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

by Angel Lawson

A dirty reminder of what I took. What she owed me. How poetic.

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.

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. He looks loose and unguarded, hair so haphazardly damp that it’s clearly the product of his wet hand having pushed through it at some point.

Lifting the blunt to my mouth, I take another drag, thinking. “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.”

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.

That’s enough for me—you’re enough for me. I didn’t say that to hurt you. I said it to free you.” The smile that comes over his face is sharp and bitter and full of viciousness. “But I’m not enough for you, am I? That’s the real rub.

Rath snorts. “You’re such a drama queen.” “I’m a drama queen?” Tristian whirls on him, eyes flashing. “I’m not the one who snuck out at two in the morning to decorate a nursery in cow’s blood! No one’s a bigger drama queen than you, Rath.” Rath rolls his eyes, reaching out to spin a finger in Tristian’s direction. “Don’t point your boner at me.”

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