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

by Angel Lawson

“Story, I’m going to tell you something. It’s going to be vague and you can’t ever fucking mention it, but it might help you out.” He curls his hand around my hip. “Consider it me returning a favor for your editing work earlier.” “Okay,” I hedge, feeling apprehensive. “You ever want to get on Killer’s good side—you know, like soften him up or whatever?” When he sees my attention’s been piqued, he arches an eyebrow. “Just choose him over his dad, for fucking anything. You feel me?” My forehead scrunches in confusion. “I’m not sure that’s an opportunity that’ll ever arise, but uh…” Uncertain, I offer, “…sure?”

“Vivienne,” he greets, nodding more at her cleavage than anything else. No way those things are real. “I’ve got a live one for the boss man.” He pushes me forward encouragingly. I give a nervous laugh. “I have an appointment…?” Vivienne’s eyes light up. “Oh gosh, you must be Story!” She heads toward us and before I can react, I’m engulfed in a cloud of perfume and this woman’s skinny arms. The press of her ample breasts against mine confirms my earlier suspicions as to their authenticity. I glance at Rath, and he shrugs.

Nodding, he pulls a gold pen out of his breast pocket and, without question, signs the papers and folds them back. “Take this down to the city office. They’ll approve.” “Thank you.” He holds out the paper, but just as I reach for it, he pulls it back, just out of my reach. He pins me with a long stare. “I can’t help but notice that this is typically a job for the Lords’ Lady.” Blood rushes to my face so fast it almost makes me dizzy. “Yes,” is my answer, barely a breath. I’m so rigid that I don’t even move when he reaches for my wrist, lifting it to inspect the cuff. I catch the hint of Vivienne’s perfume on his slow sigh. “To be a Lady is a privilege, indeed. They’ve been part of the institution long before my tenure at Forsyth. Proper Royal women are the spoils of war.” “I applied for the job,” I reply stiffly. “They were just doing me a favor by giving it to me.” “A favor.” He gives me a bland smile, clearly unimpressed by my lie. “Of course. You ought to be careful how many of those you’re racking up.” My skin crawls, but when I go to pull my wrist back, he holds it, those gray eyes never breaking my gaze. “You know what they tell men about their sons, Story? They tell us they’re special, coveted above all else, necessary to carry on one’s legacy and lineage and such.” He sighs, eying the cuff again. “Personally, I always wanted a daughter. Sons are defiant little creatures from the first step, and then they grow up, just waiting to take everything you’ve built and m...

Her eyes skim over Daniel’s hand, still holding my wrist, and skitter to a stop. “My darling,” Daniel says, squeezing my hand before dropping it and crossing the room. He kisses her on the cheek. “What are you doing down here?” “Thought I’d stop by and let you take me to dinner.” She looks at me, her smile beaming. “I saw Dimitri in the lobby. What are you doing here, honey?” I hold up the slip of paper, hoping my hand won’t shake. “Just getting some paperwork taken care of for homecoming.” Daniel nods. “Story’s helping the boys with some of the fraternity’s charity work. Isn’t that so generous of her?” With that smile, you’d never know he just had my wrist trapped in his grip, going off about sons and the daughters they’re fucking.

I step back into the lobby, where Vivienne sits at her desk. I study her for a moment, assessing the short skirt, the tight blouse, the obvious lack of a bra. There’s a clunky bracelet on her arm with what looks like an initial etched in the gold. She looks up at me and gives me a friendly grin, but I don’t feel warmth. I feel an icy shiver running down my spine. I may not be the only one who’s being controlled by a Payne, but I just may be the only one with the guts to do something about it.

I’m working on a caption—always willing to show off my Lady—when I notice the heart up in the corner is lit up. I have a private message. It isn’t uncommon for someone to try to slide into my DMs. I’m good looking, rich, and powerful. What woman wouldn’t want to get her claws in me? But one woman occupies my thoughts right now, so my intent is to open the message and delete it...until I see the picture attached to the message. It’s of Lizzy and Izzy. What the fuck? “Such cute, innocent, girls. I wonder what they’d say if they knew the truth about their brother?” Rage boils under my skin and I click the account. It’s private with a generic icon. The screen name is ‘executivedaddy10’. I go back again and look at the photo. The girls are in motion, walking out of their dance studio. They have no idea someone is watching them. My mind calculates, desperately struggling to figure out who would dare send a threat to me like this, when I hear a reluctant, “Tristian?” My fiery blood turns to frozen steel. There’s only one thing that could temporarily distract me from the thought of someone watching my sisters. I force myself to look up, eyes climbing a pair of smooth, tanned legs, thighs hidden beneath a little green skirt. She’s wearing a white, scoop-necked sweater, her blonde hair flawlessly straight. I don’t need to look higher to know it’s Genevieve.

My ex is a lying, cheating, puddle of slut-scum that isn’t worth the energy, but somehow it still hurts to look at her. Not because I miss her. Fuck no. It hurts because she’s proof of how weak a man can become. Years spent building a future with this piece of garbage. Jesus, the plans that were made—Forsyth, complementing careers, an engagement at graduation, a destination wedding, investment property, three children. Looking back at the way I’d greet her everyday like a lapdog, with a coffee and a flower. The sex we’d have, always fast and hard and so intense that it’d leave me sapped but hungry for more. It took me until that night with Story to realize why. 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.

grab a coffee. Catch up.” The last time I spoke a single word to this girl was right after I set that yacht on fire. I was getting it from all angles—Killian, Rath, my father, Daniel—and I told her the next time I saw her, I’d be lighting a match to something she loved. I’ve never meant anything more. A figure moves next to Genevieve and I jerk my eyes up to find Story has arrived. She and Gen glance at one another, and I see the recognition flicker across my ex’s face. “Hey, sexy,” I say, the words cool and easy as I rise from the bench, towering over them both. “Finished already?” “Yeah, we got out a few minutes early, actually.” She pushes a lock of hair behind her ear and gives Gen a bright smile. “Hey, we met before, remember? I’m—” “Late.” I jump in, stepping forward to snake my arm around her waist. The last thing I want is for Genevieve and Story to speak to one another. I’ll light that match again before I let my Lady be tainted. “We’ve got things to do, sweetheart.”

Story looks between me and Gen, something small and satisfied sparking in her eyes. She lays her hand on my chest, straining up on her toes to press a kiss to my jaw. “Yes, sir. Just lead the way.” My cock swells so fast that I know my chest hitches. Holy fuck. Sir.

“If she’s really so bad…you shouldn’t let her get to you like this, right?” I give her a humorless smile. “You know it’s not that simple.” “I know,” she says in a voice that cuts through the feeling in my chest. Just seeing Genevieve’s face brought all that old anger to the surface. Now, like then, I want to feel anything else. “Tell me what I can do.” Never fucking talk to her, is on the tip of my tongue, but it’s washed away by another request. I reach up to thumb at her bottom lip, thinking about how this mouth is mine. She’s nothing like Gen. She loves her new car, but she’s not here for my money. She isn’t swayed by pretty men or yachts or flowers. Story is my Lady, bound to me in a net of circumstance. “You can prove it,” I tell her, ducking down to press a kiss to her jaw. My teeth scrape against the bone. “Show me who owns you.” I won’t force her to her knees—not again—and I won’t force her to her back.

“What do you want?” she asks, the tremor in her voice belying the steel in her eyes. My dick’s already hard at any possibility, but I humor her, palm sliding down to her breast. “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.”

She pulls me from my briefs, her warm palm giving it a couple of slow strokes. “Whatever my Lord wants.” The first touch of her mouth is heaven and hell, all wrapped up into one curl of her tongue. It’s so much better than that night in the car—at first, because I can actually see it this time, my hard cock disappearing between those sweet, pink lips. But then she sinks forward and takes me in, a hot-wet glide that makes my toes curl. And she doesn’t stop. Before I’ve even wound my fist in her hair, she’s letting me hit the back of her throat, lingering there against me, holding me so deep that I know she can’t breathe. I feel my jaw go slack, fingers massaging the back of her head. Just when I figure she’ll pull back, she goes deeper. I spit a low, “Holy shit,” because I would have fucked her throat like this, just like I had that night in the car. It’d been a test to see if she could take it—if she could like it—and here she is, giving it away so goddamn freely. 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.” She gives me a long, slow blink. I know Killian and Rath think I’m being a patronizing creep when I tell her she’s being good, but the truth is, they’ve never seen the way her eyes soften and shine at praise. Our Lad...

She’s so good that I half expect her to sink back down to the hilt. Instead, she pulls off, sitting back on her heels, and meets my gaze. I think I could come again when she opens her mouth, letting me see my load sitting there on her red tongue. Holding my stare, she closes her jaw and swallows. “Fuck,” I breathe, thumbing some jizz from the corner of her mouth. I feel like I’m in a trance, hypnotized by the way she instantly sucks my thumb clean, not letting a drop go to waste.

Breathlessly, I ramble, “That’s so fucking hot. Gen never would have dreamed of getting this nasty.” Story sucks my thumb, looking up at me owlishly. “That’s why I had to have you like that. So much of high school, listening to Rath and Killer brag about getting head. As soon as I saw your mouth that night, I knew I had to have it.” It isn’t until she drops her eyes that I realize what I’m saying, and who I’m saying it to. It’s all true. That night had been a crazy whirr of rage, Rath and Killer doing their best to keep me from retaliating. It’d later prove pointless. Only a few days later, I found myself on that dock with the gas can. But that night, I think they knew I needed to see a girl on her knees before me, my dick slamming in and out of her mouth. That’s how I know I’d do anything for Killian. Story was his by rights, but there for a few minutes in his old laundry room, he’d given her to me. A little taste of this thing he wanted so badly that it consumed him. And the thing is, it worked. It was an exorcism, proof that being with Genevieve Carter wasn’t all it’d been cracked up to be. It’d been lacking. She would sooner cut off her own arm than take me into her mouth, let alone enjoy it. But as darkly freeing as that night might have been for me, it was something else for Story. A possession instead of an exorcism. A marred moment she might have even wanted if I’d been in a place to put in the effort. What must this have cost her, to get on her knees for me, to l...

I tuck myself back into my pants before crouching down and tugging her into my chest. She goes willingly, even if she still won’t meet my gaze. Pressing my nose into her hair, I inhale her sweet scent. 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. Instead, I say, “You’re more than any of us deserve.” Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt. She doesn’t respond. “Would you like to sleep in my bed tonight?” I ask, stroking her hair from her shoulder. So that she’ll understand I’m not her brother, I press a kiss to her jaw, adding, “This isn’t an order. You can say no. We don’t have t...

I’ve got Tristian Mercer eating out of the palm of my hand. Literally. He opens his mouth, teeth taking the meatball when I hold it to his lips. He gives it a few experimental chews, eyes wary. That’s how I know I’ve got him. I doubt Tristian blindly accepts food from just anyone. “They’re vegan and gluten-free,” I assure him. “I used almond meal as the binder, and nutritional yeast as a passable substitute for parmesan.” It’s a load of crap, really. Nothing about these could be called meatballs. Ms. Crane was puttering around the kitchen while I was cooking them, and she kept cackling at the ingredients and care I put into them. “That’s a good little fucktoy,” she’d say, giving me a wink.

He hums, eyes growing wide. “They’re good.” One could easily be insulted by the shocked tone of his voice. But I’m not. They’re not actually that great, and my cooking skills are only a couple notches above Ms. Crane. It’s just that Tristian doesn’t eat good food very often. The bar here is so low, it’s embedded into the floor.

He’d told me about it last night, while we were in his bed. True to his word, he didn’t try to push anything. He just talked. Temple propped on a fist, gazing at me as his fingers skated down my chest, he told me about how difficult it is to get good food. “That’s why,” he’d said, eyes dark as they traced the neckline of my tank top, “When I find real food—quality food—I make sure to stock up. So you can have some, too.” In his own twisted way, that’s probably a significant declaration. It’d be really sweet, actually.

Tristian talked for almost two hours last night as we lay in the soft light of his bedside lamp, and the topic was always the same, but weirdly shallow. For a man who loves talking about himself, he really divulged nothing I didn’t already know, except for the fact he snores, and much like Rath, he is a cuddler. Unlike Rath, he doesn’t mind admitting it, folding me possessively against his chest before finally nodding off.

“You really made these for me?” He looks at the tray of meatballs. It’d be funny if this game of mine weren’t so serious. I can practically see the cartoon hearts in his eyes. “No one’s ever made me food before. I mean, no one who wasn’t getting paid to do it.”

He eats another meatball, bristling when Rath shoves in beside him, snatching one from the plate. “Fuck off,” Tristian says, eyes narrowing as Rath shoves it in his mouth. “These are for me.” Primly, I tell Rath, “They’re vegan and gluten-free.” He freezes, catching the meatball into a palm when he spits it out. “Gross.”

“Are you ready for another beer?” I ask Tristian. It’s finally the fourth quarter and, thank god, the end is in sight. He looks up at the tray of drinks and scowls. “Although I appreciate the service, why are you schlepping all this up back and forth? We have a fucking housekeeper, Cherry.” “It’s fine. I offered to help.” I shrug, even though my feet really are getting a little sore. I can’t imagine poor Ms. Crane having to do it. “Serving you guys is part of my job, isn’t it?” “No,” he argues, giving me a look. “Your job is to do what we want you to do, and being a glorified waitress isn’t anywhere on the list. Your job on game day is to look pretty, sit on my lap, and make all the other suckers here jealous.” He winds his arm around my waist and pulls me into his lap. He’s been needy ever since I saw him outside my class yesterday.

Tristian is the most level-headed of the Lords. He’s less prone to rage or tantrums. Even when he’s abusive or controlling, he does it with sugary words and a pretty smile. He can be kind, in his own ass-backward way. Doting and attentive, so saccharine that it aches. Rath might be a deft hand at manipulating me into caring about him, but Tristian is an expert at manipulating me into thinking he cares. He doesn’t—not in any real way.

I feel him go still at my answer, the cock beneath my ass giving a strained twitch. “Do you trust me?” he asks, voice rushed. “Yes.” It’s both the truth and a lie. Tristian wouldn’t knowingly harm me—that, I know. But his definition of harm is a lot narrower than my own.

“Here,” he tells Tristian, holding out a hand. I watch, stunned as Tristian covertly passes Rath my damp panties. Between one blink and the next, Rath has slid them into his pocket, eyes returning to the screen. Tristian’s voice is a rough whisper in my ear. “Lift up, just a little—that’s my girl.” I comply automatically, too full of panic and alarm to do anything but move with the current. It isn’t until I feel a hot flash on my backside that I realize he’s pushed his pants down. “Wait,” I hiss, flinching forward. But Tristian just drags me back, whispering, “Relax. No one is going to know, and even if they did, they wouldn’t look.” The sweet, soothing tone of his voice is belied by the words he speaks next. “They wouldn’t fucking dare.” On the TV, Forsyth scores another goal, resulting in loud whoops and high-fives. “Tristian…”

He squeezes my hips, easing me back into his lap. “I’m not Killer,” he says into my ear, and for a moment, I wonder what Killian has to do with anything. But then I realize what he’s saying. This isn’t a punishment. He doesn’t want to humiliate me. “I swear to you, no one will realize a thing.”

“Shouldn’t we be watching the game?” “Fuck this game. Killer has them up by twenty-eight points.” His hand disappears between us, brushing my ass as he takes himself in hand. “But we’re still going to watch. Don’t worry.” I feel the head of his cock nudging my entrance, sliding through my wetness, a low, barely audible rumble coming from his chest. Closing my eyes, I sink down. I try so hard to keep my face neutral as I take Tristian inside me, my fingers digging into the arm of the chair. I can feel the stretch, but it doesn’t hurt like it had those first two times with Killian. Tristian’s hands guide me by my hips, making me take him slow and easy. The whole time, I’m looking around the room at the backs of everyone’s heads, knowing someone could turn at any moment and lock eyes with me as I’m doing this. By the time I finally settle into his lap, the fine tremors in my thighs have more to do with the feeling of fullness than the anxiety of being caught like this.

“Did you ever go to Killer’s games in high school?” he asks, as if his cock isn’t currently buried inside me. My mouth opens and closes on an aborted reply. It takes a long, tense moment before I can answer. “Once.” It was early in my mom and Daniel’s marriage, back before Killian grew hostile and mean. I went to cheer him on, even though I barely knew him. “He didn’t like me being there,” I add, breath hitching when Tristian reaches for his beer, hips flexing up into mine with the shift. I watch from my periphery as he tips the beer back, taking a long pull. “Yeah, he doesn’t like us being there, either. I think if he wins, he worries he’ll get superstitious about it, and then he has to count on us to be at every game. Killian doesn’t like to count on people. Socks, sure. Pregame fucks, absolutely. But people?” He shakes his head. “I love that asshole like a brother, but he’s kind of a lunatic.”

Exhaling, I do as he asks, melting back into his broad chest. The motion makes him sink in just a little deeper, and then I feel it inside me. His dick jumps with a strong twitch that I’m all too familiar with now. I’ve felt it in my hand—in my mouth—enough times that I can vividly imagine the sticky pre-cum dribbling from the tip. For a moment, I’m so overcome with the urge to lift and fall that it’s like a physical ache to stay still. I turn away from Tristian to fight it, cheek rolling on his shoulder. Rath is staring back at me. He has his temple propped on a fist, his legs spread lazily in the seat. His eyes are dark and hooded as he watches, and it only takes one glance at his lap to realize the hand buried inside his pocket is playing with those panties. Or maybe even with himself. “You good?” he asks, his pocket shifting. Nodding, I answer, “Yes,” even though my fingers are twisting in the blanket. Tristian hums, pressing a kiss into my neck. “Pay attention to the game, sweetheart. Maybe we’ll score.” He punctuates this with a buck of his hips.

It’s a low-burning torture, forced to sit still as Tristian pretends nothing is happening. Liam, an LDZ member who’s sitting in front of us, turns to ask Rath, “These your speakers?” and I clench up at the sudden attention. Tristian’s grunt is nothing but air against my ear. It still makes my heart beat wildly, eyes flying back and forth between Rath and Liam as they discuss the surround sound. We’re not watching a movie here. The lights aren’t dim. By the time Liam turns back to the game, my fingernails have pressed divots into the leather. Tristian’s voice is barely a whisper. “Feels so good when you clench up like that.”

These three have completely ruined me. The least I can do is ruin them back. With a deep breath, I give my hips a small, tight writhe. “Jesus,” he mutters. “What are you thinking about that’s got you so gushing wet all of a sudden, hm?” His arm tightens around my middle, as if he’s trying to still me. Nevertheless, I can feel him twitching inside of me, his stilted breath, the way his thighs tense beneath mine. I give him another wiggle. “Cherry,” he chides, the word full of warning. He delivers his next words into my ear, quiet and rough and only meant for me. “I will nail you right here in front of everyone. Flip you over, bend you in half, and drill that pussy like I’m looking for oil. Is that what you want?” Slowly, I shake my head. “No, sir.” His arm flexes around me, and I know his eyes are flashing with that same spark of satisfaction as they had yesterday when I called him ‘sir’. “Only a few minutes left to go,” he breathes.

The blanket is hot—Tristian’s skin is hot—and I can feel the sweat beading on the small of my back. My face must be glowing red by now. It’s almost as bad as that night Rath teased me until I called him Dimitri, and in some ways even worse. All I want to do is squirm and buck and feel him moving inside me. I know I’ll be embarrassed about it later, but right now it’s all I can think about. Distantly, I wonder why I should even care if he fucks me right here, in front of everyone. I bear down, clenching around him. He pulls in a sharp breath, cursing a low, “Fuck me,” and I hear more than see his head fall back against the recliner. “Rath? The second this game is over, I’m going to need you to clear this room out.”

Rath goes to pass us but stops. He looks down at Tristian, jerking his chin. “Hey, let me see.” Tristian doesn’t ask. Later, I’ll have to remind myself there wasn’t any time to talk me into it. Everyone else is so absorbed in the game, the energy in the room reaching a crescendo, that he only has time to gather the blanket in two fists and yank it up, sliding my skirt with it. For a few heart-stopping moments, my pussy is exposed to the entire room. Thankfully, Killian chooses that moment to score, effectively capturing everyone’s attention. Rath crouches down to get the tray I’d left on the floor. Or so it might seem. In reality, he’s getting a nice, long look at Tristian’s dick buried inside me. His eyes go heavy and sharp as they zero in on it, a hand coming up to touch my thigh. My pulse is like a freight train in my ear as I watch him slide his hand up, pressing a thumb right into the center of my aching clit. I slam my jaw closed on a cry. He’s smirking as he retreats, lifting the tray. “Alright fuckers, game’s over!”

When the room is empty, save the three of us, Tristian tells Rath, “Not this time.” It isn’t until Rath flips him the bird and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him, that I realize he wanted to watch. The idea makes my stomach twist even more anxiously. What are these guys doing to me?

just like he promised before—bending me in half, hooking my legs over his arms. He has spread me wide, and I feel the tip of his cock at my entrance. I’m not a virgin anymore and after the nights with Killian…I know I shouldn’t be afraid. At least Tristian has the guts to face me. But this is all new to me. He must sense this because he touches my cheek and says, “Don’t worry, Sweet Cherry, don’t I always take care of you?”

“You like that don’t you,” he says, grinning down at me. I nod, and his eyebrow arches. “You want me to fuck you harder?” Again, I nod. “I want to hear it, Cherry, I want to hear you.” “Harder,” I say, my voice soft. He slows his pace, which takes the friction away. “What was that?” “Harder.” This time I’m a little louder, but he stills completely. “Tristian, please.” “Please what?” “Fuck me,” I demand, pushing up on my elbows. “Fuck. Me.” It comes out in a growl. He grins and plunges into me, slow and restrained. “Like that?” “Harder.” “I can’t hear you.” “Jesus Christ. Harder!” He reacts like a demon possessed, expression turning grave as he slams into me. I yelp and cling to him, calves pressing into his biceps. He’s got me pinned to the plush leather, cock thrusting into me, mouth crushed against mine. Over and over again he punches into me, withdrawing before going in deeper than before.

“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.

You think I’m not watching? Waiting? Keeping an eye on you? I’ve done it for years, and I’m not stopping now just because the parameters have changed. Before, I thought you were a whore. Now I know you are. Tell me, Sweet Cherry, do you feel anything at all for them? You must not, if you insist on provoking me like this, but nothing about your romp with Mr. Mercer seemed under duress. If anything, you looked just like I expected. One more whore spreading her legs. I guess he did deserve it after buying you that car. He must seem like quite the score to you. I’ll remember that when I kill him.

“You have to purchase and deliver the books.” “Oh,” I say, deflating. Sutton raises an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to ask Daddy Warbucks, sunshine.” I take too long to realize she’s talking about Daniel. When I instinctively grimace, she laughs. “What’s the problem? He is your dad, right?” Autumn's head springs up, jaw open in shock. “Oh my god, your Lord is your brother? Gross!” “Killian is my stepbrother!” I squawk, face heating. “Our parents married when we were already teenagers. We didn’t live together very long, and I don’t even know him that well!”

“Tradition dictates we all leave our petty drama outside the carnival. If your houses are having a spat, that’s fine. But it stays out of these boundaries.” She traces the line of the property Daniel had given us permission to use. “We do this to release some good into this world, and it can’t be tainted by your rivalries or battle strategies.” She cuts her eyes at Sutton. “Not everyone knows how to play by the rules.” Sutton gives her an innocent look. “It’s not the Counts’ fault the Princes laced the brownies with pot and get everyone high.” “Yeah, like we’re really going to believe that,” Bianca replies bitterly. “Only one house has a penchant for drugging people, and it isn’t the Princes.” There’s clearly an old wound there, Bianca’s jaw going taut at the topic. “Well,” Sutton says airily, “no one can prove it.” Autumn bristles at the accusation. “You realize some of those were sold to children, right? The Princes would never drug people, especially not kids.” She looks at the Baroness and then at me. “Probably the Lords.” “What?” I say, caught off guard.

“It doesn’t really seem like their style, honestly.” Autumn laughs. “Please. Everyone knows what they really are.” “Oh?” I arch an eyebrow. “And what exactly are they?” “Thugs.” She crosses her arms, eying me distastefully. “Payne’s well-kept flunkies. The only thing special about this year’s Lords is that his son is one of them.” “Excuse me?” I ask, wondering what Daniel has to do with any of this. Sutton shrugs, looking bored as she inspects her fingernails. “It’s like the Duchess said. Daniel Payne is a King. He pulls all their strings.” Marigold jumps in to add, “There’s nothing elite about them. Like all the Lords before them, they’re just the glorified lackeys who keep South Side at their King’s disposal. The whole university thing is just a convenient ruse. Keeps the authorities off their tail.” “That’s absurd,” I insist.

Autumn laughs. “It’s kind of funny, actually. Usually, the Lords would go on to bigger and better things, leaving Forsyth and South Side behind. But we all know what’s in store for those three, and it’s not the NFL, or Julliard, or even the Mercer Corp. penthouse office.” At my confused expression, she laces her fingers together beneath her chin, like she’s talking to a small child. “Those three are never getting out of here, Lady. Payne would never let them.”

“Considering you’re not wearing the Princes’ ring yet, maybe you should focus more on your house and less on everyone else’s.” “I’ve got that ring in the bag, Duchess.” Autumn’s eyes narrow, staring her down. “There’s still time. Like today, for instance. I’m so fucking fertile that he could—” Her smirk falls when she looks at her watch. “Shit. Speaking of, I need to go soon if I want to catch my window.” In a flurry of movement, she starts haphazardly shoving her things into her bag, eyes wide and panicked. “We were done anyway,” Bianca says, rolling her eyes as Autumn rushes from the room. “God, can you imagine being a Princess?” “I don’t know,” Marigold says, placing her notebook in her bag. “If she pulls it off, she’s basically set for life. Being Baroness is awesome, but I’m pretty sure once we graduate, they won’t want anything to do with me.” She looks glum as she says it, and it makes me wonder what the Barons are like. Are they nice, like the Princes are rumored to be? There are a few looks as they stand, and I try to figure out what’s happening. The Baroness wants to keep her Barons? The Princess is fertile? Daniel is a King? What does that mean? King of what? Marcus’ voice comes floating back to me from the other day. “Everything.”

“I’m supposed to ask for Daniel’s help.” The funny thing is, I don’t realize Killian was maybe—possibly—in something approaching a good mood until every trace has seeped from his expression. The line of his jaw tightens, knuckles going white around the steering wheel. “With?” he asks in a nasty, unnecessarily hostile tone. Taking a breath, I explain, “I didn’t realize the Lady had to organize her own charity drive, but I guess I do. That requires money for supplies, and I have like a hundred dollars to my name.” Wincing, I conclude, “So they told me to ask your dad.” The leather around the steering wheel creaks with the way he’s strangling it. “Fantastic.” It sounds anything but fantastic. It actually sounds more like he’s saying, ‘fuck you’, just with different and more interesting letters. Swallowing, I keep my gaze trained out the windshield when I ask, “Um, can…can you help me instead?” There’s a long pause, one of those hands lifting from the steering wheel to turn off the radio with a quick flick of his fingers. “Why?” he asks, voice full of animosity. “You know he’ll give you the money. Just say the word.” “I don’t want his money,” I insist, but it’s kind of hard to throw that out when Daniel is paying my way at Forsyth. Instead, I reason, “This is about us. It’s a Lord and Lady thing. It should be you.” Softer, I confess, “I’d rather it be you.” Luckily, we’re at a stoplight, because Killian looks at me for a long moment, those dark eyes of his taking in every inch...

In the distance, past the public housing and small rundown bungalows, is a large house. A mansion, really—the same one I’d seen that night with Tristian. The one Gussy-Z had built for his mother. It’s surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron gate with gold accents. Killian pulls up to the intercom and presses the buzzer. A man answers, and after Killian identifies himself, the gates slowly open. I look around us, a zing of discomfort rolling up my spine. “What is this place?” The grounds are impressive, green and well-kept. It’s like stepping into a different world from the shitty streets just outside the gates. “You’re looking at the new and improved Velvet Hideaway,” he says, even though nothing about it looks hidden away. Killian stops the truck in the turnaround and faces me, leveling me with a deadpan look. “It’s a whorehouse, Story.”

I blink at the mansion and swallow back my apprehension, although I doubt I do a very good job. Visions of my stepbrother forcing me into a threesome—or something worse—flash in my head. “Killian…I know because of my mother…because of everything…you think I’m a whore, but—” “You are a whore,” he says, snorting. “But you’re our whore, Sweet Cherry, and my boys and I don’t share with anyone but each other.”

I stare up at the house, but I’m frozen. “What the fuck, Story?” “I, um,” I look up at the bedrooms on the second floor with their soft light filtering through the curtains. There are no similarities between this place and the hotels, but I feel an uneasy prickle of apprehension–one I haven’t felt in years. “I…” He makes an annoyed rolling motion with his hand. “Spit it out, woman.” I take a deep breath. “I haven’t been somewhere like this since I was a kid, back when my mother was…uh, you know.” He stares at me for a long, hard moment. “A hooker.” He’s well aware of my mother’s profession before she leveled up and married his dad. It’s one of the primary reasons he hates us. Now, he’s giving me a long, pinched look. “Your mother took you with her when she worked?” “Sometimes,” I say, back ramrod straight at the memories. “She mostly worked at hotels. If it was a nice place, I’d wait in the hotel restaurant or lobby. If it wasn’t, I’d hide in the bathroom while—”

His low growl cuts me off. “You waited in the goddamn bathroom while your mom fucked a John?” He looks at me like he’s waiting for an answer, even though one isn’t necessary. Looking away, he rakes his fingers through his hair. “Jesus Christ.” “I had headphones.” I defend my mother. I’ve been at the mercy of men—wealthy men, powerful men, cruel men—for survival, so in many ways, I understand it. She worked hard to get us on our feet. Into what she thought was a safe home. “I watched movies on the iPad and kept quiet. I didn’t really understand what she was doing. Not until later.”

The irony doesn’t escape me that I was in the company of sleazy men for a lot of my childhood, but it wasn’t until Daniel—a nice, generous savior—that anything untoward ever happened to me.

“Well, unless things have drastically changed at home, your mother isn’t in there.” He reaches out and takes my hand, the gesture so startlingly gentle that it takes me aback. “And you’re walking through those doors as someone who already belongs to me—not a scared little girl hiding in the bathroom.” His eyebrow raises. “Got it?”