Dukes of Ruin (Dark College Bully Romance): Royals of Forsyth University Book 4
Dukes of Ruin: Chapter 17

Whore.

I hear her shut up in that room with Remy and Nick, but even if I didn’t, I’d still know. It’s in the air, charged with sex and disgusting, private things. I spend too long frozen in front of the door, straining to hear their grunts. Her gasps. The moans and breath. The soft creak of a mattress’ springs.

And I’m hard.

So goddamn hard, all the time now.

I gather it up and shove it down with the anger, my fists curling into tight, shaking fists as I tuck the feelings away. An ocean. That’s what I use. It churns inside of me, white-caps of rage frothing it up, but I’m good at keeping it below the surface, always hidden under the depths. It’s the only useful thing my mom ever taught me. Visualizing, meditating, learning to make myself tidy and even. Even though it sounds like wishy-washy nonsense, there’s science behind this. Research. Verifiable evidence that it’s effective.

So why is my ocean suddenly so goddamn difficult to still?

Nick is the first to come out. I wait from the entryway into the kitchen, leaning against the arch as my eyes track his path to his bedroom. He’s flushed and heavy-limbed, fucked-out probably. I wonder how he took her. Did he bend her over Remy’s drafting table? Did she spread herself wide for him on Remy’s bed? Did she take them both, one after another? Or at the same time? Did Nick take her pussy while Remy fucked into her asshole? Did they fill her up, their cum leaking from her holes, dripping down her thighs like—

“Oof!” Slamming into me, Lavinia staggers back, a sheet fluttering to the floor around her. “Jesus Christ!” She scurries to cover herself with the sheet, but it’s trapped beneath her. “Wear a bell, Lurker.”

She says it derisively, with a curl to her lip, but I’m too distracted with the sight of her naked body to pay her insolence the attention it deserves. Her shoulders are bare, two stark clavicles framing a delicate-looking sternum. Her tits are round and heavy-looking, two perfect handfuls crowned with two pert nipples.

The next thing I know, I’ve got her shoved up against the wall, my fingers digging into her warm flesh. She smells like sweat and honey and pussy, and goddamn, I’m going to fuck her. I’m going to rip my way inside and slam into her little body until I can’t anymore. I’m going to put my ocean into it, pumping her cunt so full of my cum that she’ll be weeping it from her goddamn eyes. I’m going to—

“—off me, you fucking psycho!” Lavinia’s fists beat against my chest, which is the only thing that sends me careening back to myself. My erection is pressing into her belly, pinning her against the wall just as much as my own two hands. Hands. One is gripping her shoulder while the other palms her full tit. I blink at it for a suspended moment, wondering when I started losing grip on my own internal tides.

But I already know the answer to that, don’t I?

When all she does is gape at me, I snap, “Cover yourself up! I know you just got double-teamed, but believe it or not, this isn’t the Velvet Hideaway!”

Lifting her chin, she grits out, “I did not just get double-teamed!”

My anger flares anew, almost satisfied by her flinch when I surge against her, gripping her breast. “Don’t lie to me. I heard you in there, taking their cocks. Probably at the same time. Which one got your ass?” Her jaw drops and I scoff. “Remy, of course. Nick’s too full of himself. He always comes in through the front.”

Her teeth visibly clench. “I didn’t take anyone’s cock. You watch entirely too much porn.”

“You’re lying!”

“Am not!”

It’s the heat of her eyes just as much as her skin that drives me to spin her, my hand landing between two smooth scapulas, pressing against the delicate bumps of her spine and crushing her into the wall. My other hand dips down and I force my fingers to her soft, warm center, blood boiling at the slickness I replace there.

“You’re a fucking liar,” I growl into her ear, sliding my fingers into her wet cunt. “You’re a goddamn—”

But she’s tight.

Too tight, too tense for someone who’s just had my brother inside of her. Nick isn’t as big as me, but he’s still big. She’d be fucked open if he’d had her—and chafed, swollen and raw if Remy had.

Jaw clenching, I pull my fingers from her cunt just to slide them up an inch, replaceing her asshole puckered and taut.

Huh.

She’s smooth down here. Hairless. Wanting. So much heat is radiating between her plush cunt lips. My mouth parts against her ear as my fingers run up and down her slit, learning the topography of her sex. If this is how she feels around my fingers, then I can only imagine how it’d feel around my cock. Constricting. Slick. The sound of her muffled cries as I pushed her face into a pillow and took, sinking into the depths of her, my fist tangled in her hair.

I’m three fingers deep into her pussy when I slam back to reality, a sharp, pained squeak coming from her throat. Fuming, I fling myself away. “That’s what you get for bouncing around here like a whore!”

She whirls on me with lava in her eyes, hastily gathering the sheet up. She wraps it around herself like armor, and the thing is, it’s convincing. For a split second, that flash of fire in her eyes makes her look less like she just got violated and more like she’s about to do the violating. “You’re just as cracked as your friend. I hope someone’s put you on medication, too, because I’m done stitching psychopaths’ knife wounds! The next time one of you is carving yourselves up like a Christmas ham, I’m just going to stand back and let you go to town!”

I pry my eyes from the patch of skin above the sheet to ask, “What are you talking about?”

“Remy?” She gives me that haughty, condescending look that always makes me want to slap her. “Six-four, super rapey, likes to draw on everything and slice his arms up? Ring any bells?”

This time, when I slam her against the wall, it isn’t to get my hands on any part of her body. It’s forcing her gaze to mine. “Tell me what happened,” I demand, fingers digging into her chin.

And that’s how I learn about what went down yesterday. Through her fiery glare and tense jaw, Lavinia tells me about Remy cutting his arm.

“He looked me right in the eye, and just…” She makes a slicing motion, her eyes conveying the gravity of the situation with a flinty sort of anger. “He might as well have been using a marker. That’s how casual he was about it.”

It rests in my gut like a boulder that gets heavier with each revelation. My grip slackens, my shoulders fall, and my feet shift as if they’re tiring of lumbering my body around.

I leave her there against the wall, falling into a chair at the kitchen table. “Fuck.” I drop my head into my hands and exhale. He’s supposed to be better. Meds and rest and a solid routine. It was supposed to make shit like this a thing of the past.

“I stitched him up,” she says, shuffling her feet in an awkward, impatient gesture. And then, “Who’s Tate?”

The question, just as much as the person asking it, makes my spine go rigid. I turn to look at her over my shoulder, noting her bedraggled, powder-blue hair, and the curious tilt to her head. “Don’t,” I say, voice full of warning. “You did Remy a solid today, and I won’t forget that. But don’t you ever say her fucking name.” Without waiting for a reply, I pick up the plastic bag I’d walked in with an hour earlier, thrusting it into her arms.

Brow furrowed, she fumbles with it, her sheet almost slipping. “What’s this?”

“A necessity.” Folding my arms, I chew the words through gritted teeth. “According to my brother, we’re supposed to take you on campus with us. I don’t drive there—I run. It’s part of my workout. So, on the days you go with me, you need to be dressed like someone who isn’t prepared to get penetrated by the fists of Forsyth.”

Shooting me a glare, she peers into the bag, seeing the pair of sneakers and athletic attire I’d bought for her. Out of my own goddamn money, too. A wild laugh rips from her chest. “You want me to run with you?”

“I don’t want you to do anything but get the hell out of my life, but since that’s not happening…” I pause to wait for her eyes to finish rolling, reaching out to jolt her chin up. “I’ve decided that I’m not adjusting to you. You can adjust to me. I’m leaving in five minutes. Get changed.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

This was a terrible idea.

And there’s no one to blame but myself.

When first Nick told me it was time to take Lavinia on campus, I knew why. He’s kept her locked up in the tower, and he’s salivating at the chance to show Forsyth who she belongs to now. I didn’t need him to remind me that it’s part of the game. Flaunting females is a Royal flex—one I’ve earned and one that’s respected. I agreed for those reasons alone, but I had my own caveat. We’re running there. Not just because of my workout process, but because I need to expend as much energy as possible when I’m around this bitch. Exercise helps more than anything.

Or it would, if we were actually running.

I bark, “For fuck’s sake, Lucia! We’re in Prince territory here! You want to run out of it before we get shanked, or what?” I’m a block ahead, finally outpacing the scent of her hair like it’s the boogeyman or something. Every glance over my shoulder reveals her tits bouncing in the strappy contraption I’d bought for her. Athletic wear. Skin tight. Curve hugging.

Fuck the absolute entirety of my life.

“I told you I don’t exercise,” she gasps back, red-faced. Even when she slows to a lumbering gait, hands on her hips, chest heaving with big, strangled gulps of air, her tits pulse at me like two firm beacons, and now I’m remembering. I had one of those things in the palm of my hand. Fuck. “What’d you think? That I was doing Cross Fit in my various cells over the last two years? Fuck the Princes; I’m already fighting for my life here.”

Irritated, I stop, waiting for her to catch up. The townhouses on either side of the road stand over us like a threat, making my neck prickle. It’s too visible, but I’ve been running this loop since freshman year, and I’m not about to chart a new one just because I’ve become a Duke. The closest townhouse is PNZ—Psi Nu Zeta, the Princes’ frat—and it’s just what I’d expect. A cash-money facade that reeks of stale beer and generational disappointment. There’s something pungent dripping from the balcony two floors up, and I stop just short of walking into it.

“I thought you looked like you were in pretty good shape.” I try not to look at her body as I say it, but it’s impossible. I know she’s fast. She got a swipe in at Remy that night at the Hideaway, but that may have just been adrenaline. In the light of day, her arms are thin and feminine, although there’s some slight curve to her bicep. Her stomach is flat, but on closer inspection, I don’t see a lot of muscle underneath. You’d think that a female primed for a life of selling her pussy would have better stamina than this.

“I guess looks can be deceiving,” she says, finally catching up. She leans against the concrete wall of the townhouse, pressing a fist into her side. “Like you.” She squints up at me, a lock of her blue hair fluttering with a gasping exhale. “You look like a normal guy and not a circus freak with a dragon dick tucked in his sweats.”

It’d be easier if it were just the rending claws of anger. I could shove it below the surface of my ocean and let the rhythm of the waves take it. It’d even be easier if it were just the lizard-brain spike of lust that I had to wrestle beneath the ripples, starving it of attention.

The problem with Lavinia Lucia is that I want to kill her almost as much as I want to fuck her.

That’s what propels me forward, and the fear that flickers in her eyes is enough to bring both raging to the surface. “I’m about to look like the guy who strangled your ass in the East End and let the Princes take the fall for it. You think you’re special because you sucked a couple of cocks a few hours ago? You’re not.”

Her head jerks back in outrage. “I didn’t suck their cocks!”

Scoffing, I counter, “Please. I know my boys and their afterglow. If they didn’t fuck your cunt or your ass, they definitely fucked your face.” I’ve discovered the more I accuse her of being a whore, the more she reveals.

She proves me right, pulling her shoulders back to glare at me. “For your information, the only person getting head this morning was me!” At my dumbfounded expression, she smirks. “That’s right, while you were picking out sports bras for this little cardio sesh, your buddy’s face was planted firmly between my thighs. And while I was riding his tongue like a goddamn stallion, your brother was jerking off to it.”

I blink at her for an extended moment because I’m building it in my head. The ocean gets swiped away like sand on marble, making room for the vision of Remy licking her pussy as Nick watched. I don’t need to wonder what she tastes like. That bit of investigation was solved the moment we parted in the kitchen doorway, my tongue curiously sucking her from my finger.

But why?

Neither of them fucked her afterward.

What was the point?

Before I can think of a retort, we’re startled by the sound of a door opening above us, making my hackles rise. There’s a split moment of rowdy music, the static of distant life, and then the door slamming shut, casting the alley in silence once again.

Or near silence.

There’s a small, soft cry overhead.

Lavinia’s eyes dart up. “Do you hear that?”

Mostly I hear my molars grating. “Hear what?”

She holds still for a moment, head tipped back, palm raised. She points overhead. “That.”

Looking up, I see what’s unmistakably a tiny white paw batting between the bars of the balcony. “It’s a fucking cat.”

She pushes off the wall and walks out toward the other side of the street to see better. “It’s a kitten, not a cat. They just—they just threw it out there!” Her face hardens as she peers up at the thing. “Psi Nu cocksuckers. Shouldn’t be in charge of a Princess, let alone a kitten.” The ball of fuzz spots Lavinia and starts meowing in earnest. It’s small, about the size of my fist, but it cries like it’s a grown thing, long and pitiful. Lavinia’s face falls, her eyes dropping to mine. There’s a moment of tension that I don’t quite understand until she pleads, “Come on, can’t we get it or something?”

“Excuse me?” I look between her and the balcony. “That’s not our cat, and more importantly, no.”

Rolling her eyes, I watch as she calculates the height of the balcony, gives her feet a testing bounce, and then takes a loose run at the townhouse. I see the attempted jump coming from a mile away. Before her feet leave the ground, I catch her, arms wound around her waist, and jerk her back toward the street.

She slaps ineffectually at my forearm. “Hey, you fucker!”

“I’m going to be late,” I growl, tugging her away. “And if you want to have any time in the library, then you need to get your ass in gear!”

The kitten lets out an even sharper cry and Lavinia jolts away, glaring at me. “That kitten is too little to be out on that balcony! It could rain or get cold or—”

“Not my problem.”

“But—”

I force her to keep walking. “It’s not either of our problems. That kitten has a home, unlike other annoying pets.” I slide her a significant look. “Someone put it out there for a reason.” The little cries get louder the farther we walk away. “Probably because it’s annoying as fuck.”

“Wow.” She glares at me through the awe. “You’re just an asshole all-around, aren’t you?”

Snorting, I say, “Tell me something I don’t know, Lucia,” and start jogging toward campus.

The library isn’t a typical spot for Royals to congregate. They tend to hang around the student center or the fountain in the middle of campus. Wherever they can flex and be seen. Nick would be into that—Remy too, when he’s feeling more like himself. Remy loves to be in the middle of shit—feeds off the energy of a crowd, the attention. It’s why he loves the fight so much. But not me. Sometimes the worst part of a fight is the din of the crowd, the heat of their bodies, and the thrum of their energy. I’m beyond letting it distract me in the ring, but before and after? I could do without it.

It’s the winning that does it for me. The thought that I’ve come out on top. The feeling of having conquered. It’s just like I told my Pops about becoming a Duke. I never would have been happy as a mere Forsyth alum, and I never would have been happy as a regular DKS. If there’s a step in front of me, I’m going to climb it—conquer it.

My major is no different.

“Is there a reason, other than torture, that you can’t work on one of the two floors we just passed?”

In my mind, I thought I’d bluff my way through tucking her under my arm and publicly claiming Lavinia. I’ve seen the other Royals do it with their females. The Lords basically piss on their Lady, marking their territory like a pack of wild dogs. The Counts may as well lead their bitch around on a collar and leash. The Barons crowd around theirs like they don’t want anyone to see her, but we all know it’s bullshit. The Princes are the worst. They could carry their Princess through campus on a palanquin, and it wouldn’t even surprise me.

Point being, I’d planned on making a show, but the second our arms brushed coming in through the doors, my cock grew harder than a lead pipe, which sent my ocean into a tempestuous froth. Twice today I’ve lost my grip. If it happens again, it could go one of two ways. I punch someone in the face, or I blow my wad in my shorts. Neither is acceptable.

I look back and see her half a flight of stairs behind me, flushed and breathless. I’d made her put on the sweatshirt she’d had tied around her waist before we walked in. It’s cold in here and the last thing I need is her nipples staring at me all afternoon.

“It’s more quiet,” I reply, although I owe her no explanations. “And the books I need are up here.”

She drags herself up the last few steps, eyes skating over the sign hanging over the entrance to the floor: Behavioral Sciences. “Huh,” is all she says—whether it’s meant to be judgmental or just due to the fact she’s still struggling for breath. I cross the room to the bank of computers in the back corner and grab a seat, pointing to the one next to me. She drops into it with a loud sigh, sprawling out like she’s been on her feet for days instead of two hours. I turn away from the sight of her spread thighs and open the screen.

“Behavioral Sciences…” She peers over at the screen. “Which one?”

I slide her a look that’s full of warning. “You know, the amazing thing about being at the library is there’s no reason for small talk. It’s in the rules.”

“Uh, huh. And you seem like such a rule-follower by nature.” She reaches behind her head and yanks out the elastic holding her hair back, shaking it free. “Fine. If you won’t tell me, I’ll guess.” Her eyes narrow in assessment, and I avoid them at all costs. “Economics? Seems boring, but then you’re not exactly a paragon of adventure, are you? Or maybe Poli-Sci?” She hums to herself, looking way too comfortable here. “I guess that could come in handy, dealing with the Royals. Especially if you were going to be King. Which you aren’t. Your brother is lined up for that spot.”

Her voice is increasingly like nails on a chalkboard. Fucking stuck-up, know-it-all, big-tittied pain in my balls. We could have had a sweet girl like Verity, but no.

She bends over, flipping her hair forward to gather it up into her hands. While she can’t see me, I take her in—the pale blue hair that doesn’t go to the roots, her long slender neck, the gentle jut of her shoulder bones, and I’m hit with one immutable, striking fact.

She’s mine.

I could have her anytime I wanted.

With a sharp whip of movement, she rears back up, smoothing her hair into a neat ponytail. The scent almost overwhelms me.

“Pre-law? The Dukes could use a good lawyer, but that’s also a shit job with a terrible life expectancy, so I’m crossing that out.” I glance over and see her tilt her head dramatically while tapping her finger on her chin. “That leaves sociology or psychology.”

Not liking how good she is at this, I snap, “Didn’t you want to come to the library to look for a book or something?”

She pushes a scoff through her plump lips. “And what, you’re going to just let me wander around on my own?”

I fling a hand toward the stacks. “Go for it! Anything to shut you up so I can get some work done.” She perks a little too much to be comfortable, but I don’t really want her around to see what I’m looking up anyway. “Just stay on this floor and don’t cause any trouble.”

Before I can even finish my sentence, she’s off, nearly sprinting toward the stacks. I watch as she takes a minute to orient herself and then disappears down the closest row. I have to trust that whatever deal she made with my brother is solid enough to ensure she really doesn’t run. If she does? I’m not sure that’s the worst thing either. At least not for me.

Once she’s gone, I open the PsyGui portal and type in a few search terms; parasomnia, hypomania, mixed affective states, emotional dysregulation. All things that describe Remy’s recent behavior.

At first, I thought it was just the transition. Moving into the Dukes’ tower was always going to be a big adjustment for him. Remy has a thing about structures—homes, buildings, rooms. It’s not just that he grows attachments, but also that he’s so weirdly selective. Nick could probably sleep on a sidewalk if it’s quiet enough, but Remy needs his wall scrawlings and what he’d once described to me as ‘purple energy.’ Whatever the fuck that means.

Pausing, I think of him eating Lavinia out this morning, and add hypersexuality to the list. That’s the only thing that can explain that. It’s not a surprise he’s obsessed with her. It was one of my concerns about bringing a Duchess into the house, and it didn’t help that we’d already had the dust-up with her in the Hideaway. But it’s been a long time since Remy refused to take his meds. Since he legitimately tried to hurt himself. Since he actually succeeded. This is some freshman year shit, and if I don’t replace out why—and how to stop it—then I really am going to have to call his dad.

It’s the deal I made when Remy got out of the hospital. We convinced his dad to let him enroll, to let him pledge DKS so I could monitor his moods and symptoms. Truth be told, I was naive enough to believe that, like me, the structure of training would help him level out. It’s not that simple for him, though. Remy and structure go together like eight-balls and good decision-making.

It’s why I chose psychology as my major. I figured I’d go into athletic training and really focus on developing the talent at the gym. But when shit hit the fan three years ago and Remy really started struggling, it clicked. My mother, predictably, was both ecstatic and worried. Happy I’d decided to follow in her footsteps. Worried about my motivation.

She’s wrong about both. I’m not following in her footsteps. She’s a goddamn psychologist. I’m a double major—psychology and biology. I’m going to be a psychiatrist. A real doctor. Remy doesn’t need to talk out his feelings to get better. He needs to fix his chemistry. And most importantly, he needs someone who’ll give a fuck. Not his dad, who’d be happy to lock him away in a padded room.

“Oh, wow, who’s the hottie? I wouldn’t mind him guiding me through freshman orientation.”

“Ew. No. That’s the one we were talking about,” the hissed female voice floats over the computers, too loud to be unintentional.

“Which one?” the first girl replies.

“You know! The one with the giant donkey dick.” My eyes flick up, and I see the Count’s bitch, Sutton, standing next to another girl, openly watching me.

“Oh god, you mean the one who—”

“Blew his wad before he even got it in Richelle’s pussy? Yep. That’s the one.”

Richelle. The name brings sour bile to the back of my throat. It all went down at the Fourth of July party on the river, sophomore year. It’s one of the few events where we’re forced to co-mingle with the other frats. The University requires it as an attempt to keep us in the spirit of brotherhood and community service, just like the dumb charity carnival. The royal women take the brunt of it by having to work together for planning, while we mostly get drunk, fucked, and have a good time. This particular Fourth party was no different—until this blonde with big tits and a barely-there bikini started following me around. She wasn’t local, and had no idea who I was, which was admittedly a selling point. She started rubbing up against me in the boat dock, smelling like coconut and spiced rum, and I couldn’t even think of a good excuse.

It was a weak moment. A bad day. I was coming off a dirty fight—the kind of fight you feel like Superman for winning—and I had enough shots and Jell-O shooters to fuel a fucking jet engine. I let her grind her ass against me to the music, and then I let her drag me to her car. Ten minutes, one kiss, and some unskilled fumbling later, I was shooting off into the soft skin of her thigh.

On the upside, she never had the chance to get weird about the size of my dick.

Sutton’s eyes meet mine. She flips her hair over her shoulder as she crosses the distance between us, approaching me with an unearned swagger. “Perilini. How’s the Royal life treating you?”

I keep my eyes on the research, scrolling the mouse. “Better than the case of clap, you’re probably nursing.”

Sutton’s not new to the game, and she shows it by smoothly sliding her ass onto the desk, her bare, smooth legs crossing. “I was just curious. Things must be pretty chilly, considering.”

“Considering what?”

She gives a delicate hum. “A Bruin in the belfry again. He’s got the keys to the kingdom, and you’re just riding bitch. Figuratively speaking, of course.” I hear her smirk more than I see it. “Plus, he brought that sneering bimbo with him. You realize Lavinia Lucia is a murderer, right? To tell you the truth, we thought the Dukes were better than royal dumpster diving, but it’s really nice of you to clean up our trash. Recycling is so important.”

I click the mouse, already bored. “Since you’re their bitch again, you’d know all about Count trash being recycled.”

There’s a long moment where the only sound is my typing, and then, “I’m being serious.” When I finally feel irritated enough to look up, Sutton’s eyes are hard and grim. “Duke or not, you’re pre-med, like me, so I’m going to give you some advice. Get rid of her, Perilini. Take her to some abandoned West End warehouse, put a bag over her head, pull the trigger, and give the Barons a nice stack to get rid of the body.” Her face is inscrutable, except for the flicker of displeasure when she looks away. “Lavinia is trouble, but her blood runs North, which means she’s ours. She’s theirs. The longer you have her, the worse the Counts are going to get.”

The chuckle comes involuntarily. “You royal bitches never stop, do you? You’re the pettiest, most insecure cunts in all four corners. I’m going to let you in on a little secret.” Pitching forward, I keep my voice low and even. “The Counts being this wound up about it—so much that they make their pet whore risk life and limb to scare me away? It’s the only good thing about Lavinia being my Duchess. And that’s exactly what she is now. Ours.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You really want to kick a nest of vipers?”

“I really want to whip out my donkey dick and piss on a nest of vipers, but taking Lucia as my bitch is a close second.”

“They’re only going to get worse,” she insists, fingers tightening around the edge of the desk. “And they’re already bad enough. Trust me.”

“Is there a reason you’re whining to me about your problems?” I ask, trying to figure out why the Cuntess is even talking to me.

“I thought you were smart, Perilini.” A long beat pulses between us, and she leans in just like I had before, voice soft and secret. “I wasn’t sent here to scare you. I was sent here to distract you.”

“Shit.” I jolt to my feet. “Where is she?”

“Aw, did you lose your Duchess already?” With a cluck of her tongue, she drops from the desk, turning away. “Don’t whine to me about your problems.”

I push past her, trying to remember which row of books Lavinia went down. I take a calculated guess and rush down the narrow aisle, craning my neck to search. It’s empty and so is the next. I’m midway down a collection of medical journals when I hear two voices on the next row.

Fucking Perez.

“You and I both know this can’t last,” he’s saying, the words uttered in a harsh whisper. “If you think kneeling for those meatheads is enough to save you, then you’re about to be disappointed.”

There’s a sharp cut of laughter. “Poor Bruno. You look like a goddamn mess. Daddy must really be putting the heat on you. I imagine he’s pretty disappointed in you for losing that fight.” There’s a pause, and then her voice emerges with a reedy tone. “Not to mention your trigger finger.”

No one calls Perez ‘Bruno’, yet here’s this little girl, calling him out.

“You cockteasing bitch,” he mutters, followed by the sound of books dropping. “The only reason I lost that fight is because you can’t keep your mouth shut! When are you going to stop fighting and accept—”

“I’m never going to stop fighting.” The hatred in her voice is so full of venom and steel that it even brings me up short. “I’m never going back to him, and most importantly, I’m never going to be yours.”

There’s a quiet, pained sound, and then Perez hisses, “You think I want you? You think the Dukes want you? No one does. News flash, you Smurf-haired slut; you’re the consolation prize. You’re the bronze fucking medal of the Lucias. People take you because it’s that or nothing. Leticia was better than you in every conceivable way, and when I finally have my collar around your neck? You’re going to pay both your debts.”

I stalk down the row, turning at the end, and feel the ocean inside me rage when they come into view.

Lavinia is pressed against the shelf, a pile of books at her feet. Perez has his forearm shoved against her throat, lips pulled back into a sneer. Spitting right into her face, he says, “The clock is ticking, sweetheart. Even you can’t manipulate your way around a King’s order.”

My fists tighten, vision going red in that very particular way. It’s been years since I got into a scuffle outside of the ring, which is the only reason I unhinge my jaw enough to speak.

“Ten seconds.” Perez doesn’t flinch at the flat, threatening sound of my voice. In fact, when he turns just enough to glimpse me over his shoulder, he barely looks surprised. “That’s how long I’m going to give you to take your hands off my property. I’d say five, but honestly, I don’t like her very much. Not that it’s going to make a difference for you.” I stride toward him casually, as if I’m taking a stroll through the titles, but the truth is I can’t even feel the surface of the ocean anymore, dragged under by the thrum of my veins. “She belongs to the Dukes, to me, which means I’m about to make whatever my meathead brother did to you look like schoolyard roughhousing.”

Lavinia’s eyes ping from me to Perez, and the closer I get, the more I realize they’re welling with tears. It brings me up short, because a few hours ago, I had her in the same position. I can say what I want about Lavinia, but this bitch is anything but soft. Her ability to take a little abuse is the only redeeming quality she possesses. It’d take a lot more than a little manhandling to break her.

This means, “You’ve upset her.” Lavinia’s forehead creases at the fury in my tone, but it’s wiped away the second I snatch Perez by the neck. “Only I get to do that.”

The ocean is a whirling, brackish froth now, and it’s made all the more turbulent by the fist Perez swings out at me, still bandaged from his amputated finger. It’s easy to dodge, to catch his wrist in my hand, to look at the forearm he’d had pressed into my Duchess’ fucking throat, and let the ocean loose, releasing the dam.

Just a trickle.

Just enough to clutch his elbow and bring my knee up, jabbing hard into his ulna.

The bone snaps audibly, a crunchy, fleshy sort of human sound that echoes through the aisle, just as brittle as the pages around us.

Perez’s face goes slack, but only for the smallest moment. The yell comes next, strained through his gritted teeth as he flings himself back, cradling his broken arm. Redundantly, he screams, “You broke my arm!”

This is always the hardest part, tucking the ocean away. Stilling the waves. Calming the currents. In a perfect world, I could bury the fist I’m flexing into his jaw a few good times. Maybe a couple kicks to the kidney while he’s down. Fuck, it’d be glorious.

But I wouldn’t stop.

This isn’t the gym. This isn’t a fight. There’s no rules, no boundaries, no structure. I’d keep hitting and jabbing and crushing, until Bruno Perez was nothing but a lifeless lump of tenderized meat. He’d deserve it, but I wouldn’t. He’s not worth doing hard time.

So I breathe hard, fighting to pull the rage back into myself. I think of my parents and the look on their faces if they got the call. I think of Nick stepping into my shoes and taking over. I think of Remy, because if I were sent away, all it’d take is one bad day, and he’d be locked up in a different kind of cell.

The reality of the consequences cycle in my head, over and over. But they’re not what finally snaps me back to rationality.

It’s Lavinia, lurching forward and slamming her fist right into Perez’s grimacing face. “I don’t kneel to anyone, you piece of shit!” She pulls her fist back again and I see it in her eyes. This is a girl with no ocean.

She’s not going to stop, either.

It takes more of my strength than I’d expect to haul her back, arm hooked around her waist as I drag her out of the aisle. Even two rows down, she’s still struggling, mouth pulled into a snarl.

“Calm your goddamn tits,” I growl, pulling her toward the emergency exit behind the records department.

By the time we reach the door, the fight’s mostly drained out of her. “Let me go!” With one solid wrench of her body, she frees herself, shooting me a glare. “I could have gotten a few more shots in.”

I glare back. “You always get your knuckles wet on someone else’s kill?”

She flings her arms out. “If the opportunity arises, then why not?”

“That was pathetic,” I tell her. “If he’d had a weapon or wanted to, he could have fought back.”

She rolls her eyes, turning a tight circle. “I’m fine, Simon. Thank you for asking.”

“And that punch was just…” Shaking my head, I don’t bother disguising the awe in my voice. “Did you really tuck your thumb? Has no one ever taught you how to hit someone before? That shit is embarrassing, Lucia.” Strangely, I replace my lips twitching. “You hit like a girl.”

Her eyes flash angrily and damn. She might not have the form or skill to back it up, but the pure determination in her glower could probably get her by, to a point. “I kick like a man, if you want a demonstration.”

I turn to walk toward the social sciences section, knowing instinctively she’ll follow. “I think you’ve demoralized yourself enough for one day.”

As expected, the sound of her sneakers scurrying behind me makes my ears prickle. “You broke his arm.”

Unapologetically, I confirm. “Ulna. Clean break. He’ll be out of the game for a bit.”

There are a few moments where I hear nothing but the sound of her shoes, and then her quiet voice, full of malice. “Good job.” It’s the tone that gets me. All patronizing and smug.

“Let’s make one thing clear.” Whirling around, I catch her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. “I’m not your goddamn attack bear, Lucia. Perez got his due because you belong to the Dukes. You’re not untouchable because you’re special.” Reaching out, I brush my fingertips over the red, angry skin on her neck. “You’re untouchable because we’re special. Don’t forget that.”

She follows me to the second floor without needing to be told, but her footfalls sound weirdly resentful, like she’s dragging them along. Probably glaring at my back.

“So long as I’m untouchable.”

The knock on my door is soft but determined, and there’s no doubt who’s behind it. I consider not opening it at all. It’s almost eleven, and I’ve had a long, bullshit day filled with bullshit hurdles and far too much Lavinia Lucia.

I just want to get some fucking sleep.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, resting my book on the bed. Sure enough, Lavinia, dressed in an oversized DKS hoodie and leggings, stands a few feet back, shifting her weight from foot to foot. I’d spent an hour in the shower scrubbing the scent of her off me, while pretty much rubbing my dick raw, and here she is again, assaulting me with her… goddamn fucking everything.

My eyes flick over her head to where my brother leans against his own doorjamb, arms crossed over his bare chest. A hard expression is plastered across his features. Jealousy, if I know Nick as well as I think I do. This is exactly the kind of shit I didn’t want to get into.

“It’s late,” I snap. Her eyes pin to my chest before roaming down to the band of boxers. I fight the urge to cover my crotch with my hands. This bitch is on my turf. I’m not hiding my cock from her. “What do you want?”

Her gaze travels back up my body. “I know this isn’t ideal for either of us, but…” She seems to replace some spine, straightening to her full height. “I’m sleeping here tonight.”

Again, I look over at Nick. He’s watching us with a quiet intensity, but the knot in the back of his jaw tells me everything I need to know. I raise a hand toward him. “You realize my brother would throw a goddamn parade if you slept in his bed?”

Her jaw works from side to side, weight shifting, and I’ve only spent a handful of hours with this bitch, but somehow I can read the dull, wary cast to her eyes.

The problem isn’t that Nick doesn’t want it.

It’s that he does.

Heaving a labored sigh, I step back into the room. “Why can’t you just sleep in the loft like a good dog?”

She quickly follows me in, shutting the door behind her—probably more to keep Nick’s glare off her back than anything else. “I made a deal. This is part of it. Three nights a week. Last night was Remy and the two before that were my nights off.”

I know that’s only part of the answer, but it doesn’t matter. I know why she’s here and not across the tower. Nick has attachment disorder the strength of an h-bomb. My brother never wants something at a reasonable level. We’re alike in that way. ‘Coming on too strong’ is probably an understatement. Nick hasn’t formed a healthy attachment in his whole goddamn life. I still don’t see why that means I have to share my bed with this skank. Verity would have never made me do this shit.

Irritated, I point to the chair in the corner. “You can sleep there.”

She rubs her temples. “It has to be the bed, or it doesn’t count.”

I glare at her. “Are you fucking kidding me? You negotiate worse than you punch!” Seething, I burst, “Fine. Take the left side of the bed.”

The bed is king-size, but I’m not a small man. I move my textbook from the middle of the mattress and replace it with two pillows to act as a barrier, giving myself the majority of the space.

Lavinia stares at it for a long moment before shaking her head. “God, you’re weird.”

“Stop acting like this isn’t the reason you’d rather sleep here.” I reach for the pull on the lamp on the bedside table. “You’d better sleep like a goddamn rock, because the second you wake me up, I’m going to take it out of your ass.” I pull the quilt up to my stomach. “And don’t steal the blanket. If you piss me off, I’m taking you back to him. He can fuck you into corpsehood for all I care.”

I yank the pull, shrouding us in darkness. It’s not enough to block her out entirely. I can still sense her, but I drag the pillow over my head and roll away, pushing my back toward her.

I don’t exactly know what my brother is trying to do with all this. Make me as crazy as Remy? Whatever it is, I’ve worked too hard on my self-control, my discipline, to let a pathetic little girl like Lavinia Lucia destroy all of that just by moving into my house.