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

by Angel Lawson

If you are a family member or friend, thank you for your support but please shut this book and never open it again. This book is a work of nightmares.

“Go upstairs and get ready for bed.” She pauses, eyes flicking to the clock on the stove. It’s only nine. “You…want me to go to bed?” That tone—uncertainty laced with disbelief—is the first actual glimpse of her I’ve seen since last night. I stab my fork into the casserole and blow on it, calmly announcing, “You’ll be sleeping in my bed from now on.”

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.

I never did things like wear makeup or buy pretty new clothes. I lived out of a duffel bag, uncaring of how it looked. In short, I survived. Since being back, it’s been different. I put in the effort—not because I care about looking pretty, but because looking pretty is now a part of that survival. The shiny hair. The makeup. The clothes. These are tools. When I first came here, the sight would meet in the mornings like an alarming surprise each time I looked in the mirror, this new awareness that I’m playing a part. But at some point, that awareness wore off. Now when I look at my reflection, I just see someone who’s squirmed their way into a costume they’ve forgotten they’re wearing.

In books and movies, there’s the thing a girl does when she loses her virginity. She looks in the mirror, searching for a physical change, some tangible mark of the transition from girl to woman. It’s dumb, and it’s not real, but I find myself doing it anyway, trying to reconcile this person I’ve become; the girl who walked into my stepbrother’s room last night and emerged this morning a woman.

It took me a long time to see it, but now that I do, it seems like having sex with Killian was always strangely inevitable. It was right in all its wrongness, just like these clothes I’m wearing—inappropriate yet perfectly tailored. After all, we’ve been drawn to one another like the hammer to a head of a nail since the night we met over dinner with our parents. The prize of my virginity was something I leveraged to protect myself, but I knew that w...

That’s not what’s spinning me around. Not the pressure of Killian inside of me, pushing past the barrier I’d held intact for so long. Not the fact he was kind of nice about it. Not even the fact that, despite all my resistance, he somehow made it feel not horrible. No, that’s not what’s changed me the most. It’s finding out how hard they played me. I agreed to be their willing slave, but knowing I’ve been an unwilling pawn in their stupid, childish games has lifted a veil. I was foolish enough ...

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. Sure, I’ve been hiding my motive for coming here—for protection from my stalker, Ted—but I signed that contract and I agreed to be their Lady. I stopped fighting back. There for a minute, it’d really felt like things had shifted. It’d seemed as ...

I stare at the woman in the mirror. The one who just made Killian dinner. The one who’s dressed for his bed. I’m wearing white, sheer lingerie picked out by one of these three sociopaths. I force myself to see the authentic person...

I’d met Ted back when I was playing as a sugar baby in high school. I only did it because I was trying to escape Killian and his pervy father, Daniel. Ted worshiped me. Stalked me. Tormented me. He was obsessed with having me and he would go to any length to keep me pure. Jack, my old roommate, is proof of that. When Ted found out we were close, he killed him, which is why I knew sending him that text last night was firing the first shot. Ted now knows what Killian took from me, that he made me bleed. And I’m not exactly sure what he’ll do to the Lords, but I know it’ll make them regret toying with me. Until then, I’ll keep to the rules of the contract and be their Lady. I’ll play Tristian’s mind games and help Rath with his schoolwork. I’ll even spend my nights in Killian’s bed. And then…when Ted is ready to make his move, I’ll watch them burn.

I lie under the blankets and stare at the perfect line of his shoes against the wall beneath the window, and I shiver, tugging the blanket up. There’s no music. The only noise I can make out is the faraway hum of traffic. I’m not sure how long I lie there, listening. Waiting for the sound of his footsteps. Wondering what he’s going to do to me. Wishing there were somewhere safer in this house to be, even though any bed here is an invitation to shame and hurt.

It shouldn’t be so easy here, in this uncomfortable bed, in this cold room. And yet, curled on my side, I find my eyelids falling, the phantom tug of exhaustion pulling me under. It’s effortless to give into it, to hand myself over to the mindless drum of slumber. I don’t know how long I’m like that, but I know I dream. I dream of quiet breaths that tickle the skin below my ear. A cloud of masculine scent, so thick that I might choke on it. A fingertip against my bottom lip, parting my mouth. Sounds of ticking clocks and rustling fabric. The brush of a hand against my thigh. Cold air and the prickle of my gooseflesh. I dream of whispered words I remember all too well. “Yeah, you fucking like it.”

The dream is thick and hazy, so full of sensation that I can’t help but arch into it. I’m aware I’m dreaming of Killian, of his breath on my neck, of his body being so close that the heat radiates from his skin. I should be disgusted, revolted, cringing away and rousing myself, but the last thing I want to do is wake up. This is the only place that’s safe anymore, lost inside my dreams, letting myself acknowledge the desires that only ever seem to bring me shame and suffering.

There’s a rustle, the whisper of a hard exhale, and then Killian’s voice behind me. “You’re dreaming about it, aren’t you?” he’s saying, something both warm and cold—a tongue—grazing the skin above my jugular. “You’re dreaming about being split open on my dick.” My belly twists with want at the words, at the memory, and I sink deeper into the phantom hands on my body, teasing and toying with my nipples. I can sense the strength in the fingers that tuck below my bottom, fisting into the crotch of my panties, yanking it aside, exposing my heat to the cold. Knuckles against my backside. Fingertips sliding through my folds, prodding, exploring. I unthinkingly push back, seeking the warmth and touch, my breaths coming faster. It’s a good place to be, indulging in the build of my thrumming pulse, the quiver in my thighs, the softness of the whispered words against the shell of my ear. “Because you’re mine, now.” I don’t really understand it at first—the pressure against my entrance, the heat of all the skin pushing against my back—until the first sting of pain comes. I think I make a sound, but I feel it more than I hear it. It’s small and pained, but mostly surprised. This is supposed to be a better place. A place without the hurt and agony. “Shh. You’re still dreaming,” the voice is saying, the pressure digging deeper. “Your pussy’s fucking soaked. That’s how much you want this.” A hand grabs my thigh from behind, pushing it forward, rolling me almost completely to my stomach...

He unleashes with a sharp, guttural growl—the sound of an animal catching his prey. It’s a sound I’m now familiar with, one that will end the physical pain but still leave a wound.

leaving me with a vivid awareness. My mouth parts on a soft gasp. “Dimitri…” Killian goes rigid, even as his cock begins to soften inside of me. His chest heaves as he suspends there, nothing but the sounds of his harsh breaths filling my ear. There’s a long moment where nothing happens, and then he shifts, slipping free and falling away, landing on his back at my side. The anger radiates from him just as plainly as the cum dripping down my thigh, and for the first time in days, I let myself smile. It hardens just as fast. “I’ve thought about doing this…” Flashes of Killian in my room flicker through my mind. The sensation of being watched. Him sitting in the chair. Jerking off. Standing inches away. Things that I’ve always assumed were dreams, a lot like this one, but far more vague. Killian holding himself, stroking himself, tracing my mouth with his fingertip. The sensation of a tongue against them. Waking up with sticky lips and tasting salt and flesh on the back of my tongue. It’s going to take more than another man’s name on my lips to even this score.

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.

rankles,

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

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.”

I know it’s just another way they’ve got my hindbrain all twisted up with their mind games, but the thought strikes me that the Lords are better than the Counts. It’s deranged and oddly possessive, but so strong that I shiver. I might be theirs, but in some deep, fundamental way, they also feel like mine. Mine to know. Mine to injure. Mine to beat.

apoplectic

“Fucking asshole,” I mutter. “Should’ve lit him on fire.” Tristian’s chest bounces with a laugh. “Oh, we’re not done with him yet, sweetheart.” He shoots me a crooked grin. “But yeah, that was fucking satisfying.”

“Thank you for letting me come along.” His knuckles go white around the gearshift. “Feel better?” “I shouldn’t,” I say, keeping with the act, “but I really do. Those guys are the worst.” We’re coming up on the highway and I tug at the hair on his neck. “Take the back road back to the house.” His eyebrow quirks. “What for?” “Take the back road,” I repeat. “Since you’ve been really good to me the last few days and let me tag along, I thought maybe I could…express my appreciation.”

She stares at me, unblinking, as I push my thumb between her lips. It takes her a moment, but she closes her mouth around it, eyes dropping as her red cheeks cave with a hesitant suck. My dick twitches. “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.

Killian takes a breath and shoves his fingers through his hair, clearly struggling to compose himself. This guy’s short fuse is going to give him an aneurism one of these days.

But looking at her, all of that annoyance melts away. I’ve always had a penchant for tidiness. Compulsive, some might say. But nothing ever feels quite right until everything is in its place. I get this annoying, nagging fucking awareness when something is out of sorts. Can’t help it—don’t want to. Because that moment when things slot together, falling into how they ought to be, is better than sex. It slides down my spine like a warm caress, settling into the center of my bones and twining around the marrow. That’s how I feel right now, seeing Story in my bed. This is her place. This is where she belongs. Why can’t anyone else see it?

Tonight, I reach out and run a single fingertip up the smooth line of her leg. So much better than last night, with that ridiculous lingerie Tristian had picked out for her. I wouldn’t mind sharing her with them if I thought they really appreciated her. But they’re both so goddamn intent on dressing her up like a little slut. They want to erase her softness and sweetness, and replace it with red lips and lace and artificial bullshit. Girls like that are a dime a dozen. It’s like buying a premium steak, and then cooking it well-done and squirting ketchup on it. So wasteful.

I drag my hips away just to plunge deeper, and just like the other times, I get this white-hot moment of utter chaos inside my brain. It’s the part of me that wants to fucking rip her apart. It wants to dig my fingers into her flesh and mark her with my bruises. It wants to fuck her hard and brutal, make her bleed with how badly I need to claim her. It wants to take her apart, piece by piece, until it can be covered with her. And then it wants to put her back together again. So, so carefully. I know this is the part of me that scares her. Fuck, this shit scares me, too. There’s nothing worse than not being in control, guided like some mindless slave by the wild, thrashing thing that wants to hurt and stroke and own. It’s the reason she can never want me—love me—accept me. If she knew how many times I shoved it down, curled my fists and let her go, then maybe she could forgive me for the times I couldn’t. But probably not.

There’s a dip of the mattress before our skin meets, a cool cheek pressing into my shoulder. It startles me, my muscles tensing at the sudden invasion, but for some reason I can’t do anything but lie there as Story nestles into my side. My eyes fly open, gaping at the top of her head as she settles against me, a knee dragging over my thigh, her soft tits pressing into my ribs. “Thank you,” she whispers, resting her hand on my chest. I stare at her hand, at the raggedly bitten thumbnail, at the wrist cuff that marks her as our property, at the way her fingers curl against my skin. And my tongue won’t work. It’s stuck to the roof of my mouth, melded in some impossible fucking way, because in no universe would Story be cuddling me right now. I get this instant, lightning-fast swarm of thought. Maybe Tristian was right all along. Maybe Prince tactics work. Maybe all it takes is the smallest act of kindness, even made in spite, and she’ll latch onto it with a death grip. Maybe we’ve broken her. Maybe she’s dumber than I thought. Maybe she could be mine. Slowly, reluctantly, I slide my hand from behind my head and ease it around her, daring to skate my fingertips across her bare back. It’s a wary, testing movement, more about me than her. Is this even something I want? Do I want to feel her, warm and sleepy against my side as we sleep? Do I like it? Is it good? Well. It’s not bad. Quietly, she asks, “You wouldn’t let anybody hurt me, would you?” “What?” There’s this pebbl...

Daniel has to know by now that Story is our Lady. After the football game and dinner with Killian and Story, there’s no way his dad missed the bracelet. Knowing Killer, he probably agreed to dinner that night to show her off to him, stake his claim, make it known. The pissing contest these two have had over her is legendary.

Daniel grew up three blocks away in a housing project owned by the city. He was raised on the streets and watched his friends either go to jail or die young and hungry. He didn’t want that. He got an education. He clawed his way out, ruthless as ever. Then he came back to take care of the people left behind. Despite the antagonistic relationship between him and Killian, he’s determined for his son to have a vested interest in the community. There was never any other option for Daniel’s son. Killian was born to be a Lord. To own. To have. To keep.

Machiavellian,

“Whoever started that fire used my materials. They brought an outsider into my warehouse—a girl, from the looks of it. They compromised my organization, I assume in some effort to get between her scrawny little legs.” He squeezes Tristian’s neck, hissing into his ear, “That road head better have been worth it. Right, son?” “Yes, sir,” Tristian replies, and even though his poker face flawless, I can see the flash of dread in his eyes. How the fuck would Daniel know about Story giving him road head? Daniel releases him with a barely restrained shove before stalking back to his desk, tossing the phone with a clatter. “You remember that little talk we had your senior year, Mercer?” Tristian dips his chin in a nod. “I do.” “I hope so,” Daniel says, pinning him under a glare. “Because your inability to choose pussy has caused more property damage than a goddamn wildfire. You’re still in my debt for covering up that incident with the boat. You just remember that, too.”

Still, it’s strange seeing him like this, knowing that mere hours ago I’d been tucked into his side, our naked skin melding together. It wouldn’t have occurred to me at the time, with all his stiffness and blank-eyed looks, but I see it now for what it was. Possibly, that was as soft as Killian gets.

Cartwright looks at me again, but this time his eyes narrow, head tilting curiously. “You look familiar. Have we met before?” “No,” I blurt, taking a step back. “I don’t think so.” “You’re probably right. I’d definitely remember a pretty little—” His eyes catch on something. My wrist cuff, I realize. Seeing it makes his lips turn up at the corners. “—Lady like you.” His attention is drawn to something over my shoulder, and I whirl around at the sound of footsteps. I’m so relieved at the sight of Marcus loping toward us down that it makes my head spin. “Your boyfriend?” “No,” I rush out, taking another step. “Just a friend.” From the look in his eyes, he already knew the answer. “Be careful with these boys,” he says softly, eyes tracking my slow retreat. “We spoil them in the football program. They’re not used to hearing the word ‘no’.” Quietly, he adds, “Payne, especially.” Marcus approaches then, nodding in greeting. “Sir.” Cartwright squares his shoulders, plastering on a big grin. “You ready for the homecoming game this weekend, son?” “Yes, sir.” Cartwright gives him a firm nod. “Good to hear. You two have a pleasant afternoon.” I don’t breathe until we’re back in the stairwell, trying to shake the tremors from my hands. I push the candy bar at Marcus. “Here, take it.” Marcus looks confused, but does as he’s asked. “You don’t want it?” I shake my head and start up the stairs. “I think I’ve lost my taste for sweets.”

“My head is killing me. Just tell me what to write.” I stare at him. “You want me to tell you what to write.” He stares back. “Yes.” “And then write it for you.” His tongue peeks out to prod his lip ring. “Yes.” “And then read it aloud, so you know what it says.” He sweeps out a hand. “Exactly.” Sighing, I push the laptop away. “Maybe I should turn it in for you, get the grade, and collect your whole fucking degree while I’m at it.” It’s too sharp—too insubordinate—but I can’t seem to get a handle on these feelings. I hate that he was able to hurt me so badly. I hate it more than I hate him. From across the room, Tristian makes a sound, low and strained like an aborted chuckle. Rath fixes me with a tight look, asking, “What’s got your panties in a twist?” “You have to put in some work here, Rath!” There’s this instinctual response to the way he straightens, a grim darkness falling over his features that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. The spite pumping through my veins overpowers it. “I’ve made this as easy as possible, but you’re not even listening. You probably couldn’t even tell me what the last poem was about.” Annoyed, I shut the laptop. “You can’t just coast through life by manipulating people into pleasing you. I’m not some starry-eyed co-ed you can con into doing all your busy work. I’m your Lady. Maybe it’s time you started treating me like one!”

I look around the room, all too aware that my little fit of temper has soured the mood even further. “Let me get this straight,” I say, feeling rigid and far less fragile than I should. “You want me to get together with the bitches who lured me into getting kidnapped so we can…what? Plan a party? You’ve all lost your goddamn minds.” Rath gives me a long, snide glance. “You want to be treated like our Lady? Well, here it is, Sour Cherry. This is part of the job. Deal with it.”

“There’s no getting out of it,” Tristian says, mouth pressed into a tense, unhappy slant. “But you don’t need to worry. In fact, we’ve worked out a plan to keep you safe.” Rath sinks back into his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I think the royal ‘we’ is overstating our agreement a bit.” I look between them, noting the agitation. “Are you going to give me a gun?” “What?!” Killian looks at me like I suggested he skin a cat. “Fuck no! Are you insane?”

“He’s going to numb you up first, so it’s just one quick shot. You can handle that, can’t you? You can be a good girl for us?” From his spot by the door, Rath shakes his head, muttering, “Give me a break.” Sniffling, I stare up at the ceiling, feeling brittle and stiff. “I’ll…be good.” He looks relieved, bending to pluck a slow, chaste kiss from my lips. “That’s our Lady. I’ll get you something nice, okay?” I don’t answer, taking the time to gather myself up, just like Ms. Crane had said. All the parts of me I want to keep—I lock them away, tight and safe. I’m not this girl who’s about to be leashed to three monsters. I’m the girl who’s engineered their fates. This isn’t a punishment. It won’t be a defense. I’ll make it into another weapon for my arsenal.

“I would have made it good for you.” I feel her weight against me, skating my fingertips lazily over her shoulder. “I had all these plans…” Her voice is dry when she repeats, “Plans.” “Yep.” I skim my fingers over her arm. “I had a playlist. Couldn’t let my Lady lose her virginity to shitty music, could I? I was going to wear a condom—ribbed, with lots of lube. It was going to be in the morning, because…” I pause, having to think hard to remember why that was a detail. “Well, because we’re just really good in the mornings, right? I was going to eat you out for a while. It’d have to be a weekend, so we could take our time. Now that I think about it, I guess it wasn’t really anything elaborate. Still, probably would have been better than what you got.”

“Shit. We’re busy people, Story. Not like…schedules and chores kind of busy. The kind of busy that just doesn’t stop. We have our hands in a lot of pots, and almost no one likes it. Trust me, there are worse people out there than Perez.” “What does that mean?” 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.” “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…” She looks away. “Oh.”

She reaches over her chest to clutch her elbow, looking small and weirdly vulnerable for someone I just watched slap a quarterback clean across the face.

Time to grease these goddamn wheels. “Okay. Can I do something for you first?” She pushes her hair out of her eyes, looking shifty. “Like what?” Goosebumps rise on her flesh as I trail my fingers down her arm, watching her body clench in response. “Let me give you a massage. These fingers are good at more than playing the piano.” That earns a surly remark. “I’ve been made aware.” “I’m not talking about anything sexual,” I insist, although…let’s face it. We’ll see. “Come on, we’ve got a nice buzz going. I know you’re still upset, but at least let me help you relax.” Leaning in, I whisper into her ear, “Use me, Lady.”

She tenses right back up at the feel of my hardness. “I’m not going to do anything with it. Promise.” At her skeptical look, I add, “Ms. Crane would garrote me with a piano wire, girl.” She exhales and nods. “True.”

“When did you start playing piano?” she asks, her voice drowsy. I’m surprised by the question, but answer easily, “When I was six. My family didn’t have much money. It was just me and my mom at that point. My older brother, Alessio, was already graduating high school.” “You have an older brother?” “A lot older,” I stress, feeling her limp against me. “My mom had him young. We were never close or anything.” Alessio got out of South Side and never looked back. Not at us. She nods into my palms. “So the piano…” “My mom, she had this thing about wanting to provide for us, the way rich people provided for their kids. She was convinced if we learned to play an instrument, it could be our ticket out. She made a deal with our neighbor, Mrs. Budd, who had a piano, that Ma would do her laundry if she’d teach us piano. Alessio was awful at it, but I took to it pretty quickly.” I knead the back of her shoulders, working out a little knot of tension. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at.” “You were good at soccer back in high school,” she points out. “True, but that was a team thing. Playing instruments...that’s something all of my own.” She flinches as I needle her back, but it’s obvious she likes how it feels. “Can you keep a secret?” She stills. “Yes.” “I’ve been saving up money for my own piano for a while now. I want a really swank one.” It’s selfish and greedy of me, considering my position with Daniel, but it’s all I’ve ever really wanted. Tristian would buy me one in a...

She looks across the room. “What about that one?” Scoffing, I explain, “That thing? It belongs to the house. It’s supposed to be down in the library, but I had them bring it up when we moved in.” A couple of the pledges still hold it against me to this day, and it’s hilarious.