Dukes of Madness: Royals of Forsyth U (Royals of Forsyth University Book 5)
Dukes of Madness: Chapter 6

Take the exit ramp and stay in the left lane…

The GPS and the low hum of my Trans-Am are the only sounds as I drive past the boundary of Forsyth proper. It feels wrong going to a fight without Duke backup, let alone one in open territory, but it’s nothing compared to the odd, twisted heat I get in my chest when I look over at Lavinia in the passenger seat.

It’s too soon for her to be out in public. Although we’ve pumped her with fluids and as much food as she could handle, she was skinny even before Lionel starved her for four days. Dressed, she looks passable, but even the leggings look baggy on her narrow frame. That doesn’t even go into the yellowing bruises hidden beneath the fabric. But her eyes are clear and present as she watches the passing scenery, face relaxed, no signs of the tension I know she must be feeling. Every now and then I see her in my periphery, tucking her hair behind her ears, redirecting the vent’s heat, tracing a design into the fog covering her window.

She’s been so fucking quiet the last four days, nothing like she used to be. It’s odd to think there was a time I would have preferred her like this. Meek and soft and mechanical, the very opposite of disruptive. Now, I replace myself wishing she’d snarl some smart-ass remark, show me that some pieces of her still remain and she’s still willing to exercise them. At least then I’d know we’re making some progress.

Maybe, once Nick comes back.

My knuckles grip the steering wheel and I slam my foot on the gas.

“He got you pretty good,” she says, breaking the quiet.

I raise an eyebrow. “Who? Saul?” My jaw clenches at the idea of her thinking he’s beat me. “Saul’s not better than me.” I don’t know why, but for some reason, I need her to know that.

“No, the Archduke.” She leans over and runs her fingers over the red scratches.

My muscles twitch at the sensation. I feel that same surge of heat that filled me when I woke up to her tucked against me this morning. “Archnemesis. Evil little shit,” I mutter. Looks have never been as deceiving as they are when it comes to that two-pound ball of viciousness. “How can something so small and vulnerable make someone bleed so much?”

The comparison with the girl next to me isn’t lost.

I do a double-take at the weak smirk she’s giving me.

“Is the big bad bear really bested by a kitten?”

“Hardly.” My sneer doesn’t have half the heat it should. Probably because she’s still touching me. I shift, uncomfortable at the show of weakness, and her fingers slide away.

“Did you put ointment on them? You should. Cat scratches can easily get infected.”

“It’s fine,” I say, listening to the GPS as it prompts me to the next turn. It’s a dark road, with industrial buildings on both sides, but it’s not completely isolated. Dozens of cars line the road. “It’s not kitten scratches I’m worried about tonight.”

She looks at me, shadows slowly passing over her face as I inch down the narrow road, looking for the right place. “Is this when you tell me what we’re about to get into?”

I’d only told her that Saul was sending the two of us on a job. Not the specifics. She’d seemed worried enough about leaving the house—about whether or not I was going to make her get in the elevator again, about who would watch the Archfiend—that I didn’t have the heart to tell her what I’d been directed to do.

Or maybe I just didn’t have the ability to admit it to myself.

Fight to lose?

It goes against every cell of my being. I’ve never lost a fight. Never. Not even back in high school when fights were little more than ten cocky guys in a parking lot, sparring over something as petty as words. Not even when the stakes are low. Not even when the person I’m fighting is by all accounts bigger and better.

Saul couldn’t have given me a harsher punishment than this.

Destination is on your right…

I ease the car to a stop and look up at the warehouse, perched on the shoulder of the narrow road. The thud of music is loud enough to vibrate through the car. There’s a faded, rusty sign hanging over the door. Wilcox Enterprises.

“Sy?” Lavinia prompts. “I really need to know if we’re about to get chainsaw-massacred in there or something. I love surprises as much as the next girl, but—”

I give her a look. “There is no possible way you like surprises.” She holds my eye for a beat, her lips twisted as she tries to decide if she’s going to argue that, but her expression is clear. It’s time to come clean. “Saul sent me down here to fight.” I sigh and lean back against the seat, gazing out at the building crowd. “More importantly, he sent me to lose.”

“He wants you to lose?” Her eyebrows knit together, and then part. “Oh, this is your punishment for coming for me.”

“That’s the gist.”

“He’s ruining your win record, and your reputation.” Listening to her say all the pieces aloud doesn’t make me feel better. “And he sent you way out here, away from Forsyth, to make it even more believable. Everyone back home would know it if you threw a match.”

I give her a tense, tight smile. “Seems like you’re up to speed.”

She pulls her knee up to her chest and peers up at the building. “Are you going to do it?”

“Fight?” I give a low, derisive scoff. “Of course. I’m not some little bitch who’s scared of taking a few hits. I can handle whatever they throw at me.”

“Should I roll down the window?” she asks, leveling me with a long look. “Is your ego going to take up all the air?” And there she is. Lavinia Lucia, the defiant, obstinate, self-destructive daughter of Royalty. Warmth spreads across my chest. It’s surprisingly nice to see her back. She rolls her eyes. “We all know you’re the biggest and baddest in all the land. But are you actually going to throw it?”

“Lavinia, I’m a soldier. Saul is my general.” Shaking my head, I feel the pull of my ego being sucked back inward as I admit, “I didn’t earn the position of Duke by not following directions.”

She twists a lock of hair around her finger. “You came and got me.”

“No one told me not to.”

“So if…” Her features darken, and she shakes her head, adding, “Never mind.” Her fingers hook in the door handle and pop it open. She steps out and stretches, back arching. I notice the wince, the pain still lingering from her days locked inside that chest. A moment later, she’s curled back into herself.

“Look,” I tell her, after grabbing my bag from the trunk, “we’ll get in and out. Be back home before dawn.”

She nods, but I see anxiety lurking in her eyes. The last week—only eight days since the Barons’ Equinox party—has been a fucking tornado, and the last thing I want to do is take her somewhere that unravels all the work we’ve put into making her better. Suddenly this seems so stupid. So wrong. I stop in front of her, clutching the handle of the bag in my grip. “If this is too much for you, say the word and we’re out of here. I can take whatever Saul throws at me and leave you out of it.”

She tilts her head, searching my eyes. Whatever she replaces there, a flash of indignation crosses her features. “Let’s get one thing straight, Simon Perilini.” She takes a step closer, craning her neck to glare at me. “You might have saved me, but I’m not some wilting Victorian damsel who needs to be babied. I’ve been through a lot worse than some stupid dick-measuring contest with fists. You didn’t treat me like spun-glass before, and you’re not about to now.”

I raise my finger, twirling it. “Is this enough space for your ego?” If the words were meant to have any bite, then the relief I feel at the pure steel in her eyes knocks it away.

“I’m the Duchess,” she insists, pulling herself to her full height. “I understand the parts of my position that don’t include being a sex doll, so let me back you up, wrap your hands, and clean you up when it’s over because that is something I’m actually willing to do.” With an intensity I wouldn’t think her capable of, she adds, “I’ve got this.”

Still, I’m not really satisfied until I see the determination in her features is holding. There’s a spark here, an energy returning to her eyes that I don’t have it in me to snuff out. “If shit goes sideways, you come back to the car, call Remy, and leave.” I reach for her hand, pressing the keys and my phone into her palm. At her decisive nod, I finally give in to the impulse that’s been nagging at me since I climbed out of bed this morning. I slip an arm around her shoulders, tucking her against me. “And stay close. You’re my ring girl tonight.”

We enter through the backdoor, and I don’t have to worry about Lavinia getting out of my reach. She sticks to my side like glue, her arm winding around my waist as we stride through the short hallway. Fluorescent lights hang overhead in rusty cages and the room we spill out into reeks of sweat and cheap beer. I check in with the trio of undesirables manning the front table, shouting my name over the loud bass. I’m met with a long, considering onceover from a guy with more facial hair than sapience, but he must be the guy running the match, because he nods me toward the back.

A flurry of chatter follows the two of us as we head to the ring. Lavinia presses closer but doesn’t shrink away. Together, we watch as news of my appearance ripples across the crowd. One guy lets out a loud, “Oh, fuck, the Dukes are here?” But it’s not just about me being a fist of Forsyth. An older man we pass turns to the person at his side and says, “That’s Sy, the Perilini kid…”

Suddenly, the crowd is turning, a frantic energy building as they weave through the bodies.

I realize they’re rushing the betting table.

“Shit.” So does Lavinia. “They know who you are.”

I give a tight nod because it’s true. A win record like mine makes waves. No doubt this ‘windfall’ will be more than enough to appease Saul.

“Sy Perilini?” a guy in a tracksuit asks. Gold glints from his teeth, ears, neck and fingers.

“That’s me.”

“Thought you weren’t going to make it,” he says, eyes flicking over to Lavinia. I tighten my hold on her. “You’re up next. You can wait over there.” He jerks his chin toward a low bench behind the ring. The gym back home makes this place look like a rickety, open shack. No locker room. No showers. No privacy.

When the next fight starts, drawing the eyes of the crowd away from us, I make it a point to observe the structure, get a feel for how tightly this thing is organized. Back home, the rules are loose but generally work in our favor. What’s a little mayhem among enemies, after all?

This doesn’t look much different. Slowly, like a battery being recharged, the crowd, the smell, the sound of skin pounding into skin, energizes me. I drop the bag and unzip it, tossing the tape to Lavinia. She catches it, seeming more alert than she has since I got her back. The smolder of light flickers in the shrewdness of her eyes.

“All good?” I ask her, but I know the answer.

She pulls off a long strip of tape, cutting it with her teeth. “Never better.”

It’s the first time we’ve really done this process together. Usually, it’s Haley. Maybe Verity. Already I sense that Lavinia’s process is different. She’s diligent, quick, not lingering over form, only function. Her fingers graze over the cat scratches, soft but firm, sending a wave of heat rushing from my belly down between my legs. My cock kicks back to life, so I guess the four-day reprieve on self-control has expired.

Not now, I beg my body, but I know it’s useless.

If she notices, she keeps it to herself, winding the tape around my knuckles, and then securing the end. She’s quiet, eyes cast down, fussing with the tape. I reach out and tip her chin upward, and I can tell myself it’s just to make sure she’s still here—still full of steel and resolve—but it’s a lie. My gaze zeroes in on her mouth like a laser, and without really wanting to, I replace myself wondering what it’d be like to push my lips against hers. Waking up with her skin pressed to mine this morning has burrowed into my psyche, flooding me with thoughts of flesh and heat.

Slam!

“Fuck,” the guy who crashed into us says, giving us a stoner’s grin. Beer sloshes all over our feet. “Sorry about that, bro. Look alive!”

The tension snaps and my hands ball into tight fists, the tape cutting off circulation. The stoner cowers, suddenly aware that he tangled with the wrong bear.

“Hey.” Firm hands land on my chest. “Save that rage for the ring.”

I move my gaze to hers, nostrils flaring. “Right.” I jerk my chin at him. “Get the fuck out of here.”

He scrambles, leaving the two of us together. The moment is lost—thankfully. Everything about the last week has sent me off kilter. Having Lavinia Lucia as a pet project is one thing. Becoming a slave to the throb in my balls after years of careful self-control is something else.

The fight before ours ends with the clang of the bell.

“Ready?” she asks, grabbing the bag and stuffing the tape inside.

“Are you?” I ask, knowing that this isn’t just overwhelming. It’s new.

She pauses for a moment, as if she’s considering it, and then pushes two of the purple elastic bands off her wrist. Quickly, she separates her hair, taking a bunch on each side, creating two sweet but sexy pigtails. When she’s finished, she strips off the oversized hoodie she’s been wearing and reveals a black tank top. My eyes go right to her nipples, which harden the instant the cooler air hits her skin. The bruises are distraction enough, but when she pulls her shoulders back and lifts her chin, she owns them, looking every inch the Duchess we’ve claimed her as.

Without a word, she slips back under my arm, fingers toying with the waist of my sweats. Up ahead, the loser of the prior fight is half-conscious and being carried out of the ring by two of his friends. When I’m given the go ahead by the ref, I climb through the ropes and then bend, gripping her around the waist and hoisting her up.

Across the ring, my opponent enters, ducking through the ropes. His eye is sporting a large, tender-looking bruise, new enough that it’s clear he’s already had a fight tonight. In one quick survey, I see that he’s right-handed but favors his left side. The sole of his shoes are worn at the heel and there’s a long scar over his knee. As I catalog his weaknesses, fire builds in my chest. It’s the competitive spirit I was born with. It’s woven in my skin, spiked in my blood, and Lavinia was right to tell me to save it. Not just my rage, but the cravings festering below my muscles, driving my blood to a fast, hot thrum.

I pull off my shirt, revealing my upper body. The crowd reacts. They should. I’m two hundred and twenty pounds of cut perfection. Hooking my thumbs in my sweats, I drop my sweatpants and a different, softer rumble passes through the crowd. Lavinia’s eyes dart down and that familiar shame burns through the tips of my ears, but she doesn’t give me time to dwell on it.

“Lean down,” she mouths.

My eyebrows furrow.

“For luck, remember?” Her hand flattens on my chest and runs upward, until it’s cupped around my neck. When I obey, she curls forward to press a kiss to the pulse point on my neck, lips brushing the overheated skin. The zing of electricity jolts between us, and I touch her jaw, because I’m on the knife’s edge of reason here. Fighting, fucking—the two impulses are difficult enough to untangle when her lips aren’t on me.

She pulls back, sending me a grin that somehow manages to look both sweet and depraved. “Fuck him up.”

The crowd cheers, feet stomping, bells ringing. Or maybe that’s my ears? Blood drips into my eye, but I can still see my opponent, lying flat on his back, eyes glazed. The final blow was a classic uppercut. He tried to fake me out, mis-stepped and left himself wide open.

Someone grabs my wrist and pulls it into the air, declaring me the victor. “The Fist of Forsyth wins again!”

“You did it!” I hear, and spin. There she is, all compact body and wide, shocked eyes. “Holy shit, you did it.”

“I did.” There’s a moment where the dread hits me, but it abates just as quickly. The truth is that I never even considered throwing the fight. It’s not in me. From the first swing, all the answers came to me. It was as if the clouds parted inside my brain, leaving me with the perfect solution, and I knew right then I was going to win. I don’t even have the capacity to feel bad about it. Winning is never bad. Winning is what I do. I’m so deep in this primal mindset that a part of me is certain no one could blame me. Not when I hear the spectators chanting my name, someone shoving an envelope of cash in my hands. Not when I shakily pull my sweatshirt over my head, only absentmindedly accepting Lavinia’s rush to help.

“Saul’s going to shit a brick,” she says when we get outside. The night is warm, loud, and too dark to make out much more than the wide, scared set of her eyes. “What if he—”

“He’s not going to send you back.” High on the victory, this feels like a promise I can keep. I give the envelope a solid tap against my palm. “I’ll give him this and Remy can throw in a fat stack. It just occurred to me. If he wants compensation for his troubles, then what’s the difference, right? Money’s nothing.”

The frown doesn’t disappear. “Compensation? Sy, look—”

“Relax.” I pull her against me, blinking the sweat from my eyelashes, and I don’t even try to tamp down my wide, wolfish grin. “To the victor go the spoils.”

Her mouth pinches. “Either winning a fight turns you into a cocky optimist, or you’re seriously concussed.” She leads me to the car, because I’m not concussed, but I’m undeniably a bit wobbly. The other guy definitely got in a few good shots. My ears are still ringing and there’s a twinge in my bicep. I don’t feel bad, though. I feel like everything is finally slotting together. Lavinia is better. Remy is acting like himself. Nick is going to come back, and we’re going to be good. All of us.

I actually feel pretty fucking awesome.

If I’d had my wits about me, and if I hadn’t been so goddamn smug, I’d probably hear the crunch of gravel, and if I weren’t so distracted by the clean scent wafting off Lavinia’s pretty hair, I might see the shadows shifting between the cars. And if I hadn’t spent days trying to keep the monster in my pants under control, then maybe—just maybe—I wouldn’t react so slowly, just a second too late.

Or that’s what I tell myself when the first hit slams across my back.