Dukes of Peril (The Royals of Forsyth University, #6)

by Angel Lawson

“For the record,” my jaw clenches in frustration, “I’m getting really sick of the spoils being our own fucking lives.”

Being loved by a psycho like Nick Bruin might mean hurting sometimes, but there are some advantages to knowing he’ll never let me go.

While we were in the air, falling to what easily could have been our deaths, he turned so that he took the brunt of it. Right there, at the end of the world, he was protecting me.

This is the man who put stars into my sky. The man who first showed me what it felt like to be touched with reverence. The man who looks at me as if I could save him, even though I can’t.

I finally have the power to hurt these three, and I’m gaining zero enjoyment from it.

“I made the mistake of letting you go once,” he says, guilt etched into his features. “Once, Little Bird. It’ll never happen again.”

“But you don’t fight for yourself, Remy. You let everyone else do that for you.” He just stares at me, unblinking as I turn away. “That’s our albatross.”

“There’s nowhere you could be that I couldn’t get to you. You understand me?”

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Remy leans forward, holding my gaze. “We’re going to have to ask Nick for relationship advice.” I drag a palm down my face, hiding my laugh. “God, help us.”

“Christ,” I mutter. And then, “This date really is going that badly.” She offers a strained smile. “Liquor is coming.”

Nick reaches up to ruffle the back of his hair, which might be the closest to awkward I’ve ever seen him. “You’re staying,” he guesses. Sy’s face hardens. “Is that a problem?” “Depends.” Nick looks between us, eyes narrowing questioningly. “Am I still getting some pussy?” “Jesus.” I roll my eyes, closing the book. “Yes, Nick.” He exhales, the tension dropping out of his shoulders. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

He looks like he wants to murder some pussy.

His eyes are also radiating absolute agony, chest collapsing with the sharp inhale. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” “Thanks,” I rock into her, indulging in the glide. “I try.” He shoots me a quick, homicidal glare, and it takes some work to keep my stroke up.

Until I reach for the waistband of his boxer briefs, tugging them down. He yanks his arms back down to his sides, abs flexing and tense. “Uh,” he says, suddenly pale. “Shit, yeah, I guess you would want to do it there.” He stiffens as I tug, revealing a soft patch of pubic hair. “Makes sense–dibs and all.” His eyes drop to the slow reveal of his long, half-hard dick, brows crushing inward. “Just your name, right? What’s ‘Lavinia’, like seven letters?” His voice pitches higher and higher, and then chokes off as I peel his boxer briefs down his legs, his green eyes flying wide. “You’re not going to do your last name too, are you? Because it’s not like there are that many Lavinia’s in Forsyth. If you think about it, initials would work just as–” “Remy,” I say, throwing his underwear aside. “Relax. I’m not going to tattoo your dick.” His head thumps back, body sagging in relief. “Oh, thank fuck. Not saying I wouldn’t take it like a man, because–”

“Look, my sister could have been her. Hell, I could have been her.” Story argues, “But you aren’t. You’re you. Duchess to three chaos goblins, leader of cutsluts, the hot talk of West End and apparently a pretty scrappy fighter to boot.” She pauses, eyes narrowing. “Until I take your ass down on Screw Year’s Eve, that is. I am the reigning bitch.”

“It’s easy to blame your weaknesses on something you think is unchangeable. A sickness. A biological flaw in how your brain is wired. But Sy, you’re not Remy. There’s nothing wrong with you that can’t be changed.”

“It’s up to you, Little Bird.” She shifts her weight back and forth, eyes jumping from me to my brother. It won’t bother me if she picks him over me. I can deal with it. I think. Finally, she meets my gaze, nodding. “I want you with me.” Fuck fuck fuck. Responsibility.

“You know the rule, sweetheart.” ‘If you can’t talk about sex, you’re not mature enough to engage in it.’ That just about sums up life with a mother who’s a sex therapist.

“Freedom?” A wretched breath of laughter tears through his throat. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I’d follow you anywhere, put a gun to my head and pull the trigger, leave my family, my friends, my whole fucking world if you asked me to. But even after all these years, you still think the way I love you makes you a prisoner. When are you going to get it?” His jaw tightens, and he reaches up, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear. “You’re not shackled to me, Lavinia. I’m shackled to you.”

“Maybe I’m a bat.” “No, you’re not,”