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

by Angel Lawson

Quietly, I ask, “Why’d you stop calling me by my name?” She’s boneless here, head lolling around as I work it between my hands. “Wha…?” she asks, forehead creasing in either pleasure or confusion. “I call you by your name.” “You used to,” I answer, gathering her hair in both fists and giving it a slow, gentle tug. The motion makes her shudder, mouth parting. “I liked it. No one else really calls me that. It’s always ‘Rath’.” I can see when she realizes what I’m talking about. Her slack jaw lifts, throat bobbing with a swallow. “Habit, I guess.” Bullshit of the highest order.

“Whatever it was, it doesn’t seem to apply to the others. A guy could feel a little hurt.” “He could,” she breathes, eyelids rising and falling with a heavy blink. “But he won’t.” I watch her face closely. “Why’s that?” She doesn’t answer until my hands have risen again, framing the underside of her tits, caressing the skin stretched over her ribs. “He’d probably have to care first,” is her low answer. I pause, hands going still. “You think I don’t care?” When she doesn’t answer, I think fuck it, and sweep my hands up to cup her tits, giving them a long squeeze. In a hushed voice, I ask, “You think I haven’t missed you?” She stiffens, but her back still arches into my hands. “Me? Or the things I do for you?”

“Just relax,” I say when she tenses. “What are you doing?” she asks, planting her hands on the bed. “Treating you like my Lady.” The taste is sour on my tongue. Who the fuck is she to tell me how to treat my own Lady, anyway? “If tit-for-tat’s what you’re looking for, then we can settle this right now. I pay my debts.” “I-I don’t want—” “Yes, you do.” I can hear it in the stutter of her breath when the tip of my thumb grazes the edge of her panties. “You just had a nice, warm bath. Got a good buzz. A massage. Who wouldn’t want to get off after that?” “You said you wouldn’t.” The words come out small and accusing. I correct her, “I said I wouldn’t do anything with my dick, and I won’t.” I run my thumb up the center of her panties, scraping a blunt nail over her clit. “But I can still make you feel good.” She sinks her teeth into her lip. “Rath…” I feel my face go dark at the name. Suddenly, it clicks together. It’s possible that, for a minute there, I’d been something better than a Lord to her. More than a Lord. But now it’s looking like that’s all I am. I don’t know when it happened or why, but I can feel the certainty of it. Somehow, I’m back to square one with this girl. At least I know how to navigate that. 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 yo...

“I would have made you come on my dick,” I tell her, enjoying the way my fingers look against her rosy cunt. “Then, when you were all loose and sloppy-wet for me, I would have rolled us over and fucked you right.” She shudders when I pinch her nipple. “I wouldn’t have torn you up. But I would have made sure you felt me the next day.”

She makes a plaintive, breathless sound. “What are you doing?” I knead my fingers into her thigh some more. “Just edging you a little. It’ll feel good, but you need a little patience.” She looks the exact opposite of patient, her dark eyes shining with a dazed sort of confusion. I tug on the hem of the shirt. “Maybe we should take this off, yeah?” She doesn’t argue, letting me shuck it up over her head. Now I’ve got her exactly where I need her; horny, naked, and writhing on my boner. Good show. “Ready for some more?” She’s nodding before I even finish the sentence. I drag in a soft hiss when I touch her again. She’s blazing hot down there, so wet that she’s probably got my blankets all kinds of forfeit. When I lay my fingers over her clit, I can practically feel her pulse through it. She bucks into the weight of my hand, chasing any bit of friction, and I don’t make her wait.

“I would have watched you the whole time,” I continue, my voice going rough like gravel. “Made sure you felt good.” “Please,” she gasps, chasing the friction of my hand. Finally. I take my hand away, hugging her close when she whines in response. “Almost,” I assure her.

I turn to watch her flushed face, reaching up to brush her chin. “Come on, baby,” I say, nudging her toward me. “Give me your mouth.” She complies mindlessly, lips parted as her head lolls to the side, allowing me to lick into the seam. Her tongue is shy and lazy, barely pressing back against my own as I kiss her. I take what’s mine anyway, crushing our mouths together as my hand returns to her center. I feel her hand come up to wind in my hair and then swallow her gasp as I rub hard and insistent against her clit. Fuck, I missed this, too. Story has the most docile kisses, sweet and lax no matter the rhythm or heat of the moment, like she’s content to be tongue-fucked. That’s exactly what I give her, licking in and out of her mouth like I own it—and I suppose, in some way, I do. My own words come breathless when I say, “Right before I came, I was going to pull out and take the condom off.” I can feel her body starting to clench up, so close to breaking that she’s quivering. “Don’t,” she says against my lips, begging so sweetly. “Please don’t stop.” “I would have wanted it off so I could fill you up.” Maybe I’m shaking a little, too, but most of it is restraint. Not enough of it, though. My voice is growing too hard—too harsh—teeth scraping against her lip with a snarl. “I would have buried my load so far inside of you that you could taste it.”

I time my retreat perfectly. The sound she makes when I pull my hand away is high-pitched and wounded. “Rath, please.” It’s a long sob of a breath, full of frustration and agony. I brush her hair back, forcing down the wild, aggressive thing that’s boiling beneath the surface. “You know what I want.” She does. I know she does because she won’t look at me. Not even when she says it. “Please…” Swallowing, she gives it to me. “Dimitri.” It’s worse than never hearing it at all. There’s no kindness to it. No softness. Used to be, she’d say my name and I could feel the lightness of it. I hated it at first—resented the way it made me want to look at her mouth, watching the shape of it made flesh—until it just became a part of the bubble between us, quiet and so still that I could have covered myself in it and disappeared. Now it just sounds hollow, reduced to cold bilabials and sterile consonants.

On my way out, I grab the wrist cuff she’d removed before getting in the bath, and then throw her a rag, not watching as she silently cleans herself up. Her eyes follow me around the room as I grab a couple blankets from the closet, laying one on the bed for her, and the other on the couch. For me. She stops me when I go to grab a pillow. “Wait.” I look down at her, and I’m pissed off because I’ve apparently lost all my ground with this girl, and I don’t even know why or how. But there’s something else underneath all the ire. I think this must be what rejection feels like. It makes me want to strike out, to tell her she’s a whore for letting me do that when she clearly doesn’t want me. I want to tell her to go back to her brother, who’ll tear her open and manhandle her, but is apparently more appealing than me. I want to tell her she’s not that special, anyway, and that I’ve had better, easier, prettier girls than her. All the lies die in my throat at the look of bald panic in her eyes. “Are you…mad?” Maybe she doesn’t want me like she had before, but she can’t afford to have another one of us looking to use and taunt and hurt. So I shove the feeling down, reaching down to take her hand. Her arm is limp when I raise her wrist, gently snapping the cuff into place. “We’re good,” I say, knowing all the while that we’re not. “Go to sleep.”

As she passes them out, my phone buzzes with a text from ‘Lord Tristian’. Discreetly, I open it under the table, completely unprepared for what greets me: a picture of his erect cock. Lord Tristian: T-Bone misses your pretty mouth. I fumble the phone, stiff with shock. After a moment, another text rolls in. Lord Tristian: Maybe when you get over being mad at me, you can finally collect your treat.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Tristian is exactly the kind of guy who thinks a girl wants to see his cock in the middle of a meeting—even when she’s irate with him. The same kind of guy who is likely to fingerbang you in a crowded room. The same kind of guy who thinks his cock qualifies as a ‘treat’ worthy of wiping away any resentment at being forcibly micro-chipped. Horny fucking psycho.

incongruous,

perniciously,

He pauses, watching me from behind the glasses. “Still mad, then?” I look out at the campus, remaining silent. Sighing, he grabs the gear shift and yanks it back, peeling out of the lot. “You know, I could be mad, too.” His mouth is scrunched into a tight, unhappy line. “You’ve never—not once—slept in my bed. You’ll sleep with Rath. You’ll sleep with Killer, even though he fucking hurts you. But me?” He shoves the gear shift up angrily, and I wince. “I get fucking nothing. And you know what’s fucked up?” He actually glances at me like he expects an answer. We’d be here all damn day. “I’m the one who takes care of you. Me. Everything I do—and it might piss you off, but it’s true—everything is because I want to keep you.” Keep me. Not keep me happy. Not keep me safe. Just keep me. I give a loose, unconcerned shrug. “Why don’t you just make me sleep in your bed? That’s what Killian does.” He slams his palm on the steering wheel, roaring, “I don’t want to make you!”

“Forgive me?” “For yelling?” I ask. I don’t even need to lie. “Yes.” His eyes fall to my lips. “And for…the other thing?” I stare at him. “Do I forgive you for forcing me to undergo a micro-chipping that effectively strips away the thin veneer of freedom I’ve been clinging to for my own sanity?” Smiling, I answer. “No, and fuck you for asking.” His eyes harden. “I did it for your—” I put my fingers over his mouth, cutting him off. “I don’t want to hear any more about it being for my own good. I get to be pissed about this, Tristian. You can’t force me not to feel something and you can’t talk me into seeing whatever twisted logic is eating a hole in your brain.” I let my hand slip away, willing him to understand. “This is the part of me you can’t control. You’re just going to have to deal with it.” For a moment, I think I’m crazy for trying to reason with him at all. It’s a straight shot to more hurt and debasement. The tracker was obviously one of those things I’m not allowed to call him out on. His eyes search my face. “But I don’t like it.” Some of the tension drains from my spine at the response, spoken so plainly. “You’re free to feel that way, too. But I think if you wanted some gutless little Stepford robot as your Lady, you would have chosen someone else.”

“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.” My face flushes in embarrassment. “Oh.” “Come on,” he says, looking excited as he opens his door. “I’ll show you.”

Tristian’s arms wind around my waist from behind, a kiss pushed beneath my ear. “Do you like it?” “I-I…” I’m speechless. He buries a smile into my shoulder. “I spent all day looking for the perfect one. I knew the second I saw that dark cherry red, it belonged to my Sweet little Cherry.” “Mine?” I ask, tongue feeling dry and heavy. “Really mine?” “Really yours,” he says, slipping away to walk to the car. It’s not all red. In fact, it’s mostly a flat, matte black. But there’s an elegant stripe that sweeps along the doors, slashing down the hood and along the roof, that’s a deep, vivid red. Tristian looks at the car, eyes sparkling with satisfaction. “Admittedly, the muscle car called to me because I’m a red-blooded man who likes the growl and speed, but you seemed to like my Porsche the other night. Not like girls usually do, either. You didn’t care that it was expensive and shiny. You just liked the power beneath the hood.” He turns to me, giving me a knowing look. “Isn’t that right?” I can’t believe he even noticed that.

It’s nothing like my old car—the only thing I regret abandoning in Colorado. That one had been a beater. Old and rusted, but fast and true. It was the only thing that kept me together some days, roaring out along some deserted highway, feeling so free that my chest ached with the possibilities.

“Tristian, this is…” I shake my head, fear rapidly becoming the winning emotion. “This is too much.” I can’t earn this. Whatever he wants me to do in exchange, it won’t be worth it. Probably. “For you?” he asks, coming to stand in front of me. He reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Never.” Swallowing thickly, I have to ask. “What are the strings?” His eyebrows knit together as he watches me. “I get the tracker is a violation to you. I just wanted you to understand that it’s not all bad.” He tilts his head toward the Charger. “It can help us give some of your freedom back, see?” After a moment of gaping at him, I hedge, “So, you’re saying…I’ve already paid the price?” and he gives me a puzzled look. “There’s no price, Story,” he says, grabbing my hips and tugging me close. “This is a gift, because that’s what a Lord does for his Lady. If you’re asking if I expect something in return, then…well, you’re right.” My stomach sinks like a brick at his words, too disappointed to do anything but stand limply as he presses a kiss to my neck. He lingers there, whispering, “You have to smile.” I cock an eyebrow at him. “Smile.” Nodding, he assures, “That’s it. The only thing I’m asking of you is that you enjoy it. A sweet ride like this needs a Lady who can properly appreciate it, don’t you think?”

It’s not that I don’t see it. This is probably another manipulation tactic. Having something I want just means they’ll have something to take away from me. It’ll give them leverage. Control. I shouldn’t get hopeful or attached. I should treat it as the bribe it’s clearly meant to be. It’ll come back to bite me. I just know it. But life is harsh and cold and cruel, and I think it might be like I am with the guys, constantly having to untangle to the dark from the light, clutching any bit of goodness close, just to make it to the next monkey bar. This is light. This is good.

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.” He doesn’t make me ask, laughing at the barely restrained impatience on my face. “Go on. Be back in an hour. I’ll cover for you with the others.” He gives my ass a slap and sends me on my way. When I open the car door and reverently slide behind the wheel, I notice something in the passenger seat, waiting for me: A dozen sunny daisies. There’s a skull hanging from the rearview mirror, ornamental and brand new, marking this as a Lady’s ride. Okay, maybe Tristian isn’t the worst. For now.

Rath’s in the corner of the main room, jaw working lazily around a piece of gum. I know him well enough by now to realize he’s craving a cigarette, but doesn’t want to leave the laptop and the music to move outside to smoke it. I’m still a little uneasy about last night. About the way he treated me. About him clearly being mad, but not making me take the brunt of it. If I’d never found the videos, I think last night would have pushed me into a canyon of feelings that I’m grateful to have avoided. Obviously, it’s better to have the veil lifted, but part of me wishes I could have accepted the lie. I could have chosen him that night. The plans he had for me… They would have been perfect. We could have had sex, just the way he wanted to, and I can see perfectly how it would have unfolded. The two of us in his bed all day, rolling around, learning each other’s bodies. After, when we were tired and messy, maybe we would have taken a shower—or a bath. Ms. Crane might have brought us up something to eat. Maybe Rath would have played me something on the piano as I stole food from his plate. Perhaps we might have talked, quiet and close, secrets pressed into sweaty, tender skin. I would have emerged from that room a changed person. An attached person. A person so close to the edge of falling that it would have been impossible to walk myself back. It would have been wonderful and exciting and so horrifically fake.

Rath doesn’t see me coming until I’m slipping into his lap, so caught up in the music that he startles at the invasion. There’s a flash of irritation in his eyes that gets zapped away in an instant when he realizes it’s me. He greets me with a low, “Sour Cherry,” but despite the words, his arm snakes around my waist, holding me to him. “I’ve decided to be sweet tonight, actually.” I hand him the beer I’ve brought, still cold enough that’s it barely begun to sweat.

“I could have bought you a car, too, you know.” “Really?” Scoffing, he sets the beer down. “Fuck no. Mercer money is bottomless. Rathbone money has both a floor and a ceiling, and not much room in between.”

I cup his cheek, turning him to me, and then press our mouths together. I keep the kiss just as sweet as I promised to be, plucking gently at his lips between the piercings. He responds by yanking me close and prying my lips apart with his tongue, greedy as he plunges into my mouth. He tastes like beer and cinnamon, and when I feel the gum trapped beneath his tongue, I steal it for myself, pulling away. “Thanks,” I say, giving the gum a few smacks as I slide away. His eyes follow my retreat with a dumb look that I’ll be smirking about for hours to come.

Tristian catches my eye and holds it, shuffling the cards with a precise, expert flick of his thumbs. “Might as well pack it in, boys. My secret weapon just walked in: Lady Luck.”

One by one, the pledges turn to watch me. It’s a little easier with them. None of the pledges were in the basement that night, so the only thing they know about me is that I‘m untouchable. Every single one of them stands when I approach, however, which catches me off guard, making me tense. It’s a bit startling, actually. I think for a moment they’re about to flee, but instead, they simply…wait. For me. To sit. They’re not fleeing. They’re being gentlemen.

Tristian calls the bartender over and says, “Try this.” He holds up a drink. It’s ruby red and has two cherries floating on top. “It may be your signature cocktail.” “Oh, I-I probably shouldn’t,” I stammer. Lowering my senses around these guys seems unwise. “Just a sip.” He takes one first and licks his lips. “I think you’d like it. It’s sweet, just like you.”

I grab the drink from him and gulp it down in one big swallow. It’s sweet on my tongue and spicy going down my throat—cinnamon, like the gum. I pluck out the cherries and pop them into my mouth before pushing the empty glass back in his hand. “Got another?” His eyebrow lifts, and he hands the glass to the bartender. A moment later, I have another drink. It tastes better than the first. I drink it quickly and hold it out. “More.” Tristian gives me a disapproving look. “Sweetheart, you’re going to get shitfaced if you keep going like this. Look how tiny you are. You probably have the metabolism of a gerbil.” “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.” His eyebrows crouch low, like he’s about to argue. But he doesn’t. “Okay, you’ve got me there,” he concedes and looks at the bartender. “Make the next one a double.” “A triple,” I say, already feeling the buzz.

“You know what his problem is?” I ask, eating another cherry and licking my fingers. Tristian looks amused at the gesture, fixing his gaze down my shirt. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” “He’s spoiled, entitled, and so goddamn obsessive.” He arches an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you just described every man in this room, Cherry. The difference with Killian is that he’s obsessed with you. He has been for years.” I roll my eyes, feeling the warm heat of alcohol under my skin. “He hates me. He thinks my mom swooped in and destroyed his perfect, spoiled little life by splitting his daddy’s attention. He’s not obsessed with me. He’s just obsessed with punishing me.” “You know the saying,” he runs his nose down my neck, “there’s a thin line between love and hate. Killian Payne is riding that line even harder than he likes riding you.”

I look at Tristian’s flawless face, sharp jaw, and blue eyes. “How come you haven’t fucked me yet?” His eyebrows climb to his forehead. “Do you want me to?” “I don’t know.” I shrug, plucking the cherry out of my glass. “I just figured once Killian popped my cherry, you would have taken me for yourself. I keep waiting for one of you to pounce. It’s making my head hurt.” There’s a beat of silence before Tristian rises my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Oh, I’ve thought about it. Repeatedly.” 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.” Those scenes flash in front of me, warmth pooling in my stomach. “So why haven’t you?” “Maybe I’m waiting for you to heal up.” He licks at my mouth, his tongue darting against mine. “Or maybe I’m waiting for you to answer my question with a ‘yes’ instead of an ‘I don’t know’.” Tristian Mercer, caring about my consent?

His lips tip up at my sudden peal of laughter. I don’t realize we’re drawing stares until his amused gaze shifts around the room, pinging from person to person. “Is that funny?” I nod, wheezing. “Oh, my god, it’s hilarious.” I clutch my side, hardly remembering what was so funny, but knowing that it was. He shakes his head, chuckling. “Okay, you are well and truly hammered. Up we go.” I stumble when he stands me up, but his arms are there in an instant, catching me and dragging me close. “Oh, no.” I palm my head, vision swimming. “Everything’s all wonky.” “I’m sure it is.”

“Why don’t you just do it now?” I think I could do it like this—get it over with. Stop feeling like it could happen at any time. Finally get the smallest sense of peace. “You could fuck me tonight. I’ll say yes.” He lumbers up the stairs, practically carrying me now. “That’s your massive blood alcohol content talking, sweetheart.” He assists me down the hall toward the stairs, but my legs give out. “Oops.” He lifts me up and turns into the library, where he helps me onto a leather chaise. He covers me with a soft blanket draped over the chair, and my eyes flutter closed. I guess this is probably way better than sex, anyway. I feel his lips on my forehead, a soft kiss pressed into my skin. “Soon, Sweet Cherry. You’ll be mine, soon.”

“Go check on her if you’re so worried.” He takes a swallow of his drink, pausing. “Actually, I’ll go up with you.” For all his bluster about her being safe, I can see I’ve talked him into worrying a bit. 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.

The library doors are open, and Story is lying there on the leather chaise by the window. She’s on her back, hair brushed haphazardly out of her face. Her shorts are wedged between her thighs and one of her legs is hanging off the edge of the cushion. From the doorway, I have a perfect view of the milky white skin between her legs, a hint of black lace panties peeking out. She doesn’t just look like she’s sleeping. She looks like she’s dead to the goddamn world. My cock fills up instantly. “Jesus Christ.” I look over my shoulder, pinning Tristian with a glare. “We’d have to fucking blind someone if they saw our Lady like this,” I hiss. He peers over my shoulder, wincing. Throwing a hand out, he insists, “She was covered up when I left. She must have kicked the blanket off.”

“Do you think I’m stupid? I know why you’re up here. You told me yourself you’d be adding her to your pregame ritual if you won before.” He spreads his arms, daring me to argue. “Well, you won.” My jaw aches with how hard I grind my teeth. “That’s my fucking right. You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do with my own goddamn Lady.” 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.”

“You know, seeing her like this,” Tristian says, head tilting, “I think I might get the appeal.” He and Rath have never understood my preference for sleepers. They used to give me shit for it in high school every time I’d tell them about watching her, whipping my dick out and leaving a little part of myself with her. Pathological, Tristian had called it. Now, he’s staring at her like he wants to climb between her legs. I step in front of him before he has a chance. This is mine.

“No,” Tristian suddenly says, voice quiet. “You’ve got to give her some time to heal, Killer.” I throw him a look, weirded-out that he can read me so well. “I’m not here to fuck her,” I say, even though I would if I wanted to. But I’ve got a ritual to perform, so I jerk my chin at her. “She knew I’d be coming for her tonight. Maybe that’s why she drank this much.” Looking at the rise and fall of her chest, flushed from the alcohol, I idly muse, “Maybe it’s an olive branch or something. She knew I’d like it.” “Or,” Tristian offers, petting her forehead, “maybe it’s the only way she could stomach it.”

“What was it like?” Tristian asks, and looking up, I realize his eyes are just as dark and hooded as mine. His hand is in his pocket, but I can tell he’s rubbing his dick. He elaborates. “Fucking her, taking her virginity.” I look back down at her rosy nipples, thumbing the button on my jeans. “Tight,” is my answer, not even bordering on sufficient. “Soft. Wet. She fought a little at first, but I knew she was into it. Scratched my back up a bit when she came.” He makes an indistinct sound. “So it was good?” “It was good.” Lower, I tell him, “She was good for me.”

I place my hands under Story’s armpits and haul her up. Tristian moves behind her to cradle her neck. I snap my teeth and open my mouth to tell him to get the fuck away from what’s mine. Our eyes lock over her head and he says, “I know you want to piss on her, Killer, but she’s not your territory to mark. She’s ours. She belongs to all of us.”

We stare at one another for a long moment, Tristian determined to hold his ground, me trying to reconcile sharing her. I know he’s right. The bitch of it is that it’s not even about the contract, or tradition, or the structure of the Lords. It’s not even about how far we go back, how entwined we’ve always been. Tristian’s the one who finally cornered her in the laundry room that night, setting this ball into motion. Rath manipulated her into feeling somewhat comfortable in the house. All three of us helped create this. Take even one of us away, and the whole thing would crumble. She’s our Lady.

Exhaling slowly, I ask, “What was it like for you?” I watch her lips, parted and so, so red. “When she sucked you off—when she wanted it—what was it like?” It stings to ask for this knowledge that only he and Rath have access to. For me, that day down in the basement, it hadn’t been what I really wanted. Tristian gathers her hair to the side, his voice low and sympathetic. “Trust me, Killer. You don’t want to know.” He doesn’t meet my eyes. “I do, or I wouldn’t have asked.” He pauses for a moment, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “There’s a wild side to this girl, Killer. Sure, she fights a lot, but deep down, she’s hungry for it. If you could take the leash off of her for a minute, you’d get to see it, too. When she chooses to give in, she’s so eager and responsive.” He traces her bottom lip, looking lost in thought. “All it takes is giving her a little control—even if it’s flimsy—and she just...blooms like a fucking flower.” Sighing, he gives me a significant look. “So yeah, I gave back a little of her control and she rewarded me with the best goddamn road head of my life.” “That’s why you gave her the car,” I realize. It wasn’t a quick fix to buying her forgiveness, which I should have known. That’s not Tristian’s style. It was just another brick in the foundation. Shrugging, he answers, “Of course. Why do you think she was willing to get so hammered with me tonight?” He looks down at Story, who currently is susceptible to our every whim. “Relationships require...

When I’m sure she’s truly out and not going to take a bite out of me, I slide the length of my cock past her soft lips and over her warm tongue.

“That’s our good girl,” Tristian breathes into her ear, and I just barely stop myself from rolling my eyes. I don’t know where he gets off calling me pathological with his hard-on for showing off. Thankfully, he backs off before I get territorial again, propping himself up against the wall as he watches.

I want her to know what I did to her, leave her a reminder of who’s in charge. Before I go, I look over my shoulder, making sure we’re really alone. Then I tilt her face to the side and push a gentle kiss into her clammy temple. Her only response is a lazy, half-asleep sigh. Deep in my chest, I shove aside the knowledge of why I do this. Tristian can give her control and reap the rewards, but that’s him. 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.

No, the laundry room isn’t so scary anymore. But the basement sticks with me. Some days, it’s unbearable just knowing it’s below my feet, a dead stack of bricks that I can still hear breathing. That’s what I dream about. The heavy breath of it below me, bellowing my name, dragging me down. Let him in… I wake like that, trembling and cold and far too vigilant, considering the way my head feels. “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” I reach out and slam my hand down on the phone alarm, accomplishing nothing but knocking it to the ground. “Oh god.”

In front of the dresser mirror, I take in the way I look. ‘Rode hard and put away wet’ seems an apt descriptor.

“Now that that’s settled,” Tristian says, pushing the glass back in front of me, “drink.” Stiffly, I lift the glass, taking a tentative sip. It tastes like someone dug up grass and dirt in the backyard and blended it together with the very essence of sadness.

“Yeah?” He gives me a rare, genuine grin. “You’d really do all that?” I hope my smile looks authentic. “Well, I’m your Lady, aren’t I?” He hooks two fingers in my waistband, pulling me in. “Hell yes, you are.” The kiss he gives me is slow, sweet, and sensuous

She and Tristian were a vision back then, but it was also a little creepy. With their matching fair hair and blue eyes, they could have been related. Their features and mannerisms are even similar—the firm jaws, straight postures, and obsessive diets. To most people, it probably looked like the perfect match, but I had an entirely different, and given how well I know the man, much more accurate read on it. She’s him, but with long hair, tits, and an extra fuckable hole. Tristian was basically dating himself.