feels like it lasts hours, Story stuffing her throat with my cock until I wrench her back to hear her wet gasps. I tell her how good she is, and she holds my gaze before starting all over again. It’s messy and overindulgent, and it just might be the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.

I want to say I’m sorry again. I want to thank her. I want to tell her that what’s happening inside my head is just as messy as that blow job was, and I’m not sure where this is going, but I know I want to keep it. It’s not like it was with Gen. Story isn’t an idea. She’s terrifyingly tangible. But that’s too much, too confusing.

Tension builds in my lower belly, the force and speed and sheer intensity, creating a desire I didn’t know existed. “You’re mine,” he mutters against my lips. “Say it.” “I’m yours,” I choke out, the words lost as he punches the air out of me. “Don’t fuck with me, Story. Say it. Mean it.” We’re nose to nose. Something dark and fearful is in his eyes. “You’re mine.” I wrap my hands around his neck and tug at his hair. “I’m yours,” I say with ferocity. “I’m your Lady and you’re my Lords. I belong to you; body, mind, and soul.”

He kisses me, hard and bruising, and the ball of want explodes between my legs, coming out in a deep, shuddering cry. He slams his hips into me twice more, followed by a harsh groan. I can feel him filling me, his cock surging deep inside, but even hotter than that is the look on his face. Total rapture. Total rapture.

The look he gives me is hard, and his fingers dig into the soft flesh of my butt. I don’t know why I can’t stop pushing him. It only leads to pain and torment, yet I just keep going and going. He’s a bear I can’t stop poking, even though I know in the end I’ll be the one who gets mauled.

Killian nods and pushes me into the hall, slamming the door behind him. I open my mouth to say something—a ‘thank you’ or a ‘sorry’—but he doesn’t let me get a word out. Instead, he pushes me against the wall, his wade palm planted into my sternum. His face is stony, and I’d know that wild, unhinged look in his eyes anywhere. “Killian,” I say, fearing his retribution—a punishment for talking back to Nick. For talking to him at all. Instead, he crushes his lips against mine. The kiss is so hard, our teeth clash together painfully. I make a small, wounded sound into his mouth, but I can sense the rage pulsing under his skin, and I know he’s lost to his senses. His hand grips my jaw, my breast, and then my hip, wrenching my pelvis to his. It’s a crazed, possessive series of gestures, like he can’t decide how to best claim me. In a desperate attempt, I wind my arms around his neck, rubbing the hair above his nape in a soothing motion. And then I buck forward into his hardness.

Oof. That hint of a sparkle in his eyes at the way she looks at him? Killer Payne’s got it bad. I don’t know how she doesn’t see it.

Gaining Story’s approval is an uphill battle. Sure, I can make her gasp my name while she’s coming on my hand, but actual, genuine admiration? Fuck, maybe I should tone down my hatred of children. Shit. Maybe I’ve got it bad, too.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful.” Her breath stalls and maybe mine does, too. But even though I should take the words back, shove them deep inside and never let them see the light of day, I find I don’t want to. 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.

It’s nothing like I expected it to be. There’s no greed here among them. When Tristian lifts his head, Rath lets me go so Tristian can take my mouth. When Tristian tears away, he buries his face in my throat and sends me back to Rath’s waiting tongue. It’s sweltering and slippery and too crowded, and I can barely breathe with the way they’re passing my gasps back and forth. It’s almost too much to feel—to give—to take.

I don’t know what compels me to drag her into my chest. The truth is that I’m always on a knife’s edge with this girl. I either want to fuck her or kill her. Kiss her or kick her. Caress her cheek or yank her hair. It’s never made any sense to me, but it’s never had to.

Wrapping my arms around her waist, I lift her just enough to spare her feet as I walk her to the shower, sliding the glass door open and lowering her to the clean tiles. She goes easily when I peel our skin apart, because even after all these years, Story doesn’t cling. I wonder who made that square in her quilt. I wonder if it was me.

“Remember that one Easter?” I ask, sweeping the fold of her robe back to reveal her pebbled nipple. “It was right after you moved in. Dinner was fucking terrible. My dad was riding my ass about being nicer to your mom, and you—” Fuck, she was wearing this dress that killed me. It was a pale pink I could see right through when she stood in front of the dying sun. My balls were aching all day.

Tristian’s head hangs heavy on his neck as he gazes into the crackling fire, lifting his palms to the warmth. “They say if you care about something, you should let it go.” There’s a long beat of charged silence, and then he finally lifts his eyes to mine. “For the record, that’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. If you really cared about something, you’d put that shit behind lock and key and never let it out of your sight. I voted to make you stay.”

What do you buy someone after carving your initials into their flesh, jacking off onto their cheek, and then fucking them with the hilt of a knife and leaving them on the floor in a puddle of come, blood, and their own tears? 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.

She steps in front of me and I can’t look at her, because I don’t know what the beast inside me will do. It’s a tossup between throwing her in the back of my truck, kissing her black and blue and bloody, and clutching her to my chest and begging—fucking pleading—with her to stay here. To stay mine. To stay ours.

“Get your goddamn feet off the table, you degenerate. Spend three minutes in a fuck show and think you’re something special.” Rath presses the cold bottle to his forehead, legs falling heavy and limp to the floor. “It was more than three minutes.”

Killian tastes like vodka and moonlight, nights so quiet that anything more than a breath could shatter it.