Dukes of Madness (Royals of Forsyth University, #5)

by Angel Lawson

some pledge we call Ballsack straight up asked me where the Duchess was.

“She’s been locked inside a wooden chest for four days.”

even after, when he was sitting sweaty and bloody in the locker room, perfectly victorious, he didn’t even look happy about it. He just stared up at me, the cut on his nose bleeding sluggishly, and asked, “Don’t you ever get sick of losing people?”

The low rumble of his voice carries back. “...bring her back from the brink of death and all she cares about is that stupid cat.”

Remy reaches out and gives Archie a scratch beneath his chin with no difficulty whatsoever. “You’ll warm up to him.” “The fuck I will,” Sy growls. Remy’s eyes roll. “I was talking to the cat.

Sleep, Vinny.” And then Remy tells me something I’d said to him weeks ago. “It’ll be better when you wake up.”

If someone’s going to take care of Sy, it’s going to be me. You heal me, I heal you.

“That sounds like a nice story,” I repeat, raising my gaze to hers. “Are you ready to hear the truth?” Her face morphs into something calm and determined, and when she leans forward, I think I see it in her eyes. The hardness that makes her a Queen. The steel that gives her courage. “Tell me.”

When I feel his touch on my cheek, I realize it’s wet with the trail of a single tear. “I never make promises. You know as well as I do that in our world, a promise is just another word for debt. But I promise you this.” His thumb slides away, soft as silk. “I won’t let him hurt you again.”

“Yeah, our girl got in a good shot. I, on the other hand, managed to pummel the business end of a bat with my skull.”

“You have to leave it in the car,” he says, opening the cabinet behind him. She nods. “Totally.” He points a finger at her. “And no murder!” I don’t need his words to confirm my suspicion. We keep all our spare guns in the safe hidden behind the cabinet. She sends me a fiery glare before batting her eyelashes at him. “Kneecaps aren’t murder.” Remy raises his cup of coffee. “Atta girl.” Sy pauses from punching in the code to bark, “Do not kneecap my brother!” “I won’t.” She links her hands behind her back, looking as innocent as a doe.

reach out to hook my finger around a lock of hair, tucking it behind her ear, that she reacts at all. Her thumb cocks the hammer on the pistol. I only let my touch linger for a second, thinking that being shot wouldn’t be so terrible if she were the one pulling the trigger. Hatred is better than nothing.

Leticia isn’t even here, and somehow, she’s still outshining me.

Either your last two brain cells are busy fighting for third place, or you literally don’t know me at all.”

“Remy. Have a seat.” “I have things to do,” he starts, not sparing us more than an electrified glance. “And I already took my pills, so don’t give me your bullshit this morning. I have to feel the sky today or I’m going to start losing colors again.” Remy seems particularly bothered by this, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, looking harried. “Everything is going to be cold soon. The sun isn’t eternal, Sy.” Sy just nods at the rambling incoherence. “Fine.” Then, to me, he says, “Go ahead and hit me.” Remy doubles back, dropping his bag on the sofa. “On second thought, I’ve got ten minutes.”

you’re the poster girl for daddy issues. I have so much material to insult a girl like you with that it’s actually funny.” “Know what I think is funny?” I ask, offering a cutting smile. “The fact that men fail at fatherhood on such a statistically massive scale that there’s an actual term for it, but somehow it’s used to insult women.”

“Let’s get something perfectly clear. I’ve passed through a lot of hands on the way to yours, Simon Perilini. I’ve been locked in boxes, closets, rooms, and towers. I’ve spent days, weeks, months, not even knowing which way is up or down, and I’d forget my own fucking name before I forgot the most important thing of all.” I brush my lips against the red welt on his jaw, pressing my words into the tenderness of it. “You never need to remind me who I belong to.” I pull away, deliberately letting my knuckles graze the hardness bulging from his sweats.

In front of him, laid out on the table, are four phones. They each look a little different, one in a red case, another in a white, one in silver, one in black.

Sy can take her body. Nick can claim her mind. I want her soul.

N: Withdrawn. Exhibiting signs of injury but predictably unwilling to speak about it. Low mood, irritable. Subject being a little bitch.

Girls around here want to belong to the Princes more than any other house—the dumb illusion of them worshipping their Princess driving that particular rep—but they get wettest for the Barons.

The Dukes have the west, the Lords have the south, the Princes have the east, and the Counts have the north. But the Barons are everywhere and nowhere.

The third Baron, Billy, waits with the Baroness as Liam and Will

This isn’t where the Barons live. Which means we’re in their crypt.

King of the Barons on his throne, one gloved hand resting on a skull beside him as casually as a gear shift, as he invites me to make a deal.

Noticing her nervous look at the skull, the King speaks. “This is Roland. The very first Baron.

Barons have never liked guns. Shooting someone is so impersonal, don’t you think? Just raise the barrel and pull the trigger, and that’s the end.

“It’s just that there’s no romance to killing someone with a gun.”

I’m talking about the artistry of death. It’s been lost now, but I like to hear the old Kings talk about it from time to time. Do you want to know what they say?” The King leans down to the skull, as if it’s whispering to him. After a beat, he hums, lifting his gaze to us. “They say ‘to kill someone with your bare hands is an act of love.’”

you know what they’d call a Duchess back in the old days? The fury of Forsyth.” He gestures to us—me and Lavinia. “Yes, the fists and their fury.

My voice is caught in my chest, caged within my lungs, fluttering as wildly as the little bird he’s always accused me of being. I set it free to tell him the truth. “I’m not worth it. I’m not worth any of this.” His fingers grasp, squeeze, eyes piercing through mine. “You’re worth more.” Nick loves me.

Nicky, Sy, and I have this in common. We don’t do things by halves. We fuck like we fight, and we love like we die.

“How—how did you kill him?” “He’s dead. Does it matter?” Not always. But for her, it does. I answer by raising my hands, showing her my empty, blood-stained palms. She stares at them, and whatever armor she’s had pulled around her all day suddenly falls away. “Jesus, Nick, you didn’t have to—” “Yes, I did.” Whatever’s in my voice makes her look at me, her eyes softening as we remember the same words. “…to kill someone with your bare hands is an act of love.”

wasn’t made to steer myself. I was made to take commands. To be an instrument of mayhem. A soldier. A sharp-edged tool. Gently, she commands, “Tip your head back for me?” I obey. If I’m going to be anyone’s weapon, then I’m going to be hers.

And that’s when it tumbles out, as messy as an open wound. “I’m sorry.” She pauses and I shake my head. “Not for Perez. The only thing I regret about that is taking so long to do it.” The water beats down on us, her hand still on my cock. “I’m sorry for sending you back, and for everything that happened before that. I couldn’t see it until it was too late, and this is probably fucking worthless, but in case you need to hear it, I’ll tell you.” Our foreheads press together. “I’m sorry.”

Lionel’s mouth parts—to argue, no doubt. I speak over him, voice low and deadly. “You’ll never get her back. You’re lucky I wasn’t with Sy that night when he found her. I would have slit your fucking throat in your own goddamn bed.”

I’m not really into the Duchess plundering my damn psyche. I take another glance at my journal, pausing. I’m okay with being a hypocrite.

I’ve somehow gained a guardian attack-Bruin is one thing.

Nick would kill for me—die for me—and I feel his hunger for me like a wild, angry thing.

My eyes land on a crude antique dagger, set in a glass case. I point to it. “That’s new.”

There used to be something else where that dagger was sitting.

Sy has this very particular way he writes his ‘S’s and I always find myself fixated with them.

“I don’t have to be like that, Little Bird.” His blue eyes blaze as he unbuttons my shorts. “I know it’s our thing. The push and the shove. We both like a good fight—it’s why we belong here.” I’m lifting my hips before he even has me unzipped, letting him push them, panties and all, over my hips. His voice rumbles as he descends, palms burning a path down my thighs. “But I can make you feel good.” He pauses right between my legs, hands shoving my thighs open as he gazes up my body. “I could fucking worship you.”

“Something about a contract for the heir in the tower.”

what if it's not nick but vinny?

“You weren’t the one who let him in, were you?” His face sags with anguish. “It was me. He gave me the orange, and I smudged it all over.”

The platinum hair—the white hair—which I now realize hasn't been bleached to death for the sake of a fashion statement. He’s covering his head in white, as if it could fix him, as if it could make him— Healthy. Renewed. Clear.

my son has been so focused on becoming a Duke that he can’t own his legacy, even when it’s right in front of him.” The cut of his smirk is cold and casual. “Isn’t that right, Remington William Maddox.”

Will, Liam, and Billy. All the air gets sucked from my lungs. “You’re all named William.” Just like Remy’s middle name.

If you actually knew who killed her, this whole system would crumble.” He fixes his son with a hard stare. “But it wasn’t me.”

He tried so hard to tell me that jumping from this rock, knowing he was about to die, was beautiful. I couldn’t see it then, but I see it now—so clearly that it steals the breath from my lungs. The beauty isn’t in the acceptance of death. It’s in the open defiance of it. What could be more beautiful than the fight to survive? “Fifty-fifty shot,” I say, smiling tearfully as I parrot the words Nick said to me in that dank, dark crypt. “Just need a little luck.” We meet over the distance, our lips locking together in a kiss so soft that it hurts. I cling to it. To him. To the knowledge that somewhere out there, our family—our real family, however mangled and messed-up it may be—is waiting to gather us close.