Dukes of Peril (Dark College Bully Romance): Royals of Forsyth U (Royals of Forsyth University Book 6)
Dukes of Peril: Chapter 1

The fall doesn’t even last the space between two heartbeats.

If I’d had any expectations about it, I think it would be slower, like moving through molasses, two bodies fluttering away from the edge of the universe like some birds shed feathers. My life should be flashing before my eyes, a slideshow of hurts and mends and bitter wishes for revenge. But that doesn’t happen. It’s just… so fast. So fucking fast.

Remy and I, we’re not feathers, and that’s the only profound thought I have time to acknowledge. That we’re solid and real and painfully heavy and the universe doesn’t care about us. Not as specks, nor air to be exhaled from its lungs. We’re two pieces of lead hurtling through a gravity that’s pushing us down.

I barely register the wind in my hair, the crushing pressure of Remy’s arms as he squeezes me close, the surface of the water rushing up to meet us. But it’s not the jump that scares me. The real fear is from the realization that the man holding me as we fall, the man with a fragile psyche, has a tighter grip on reality than the rest of us.

That’s what consumes me as we smash into the black, icy water. It’s only when we hit, sternums slamming against one another, that I realize Remy’s turned us during the fall so that his back hits first. I think I might hear the air punching from his lungs, but it’s instantly covered by the muted garble of the water swallowing us whole.

And then, it’s a lot like the fall.

One minute we’re conjoined, and the next, our bodies are cleaved apart by the rush of the water. Feeling the power of the surge, I understand with an aching clarity that this is how we’ll die. It’s not the fall. It’s not even the landing. It’s the blind fury of the water, tossing us about like grains of ineffectual sand.

Fifty-fifty shot—luck.

I’m instantly turned around, body thrashing against the current, the water dark and endless, and there’s no space for any other thought but this: survival. I can’t tell what’s up or down. I kick, but I don’t know if I’m rising or just burying myself deeper into a grave. My body feels pulled in five different directions, and I can hear it–the rush of water, the call of the void.

I rage against it, pushing and flailing, spreading my hands, seeking air, ground, rocks, anything. It’s not long before my lungs begin burning, muscles seizing against the cold and the power of my punches through the water. For a split second, I pause, and I realize my sister was here once. She was in this water. She felt this coldness. She knew the burn of two lungs, suffocating. She died here, just like this, determined but powerless.

It’s only then that I see it.

A faint glimmer of something in the distance, through the water. A gap in the emptiness. A pale light guiding me.

The moon.

My kicking leg slams against the craggy darkness, and I can finally orient myself. I’m deep in the water and being battered against a wall of rock.

I kick off of the stone, propelling myself frantically toward the light, arms extended, palms grasping, lungs aching like needle-fire. Where the fall toward the surface seemed to have lasted a mere blink, the ascent to it takes centuries, and with every sweep of my arm, every kick of my legs, I’m filled with more and more confidence that I won’t make it. That my lungs are going to win this battle to inhale, filling me with the ice I’m fighting against. That someone is going to replace me later, bloated and still. That I wasn’t able to keep my promises. Not to Nick or Sy, or even Remy.

I’m almost not even expecting it when I finally arrive, breaking through the surface with a gasp so loud that it’s mingled with a cry. I go back down instantly, but try frantically to kick myself back to the surface.

And then someone grabs me.

Hands pull me toward the light, hauling me back to the surface. My lungs expand gratefully before expelling a series of wet, hacking coughs that seize my body, a phantom fist around my diaphragm. There’s no instinct to relax. The adrenaline—fight or flight—still courses through me.

“Get off of me!” I cry, but most of it is lost in a gulp of water. I’d fight harder, except my body doesn’t know who to fight against; the water or the hands.

“Come on,” I hear over the sloshing water in my ears. I kick out, using my foot to drive him away. “Fucking hell, Vinny!”

Vinny.

I heave, gagging, but manage to suck in air. “Remy? Remy is that you?” I spin, struggling against the darkness to make out a face.

“Jesus, you got me right in the balls,” he wheezes. Relief floods through me as he drags me along, his inked forearm wrapping around my body like an anchor. It’s solid but lacking strength. I kick my feet, helping propel us toward the rocky outcropping that I can hear the waves crashing against.

“Almost,” he grunts, “there.” His voice sounds as ragged as I feel, winded and wan, but there’s a power to it that drives me harder.

We made it.

We cheated death and its disciples.

Only a little further to go.

My knees graze the bottom suddenly–hard, sandy rock–and I feel the skin tearing absent of pain. I plant my feet just as Remy releases me, and I press my hands to the stone, so thankful for solid ground that I could kiss it. The cold air stings my skin, but I want to get out of the water—away from here.

It’s loud on the shore. The water is frothing a lot more angrily than it looked from above, slamming against the rocks and pelting us with its mist. I think at first the earth is trembling beneath my feet. But no. That’s just me. My body is wracked with shivers, and as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I finally get a good look at Remy.

He looks pale and grim, eyes glazed as he stares out over the river’s water, watching.

It occurs to me this isn’t his first time standing here like this.

“Remy?” I croak, climbing unsteadily to my feet. “Are you–”

His eyes snap to mine, losing some of that dazed sheen. “We made it.” He reaches for my hand, levering me up with a pinched, pained expression. “We made it. Right? Didn’t we make it?” Green eyes scan my body, as if he’s searching for proof that I’m really here. Only then, he pauses. “Oh. You’re hurt.” Ducking his head to look at my knee, he lets go of my hand only to wipe the blood away.

“It’s just the rocks,” I say, still struggling to catch my breath. In the dim moonlight, I check him out, too, looking past the tattoos and defined muscles. His shoulder sags. I touch the rounded juncture, alarmed. “You’re hurt, too.”

“I think it’s dislocated,” he says, still touching me, mapping out my body. His fingers land on my hip, tracing the star, and I’m surprised to realize the action grounds us both. “It’s not the first time. Happened in the third grade, seeing how far I could swing off the monkey bars.”

“Remy,” I say, drawing his gaze to mine. “I didn’t believe you before. About your dad. I’m sorry, I thought–”

“Don’t,” he says, his tone harsh. I think the anger is meant for his father, or maybe even me, but he continues, “Don’t apologize. I’m the one who didn’t believe you. I’m the one who fucked up, Vinny.” His face falls, and he looks away, swatting wet hair from his eyes. “I fucked us up so bad.”

Haley. The memory of her on her knees before him burns sour at the back of my throat, but I bite it back. Everything we talked about on the edge of the cliff comes with caveats.

“I love you, Vinny.”

He said those words. I heard them, felt them, let them soothe something wounded and sore inside of me. But now that we’ve survived the fall, I can’t help but wonder if it was the truth or just a last-minute, panic-driven confession. Pretty words to send a dying girl off the edge of the world with.

I won’t hold Remy to it, even if the thought of him loving me warms me like a blanket.

Maybe that’s the hypothermia setting in.

There’s no time to ponder the hurt that brought us here or the truth about the man who sent us over the edge. “Hey,” I say, pulling myself away from this train of thought. “We can talk about that later, when we’re safe and warm. But right now, I need you to think. Do you know how to get to a road?” I ask, wrapping my arms around my upper body, trying to control the shivering. “How did you get out of here before? Do you remember?”

He winds his arm around me, the good one, engulfing me with his skin as I’m clutched to his chest. It’s just like it was before, when we were falling, and it’s odd, I think. That something so fast can be burned so precisely into my memory. “We need to wait.”

“It’s freezing,” I say through chattering teeth, but that’s the least of my worries. The Baron King won’t give up on his son that easily. “We can’t just sit out here until sunrise.”

“They’ll come for us,” he says, looking up at the sky.

I stare at the patch of skin below his chin and shiver. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Your dad isn’t going to let us get away twice.”

Remy looks down at me, blinking away a drop of water. “You’re right, he won’t. But my father isn’t going to chase us. He’ll wait for our bodies to surface down-river. Just like…” He doesn’t say her name, but I know he’s thinking it. Just like Leticia. His fingers curl against my bicep. “But my dad won’t replace us. Not before they do.”

They.

The Dukes.

Nick and Sy.

I glance out at the river, dark and empty. “How do you know?” I have no doubt they’re looking for us, but we’re at the base of a cliff, carried down by the current. How the fuck are they going to replace us?

“They’ll come for us, Vinny.” His fingers, trembling from cold, graze the side of my face, lingering behind my ear. The tracker. “They’ll come for you.”

Eventually, we collapse against the rocks, legs bent at the knees, my cheek crushed into his good shoulder. I’m not sure how Remy can stand it. With his arm hanging unnaturally like that, he must be in more pain than he can bear, but aside from a grimace every now and then, I wouldn’t know it to look at him.

There’s a stretch of silence where the trees on the opposite bank rustle in the wind, leaves chattering just as hard as my teeth. My eyelids are feeling heavy when Remy’s gruff voice suddenly shatters the quiet. “I hit my head against the rocks,” he says, voice thrumming beneath my ear. “There was blood everywhere, but it wasn’t red. It looked black, like ink.” My gaze snaps up to him in alarm, but I don’t see any blood–red, black, or otherwise. His eyes are full of exhaustion, fixed sightlessly to the sky. “It wasn’t like it is now. It wasn’t cold that night. I kept bleeding and bleeding, and it wouldn’t fucking stop. The river had a smell to it. Goldenrod and dead things. It made me want to puke my fucking guts up. I remember falling now, Vinny.” His gaze dips down to mine, something flat and angry swimming within it. “I remember landing.”

And then he looks away.

He doesn’t talk after that. I almost wish he would go on one of his epic babbling sessions, with the colors and vague explanations, but he doesn’t say a word. He clutches me close, but remains eerily still, as if he’s shutting down, or perhaps lost in the memory of the first time this happened to him. Goldenrod and dead things. I know it’d be the right thing to do, to talk to him, to keep him stimulated, to keep him alert, to ask him everything he remembers.

The problem is, I sack out first.

The summer after third grade, I had this phase where I followed Leticia everywhere. It was partly just to drive her crazy, piss her off, make her lash out so I could lash back even harder. It was our cycle. Lucias being Lucias. But it was also partly because there was no place or purpose for me. Leticia had dancing lessons and friends and duties–a life–and all I had was her and my father. So I’d follow her to her friends’ houses, to the dance studio, to the river, waiting for the moment where she snapped, erupting like a volcano. The phase didn’t last past that summer, but the effect of it did. Even well into our teens, before she’d leave for the night, she’d throw me this venomous look, full of mascara and threat, before saying, “Don’t follow me.”

Now, she’s on the other side of the river.

I can see her across the water, so small over the distance that she’s barely more than a blonde wisp. She’s too far away to make out any details. It could be anyone, but somehow, I still know it’s my sister, the moon reflecting off her shiny hair like the edge of a knife. She doesn’t call out for me. She doesn’t wave her arms. She just stands there, watching, just like that dream I once had of her on the swingset. A snapshot in time. An echo of a memory. A reminder that she was here once, too.

Don’t follow me.

I jolt into awareness with the memory of those venomous words throbbing through my head, a low hum occupying the space where they should be.

Only, it’s not the memory humming.

I lurch up and whirl toward Remy, a spike of panic lancing through me at the pale, slack look on his face. “Remy!” I hiss, grabbing his face. “Wake up!”

Luckily, his eyes flutter right open, dark swirls of green and pupil. Strangely, the second he registers me in front of him, the corner of his mouth lifts into a lazy smirk, and for a split second, it’s almost as if we’re just waking up in his bed after a good, slow fuck.

“Someone’s coming.”

The smile plummets.

His eyes harden as they scan the water, but he’s already rising, tugging me up off the ground with him. He moves stiffly, shoulder still sagging, but he doesn’t falter in lifting me, gentle but strong. My legs wobble and I can no longer feel my fingertips, but I’m just as desperate as his words sound when he whispers, “Get ready.”

“Ready?” The hum grows louder, filling my ears like a buzzing bee. I try to tug Remy back into the shadows. “What if it’s your dad?”

He just stands there with his chin raised, looking for all the world like a man ready to meet anything. “To the victor, Vinny.”

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

But try as I might to tug him back, Remy doesn’t budge, and why should he? He’s right. To the victor. Remy is a Duke, and Dukes don’t hide in the shadows like snakes, coiling under rocks and waiting in damp holes. They fight under the sharp heat of a spotlight.

Fog hovers over the dark water, but as the sound increases, ripples of water wash against the shore. A light emerges, and then the front of a small boat. Fear grips me. Maddox isn’t our only enemy here. What if it’s my father? He’s the one that put out the hit—the contract Maddox was simply willing to take. Nick making me their Duchess wasn’t just an act of defiance. It was the start of a war, like we’re the fucking Hatfields and McCoys.

Remy hooks his arm around my waist, holding me to him, but it doesn’t stop my knees from buckling when the fog finally parts, cutting two broad-shouldered silhouettes that I’d know anywhere.

I burst forward, almost collapsing in a frantic attempt to wave my arms. “Nick! Sy! Over here!”

Nick jumps into the water before I even finish saying his name–before the boat even reaches the shore.

Remy catches me, saying, “I told you they’d come.” There’s no smugness in the tone, only relief and weariness. The shiver that wracks though my body is intense and Remy shudders next to me. I’m not sure how much longer the two of us would’ve lasted out here, wet and exhausted, but I should have known. These two wouldn’t leave either of us behind. Fleetingly, I wonder how anyone can function in this town without having what the Dukes do. A brotherhood. A surety that when you’re too tired to go on, there’ll be someone there to carry you the rest of the way.

Suddenly, the Royal houses make a little more sense.

Nick splashes across the distance with a wide stride, running through the water to us, and every yard he gains brings the hard edges of his face into sharper relief. What I see in his eyes makes me shiver just as hard as the temperature.

Death.

Mine and Remy’s. Our fathers’. Maybe even his own. There’s death in Nick Bruin’s eyes, and when he finally reaches the shore, his stride doesn’t even falter. He marches right to me, waterlogged and full of that Bruin fury that still makes me shrink back.

He grabs me before I can, two wide palms clutching my face, and then his mouth is devouring mine, hot and hard, painfully demanding. “I saw you,” he says, panting with the exertion of the run. “I saw your tracker in the river, and I–” Any other words are poured into the crest of a bruising kiss, and then I understand.

He didn’t know what he was coming for.

Me, or my body.

I try at first to kiss him back, but it doesn’t last. It’s not that kind of kiss. It’s brutal and claiming and too intense, and I cling to it like a tether. 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.

“Are you okay?” He releases me just to grip me even harder, fists tangling into the wet fabric of my shirt. “Tell me you’re okay. Tell me who to fucking kill.” Up close like this, I can see the bright ring of panic in his eyes, the worn crease in his brow, the stiff set of his jaw. I bet he’s been like this for hours.

“I’m fine,” I say, curling like an animal toward his heat. I nuzzle my mouth next to the tattoo of my kiss-print on his neck, hoping it soothes him. “Just cold. Really, really cold.”

I feel his head turn more than I see it. “Remy?”

There’s a grunt, and then Remy’s wry, “No caveman kiss for me, huh? I see how it is.”

Nick bends, hooking an arm behind my knees, and suddenly I’m hoisted right up into his arms. “Can you walk?”

Remy and I both answer, “Yes,” but only my response is laced with indignation.

Nick just gives me a jostle, cradling me tightly against his chest. “Maybe you can, Little Bird, but you won’t.”

I know better than to argue, and even if I wasn’t exhausted, his warm, strong body feels so good to rest against. He carries me through the knee-deep water, and I can feel the power of his muscles and tendons against me, shifting beneath his skin. Just the scent of his neck is enough to make the memory of the last time I saw him–naked and sated and happy–slam to the forefront of my mind.

I physically have to force myself to let go when we reach the side of the boat, the water up to Nick’s stomach as he hands me over to his brother’s waiting hands. Sy clutches for me, hauling me easily against his own chest, and I get my first glimpse of him since the morning before.

He’s practically buzzing with energy.

“I told you I’d come back,” he says. The wounds between us are still raw. There hadn’t been time for healing, just an uneasy truce. But it’s the second time he’s held me like this, scared and on the run from a deranged Forsyth King. Sy is there when I need him. I can admit that.

I hold his gaze. “And I told you I’d bring him back to you.”

Something complicated passes over Sy’s face, but before I can parse it, he’s pressing a kiss to my forehead, lips so warm against my cold skin that it feels like a brand.

So low that I can barely hear the words, he says, “Thank you.”

After lowering me into a bench seat, he quickly wraps a blanket around my shoulders, pulling it so tight that it nearly chokes. I get this macabre moment of clarity that they didn’t know which purpose this blanket would serve when they brought it. The thought of it being used to wrap up my lifeless body makes me shudder, and Sy crouches down to rub some quick warmth into my arms.

“You okay?” His eyes darken, rising over my head. He’s not asking me.

“Fuck.” The boat tips from Remy’s weight and he stumbles into one of the cushioned seats, collapsing like a sack of rocks. “I’ve been better.” After a beat, he quietly adds, “I’ve been worse.”

Sy’s jaw tightens. “Head check?”

I twist just as Remy throws his head back, releasing a jarring, maniacal laugh. “Brother, we’re so far past being able to use a number system for this shit. But yeah, I’ll give you a number. Negative six.” He dips his head, mouth quirking. “Thousand.” Sy rises, as if he could even do anything about Remy’s current mental state, but Remy waves him off. “Trust me. Nothing that a hot shower, a beer, and a nice hit of Scratch can’t fix.”

I don’t miss the look Nick shoots Sy when that word comes out of Remy’s chattering mouth. Scratch. Viper scratch. It’s North Side’s most insidious creation, a potent drug that has spread throughout Forsyth’s frat scene. My father has always been in the drug trade, but something about Viper Scratch is next level. He’s not just trying to make money, he’s working on eliminating his enemies. Two birds, one addictive stone.

It’s impossible to know if Remy’s joking, but Sy tosses him a second blanket while Nick climbs back in the boat, which sags a lot less with Remy and Sy on the other side. He manages to bring in half the river in his soggy jeans, soaking the floor in the process. His eyes are wild, ticking over me again and again as he readies the boat for departure.

“You got the coordinates?” Sy asks, drawing his attention away.

“Yeah,” Nick says, approaching the wheel. There’s a small box on the console, a pistol sitting beside it. I hear the beeps as he enters numbers into the GPS. He cranks the engine, and it rumbles under the surface, churning up water.

“Everybody ready?” he asks, making sure we’re secure.

“Y-y-yes,” I reply, teeth chattering. Nick gives me one last, long look, before he aligns the boat and heads across water.

Remy pulls the edge of my blanket over his shoulder and drags me close. “My dad—” he yells over the roar of the boat’s motor.

“He’s the Baron King,” Nick shouts back, sparing him a quick glance. “I believe you. I always believed you.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” Sy says, squeezing next to me. He throws an arm over my shoulder, but extends it far enough to reach Remy, sharing his warmth. “I should have been there.” One glance at his stony face reveals that Sy’s probably been beating himself up about this all day, all night. “It was fucking stupid.”

Remy shakes his head, huddling closer until we’re both snug against Sy. “You know, you’re actually allowed to have your own breakdown on occasion.”

“Not like this,” he says, cutting his blue eyes at me. It’s only a split second, but I get a glimpse of all the emotions swirling within them. Guilt, anger, humiliation.

“Are you still my girl?”

He’d asked me that yesterday before leaving to replace Nick, and I’d never answered. I didn’t know how to, and I still replace a painful clench in my chest where the answer should be. This thing I’m doing with Nick–letting him in, allowing myself to accept whatever twisted love he might have for me and trusting that he won’t use it to hurt me again–it’s an experiment in forgiveness that’s still up in the air. The thought of having to do it again for Sy–fuck, for Remy–makes my stomach turn anxiously.

“We’re the Dukes,” Sy goes on. “Our job is to fight, and what I did that night—” He tenses, eyes staring out into the dark river. “I should have stayed. I should have fought.” Suddenly, he whips his gaze to me, adding, “I should have fought to keep you.” The moment is too acute, too intimate. Even Remy squirms beside me, Nick carefully not looking back, as if they both realize this demands privacy. But then, like a string being cut, Sy averts his eyes, adding, “I mean, all of you.”

I squint against the wind, not knowing what to say. The apology up in the belfry was a start, but these guys… it’s like they had a glimmer of something good coming, and they sabotaged the hell out of it. “J-j-just get us somewhere warm and dry, and then we can do all the fighting we want.”

Nick glances back, hair ruffling in the wind, and steers the boat across the dark water. I look back, watching the rocky face of the cliff we just jumped from growing smaller in the distance, and feel my face paling.

Remy and I share a long look.

We really jumped off that?

“Does he know where he’s going?” I ask Sy.

“My little brother has more connections than an airport,” is all he says, but Nick shifts the boat into gear, making it impossible to hear or speak.

It’s a long while later, in the gray dawn, that houses rise on the banks. Nick steers the boat toward a dock that he seems to recognize more than the others, but Sy jumps up instantly. Together, they ease the boat into the slip, securing it to the hooks with rope, and watching them move like this, smooth and powerful and efficient, is almost enough to distract me from the heaviness of the moment.

I look past the boathouse, toward the steep steps that climb up the mountainside. Behind the trees looms a gray house with big windows that reflect the muted light of the sunrise.

“Where are we?” I ask, clutching the blanket to my chest.

“A place to hide out.” Nick tucks his gun away before offering me a hand. “Sorry it’s not the Crane Motel.”

I snort and climb over the edge of the boat. “If I never see that shit hole again, it’ll be too soon.”

He grunts in agreement while Sy keeps the boat steady for Remy’s exit, and then the four of us start the hike up the hill.

“So how did you replace this place?” I ask, my calves burning.

“I did a security job here for Daniel last summer,” Nick says, clutching my elbow to help me up each step. “It’s owned by some jack-off that lives in the Caribbean nine months out of the year. They leave after Labor Day. The whole thing was wild—I’ve never been around that much money. Diamonds on every finger, Viper Scratch piled in candy bowls,” we reach the back door and he opens a security box, “and, of course, Daniel’s hustlers providing the best pussy in the city.” Remy and Sy wait impatiently, eyes on alert through the trees as Nick stabs in a code. “Which is why I have the security details. Daniel didn’t play when it came to his pussy.” He glances at me, mouth in a tight line. “We had contingency plans in case something went to shit.”

The light on the box blinks from red to green, the bolt sliding open.

He explains, “I figure we can hide out here until we come up with a plan.”

“If that plan doesn’t involve taking out my father—” I start.

“Or mine,” Remy adds.

I nod. “Then add them to the list. None of us are safe while they’re around.”

Sy touches my lower back, ushering me deeper into the house. “We’ll get your hit list together, but first, we need to patch you two up.”

I’m not in the mood to argue.

We all follow Nick deeper into the house, which is a little North Side-esque for my liking. Although he’s loose here–relaxed in a way that broadcasts how secure he feels in this strange place–the rest of us are on alert, tense, our footsteps quiet. Nick, however, starts turning on lights, even stopping at a thermostat to crank up the heat.

From behind me, Sy clears his throat. “Come on, Remy. Let’s check out that shoulder. I hurt just looking at you.”

Nick and I watch as Sy helps Remy out of his shirt, and I’m not thinking much of it just then; what happened while we were falling. But then Remy twists, hissing as his damp shirt flops to the floor, and I catch sight of his back.

It’s mottled with black and blue, blooming out toward his shoulder, his lungs, his spine.

So when Sy inspects his arm pensively, muttering, “Shouldn’t be too hard to pop it back in,” I lurch forward to stop him.

“I’m the Duchess. I’ll do it.”

Sy swings those blue eyes on me, blinking. “Lavinia, you look like you can barely stand. I’ve got it. I saw someone do this at the gym once, so it’s not–”

“No,” I demand, stepping between them. Remy watches me, head tilted, like he’s confused why I would possibly be so eager to pop his shoulder back into the joint. But then, his face clears.

Remy turned.

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 one’s on me,” I explain. “Plus, I–I’ve done it before.”

Remy dips his chin in a nod. “Go ahead. I trust you.”

Nick and Sy help him onto the kitchen table and I gather my hair up, knotting it into a sloppy bun. “Sorry I only know the street-triage version of this. I’m sure a real Duchess knows the tendons and nerves and–”

“Vinny,” Remy cuts me off, green eyes holding mine. “You are a real Duchess.”

Nick holds his other shoulder, saying, “Just make it quick.”

Sy snatches a dish towel from a hook and twists it up, ordering Remy to, “Open wide.”

Remy bites down on it, wriggling his hips, taking a deep breath, and then he nods. His arm is warm, and for a second, I trace a vein on his bicep, praying to a god I don’t believe in that I don’t mess something up. Remy isn’t just a fighter. He’s an artist. The gravity of his trust slams into me and I’m momentarily paralyzed. This isn’t one of the North Side henchmen my father used to throw my way for a quick mending job. 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.

Do I have it in me to cause him pain?

Sy is gathering ice from the freezer, but Nick notices my hesitation.

“He can take it,” Nick insists. When I just stand there, Remy’s elbow cradled in my palm, Nick offers me a word of encouragement. Or at least, that’s what I think he’s going to do. Instead, in a voice blasé as ever, he says, “I bet Haley didn’t miss a beat when he whipped his dick out for her. I wonder if he kissed her first. Did you, Rem? Of course, you did. No way you get a girl on her knees without tasting her–”

I yank the arm upward violently.

Pop!

Remy’s scream is muffled into the towel, but his throat still swells with it, eyes clenched tight as his heel comes down hard on the table–once–twice.

Sy appears instantly with the bag of ice, pushing it into Remy’s shoulder. I flee the room more than anything, too exhausted–physically, emotionally, mentally–to untangle the look Remy gives me on the way out, full of anguish and hurt.

“Sorry,” Nick says, catching up to me in the hallway. “I just knew you needed–”

“I know,” I snap, immediately deflating. Quieter, I repeat, “I know.”

I pause, listening for Remy, but other than some basic swears hurled at Sy, he seems okay. Nick leads me deeper into the house, to a large bedroom on the main floor. A wall of windows overlooks the water, anemic morning light filtering in. The room is decorated in dark blues, but accented with warm golds. Like Nick said, these people are rich-rich. The bed is the most inviting thing I’ve ever seen, but tonight, I’m so tired, I’d happily take my nest up in the loft.

I turn to him before we walk in. “There’s something you need to know. My dad—the hit–it wasn’t on Remy.”

“It was on me.” Nick’s dark eyes take me in, and then he shrugs. “Your dad wanting to kill me isn’t anything new. Look at me, baby.” He holds up his arms, drawing my eyes to his broad chest. “Any girl I ended up bagging was going to have a pissed off father who wanted to kill me.” He reaches out, tucking his fingers into the waist of my pants, drawing me closer. “The way I see it, things are right on track. At this rate, we’ll be married by May.” The words are spoken with that sly, cocksure smirk that always makes my stomach flip, but I just shake my head.

“This isn’t a joke, Nick.”

He raises an eyebrow, reaching for my hand. “Who’s joking?”

I look down as he touches the ring around my thumb. My heart skips at the reminder I’m still wearing his Bruin ring. So fucking careless. This thing has probably been passed down since his great-great-grand-whatever. It could have gotten lost in the water, forever abandoned in the river bed.

Hastily, I tug it off, pressing it into his palm. “You should be wearing this, Nick.”

When I glance back up, his face is sharp and severe. “I gave it to you.”

“And you shouldn’t have,” I stress, just as sharply. “You’re a Bruin. You’re a Duke. And you’re the next in line to lead them.” I shove the tip of my forefinger into his chest. “You’re West End’s only hope of fixing this fucked-up ecosystem, Nick. You don’t give something like this away. You harness it. You fucking own it.”

He scoffs. “Big words coming from North Side’s only surviving heir.”

“North Side doesn’t want me, and I sure as hell don’t want them,” I point out, holding his gaze. “But West End? I’ve seen you, Nick. You’re one of them. You have the name, but you also have the spirit. You have the chance to maybe build something here. Something worth half a shit. Something that lasts.” Just in case that’s not enough to drive it home, I add, “Something for us. All of us.”

Nick watches me, looking all at once confused and annoyed. “What are you saying? You want me to be King?”

“I want you to be alive,” I say. “As a Duke, as a King–I don’t care about titles. I just know this is bigger than me.” I close my fingers over his, curling his fist around the ring.

“You’re wrong,” he replies, searching my eyes. “But if that’s what you want…”

There’s something in his eyes when he puts the ring back on. Disappointment, perhaps. Maybe even some of that hurt I’d seen in Remy’s eyes back in the kitchen. It’s a strange feeling. I finally have the power to hurt these three, and I’m gaining zero enjoyment from it.

He nudges me against the doorjamb, and his fingers reach out, tracing along my neck. “All I care about is that you’re safe.”

“I’m fine,” I tell him, although it’s followed by a massive shudder. It’s not as much about the cold as the sudden release of tension. All the tears I’ve been holding onto fill the corners of my eyes. “I swear I tried to get him out of there safely,” I whisper, needing Nick to know this. Remy hurt me, but it’d never once crossed my mind to leave him there. “I’d almost done it. I talked him off the edge, and then his fucking dad showed up.” Shaking my head, I swat at the falling tear. “He threatened to send him away to some long-term hospital, and then–”

His body tenses. “That’s not going to happen.”

I cut my eyes at him. “You can’t promise that. These men are too powerful and fucking deranged.”

“Hey,” he says, fingers curling around my neck. His ring digs against my skin. “If deranged is a criteria, then I’ve got us covered. Plus, Sy is the most powerful man I know. And Remy? He’s stronger than you think.” He presses his forehead against mine. “Especially with you in his life.”

I don’t know how Remy is going to handle all of this once the dust settles. I don’t know how I’m going to handle it, but just having Nick here, having Sy and Remy in the other room, makes me feel like it’s possible.

“Thank you,” I say, trying to keep my eyes open, “for coming for me.”

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