Dukes of Ruin (Dark College Bully Romance): Royals of Forsyth University Book 4
Dukes of Ruin: Chapter 22

The cutsluts have their own locker room—or I guess, more accurately, a lounge. It’s certainly nicer than what the guys get and smells more like lotion and perfume than mildew and sweaty ballsack. The floors are made of hardwood, and the front room has soft velvet couches, like the powder room at the country club. The next section has a long row of lockers on one side of the room and then brightly lit mirrors and dressing tables on the other.

“Sit,” she says, pointing to one of the chairs. My shoulders tense at her commanding me like a dog, but I have a feeling that challenging this girl would get me into a world of hurt not just from Mama, but from the guys too. I don’t need the headache, and honestly, in her own twisted way, she’s trying to help.

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to do some kind of makeover.”

“Okay,” she says, swiveling the chair to face the mirror. There are personal items on the dresser, photos of Verity and her mom, a jewelry box, various trinkets. “I won’t tell you that, but tonight is pretty important, and after the Family Dinner, it’s clear you’re in over your head.”

“I know how to dress,” I reply, shooting her an annoyed look. “My style is just… less gym-rat-hooker and more—” I pause, frowning in thought. “Well, I don’t even know what it is anymore. I haven’t exactly had a say in the matter these past few years. But if I had a choice, it would be a shade less prostitute.” I give her a tight smile. “No offense.”

“None taken.” She picks up a brush and holds it to the crown of my hair. “The cutsluts have a unique style. We’re not ashamed of it. The Dukes like it and that’s all that matters.” She yanks down the brush, not being gentle with the knots and tangles. “The Duchess needs to have her own brand, but it needs to be on-brand, if you know what I mean.”

What she means is that, for the next two hours, I’m subjected to an extended version of what Auggy put me through my last night at the Hideaway.

I sit still as she trims and teases my hair, even when the other cutsluts begin filtering in. They stop and hug her from behind, or squeeze her ass, or give her head a little pat. When she moves to my fingernails, painting them a deep, almost black-red, the cutsluts fall into action, assisting Verity when she needs it, replaceing tweezers and exfoliators and clippers. Never has it been more clear to me that Verity was groomed to be in my position. The other girls defer to her without any snide comments or glares. They work together as a unit, talking nonstop, continuous chatter about any and all things. TV shows, celebrities, food, and sex.

They act like I’m not even here.

I suppose it’s an upgrade from the party and the dinner, where I’d be subjected to suspicious glances, tinged with contempt. It doesn’t occur to me that Verity’s had some hand it until a short, black-haired girl walks in with three outfits.

Verity arranges the sets of hangers, asking, “So, which do you think?”

I’m in the chair, my hair in rollers, fingers fanned out over each knee, and I can’t think. I can barely move. It’s some bastardized version of what happened that night in Sy’s bed. Paralysis. That’s the word.

I look between the three sets. One is a tight, sparkly red dress. One is a fitted, corset-like top with a pair of tight, slashed up jeans. The last is a loose crop top, a worn leather jacket, and a dark mini skirt.

This paralysis drags out as my gaze moves between them, and I swear I can feel sweat springing up. I don’t choose. I take what I’m given. It’s been like that for years. The books at the library were one thing. I was being rushed and pressured, and there wasn’t much choice. There were things I needed to know, so those were the books I got.

But this?

Shifting uncomfortably, I say, “What do you think?”

Verity blinks at me, pinging her gaze to a couple of the other girls. “Er… well, you have a really nice figure. I’m sure you’d look great in whatever. Right?” She asks them. The cutsluts.

One of them gives a hesitant nod. “Uh, sure. You have a good body.”

It isn’t until Verity mentions, “The dress is very… North Side?” that my brain cells begin kicking into gear.

“You’re right.” I reach out and toss it on the floor. “Give me the one with the leather jacket, but the jeans from the other one.”

“Sexy punk. Good choice.” Verity gives me a pleased nod, hanging the winning outfit beside the mirror. “I’m going to run out for a second so all your stuff can set. You’ll be good back here.” She doesn’t phrase it as a question—to neither me nor the other girls—she just leaves. That’s how I end up sitting quietly, awkwardly observing such elaborate pre-game rituals as bra swaps and topless selfies.

By the time Haley, Sy and Remy’s ring girl, walks in, I’m high from the fumes of everyone else’s hairspray and nail polish. I watch her in the mirror’s reflection, stripping off her dress and going through her locker, just as topless as the others. She’s wearing a pink lace thong and looking pretty blasé about it. None of the girls seem to have a shred of modesty.

Haley decides on a rainbow-striped, stretchy, sequined tube top and pulls it over her head. “Cheyenne,” she calls to the girl in the next locker, “can I borrow your red lipstick?”

“Sure, babe,” the other girl says, sorting through a makeup bag. “Try this shimmer gloss on top. It’ll spark off your sequins.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” she leans toward the mirror next to me and applies the lipstick. “Is Bruce ready for his fight?”

“He’s pissed he’s not the main event, but I know he’ll get his chance. Sy’s the draw.” Cheyenne gives Haley a little pout. “Which means you are, too.”

When she says Sy’s name, Haley’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. I could look away, but I don’t. She may have on the sequins, but I’m the Duchess. She glances back at Cheyenne and says, “You meeting Bruce before the fight? Like usual?”

“God, yes, you know how he is. Superstitious and horny as fuck. I blow him before one goddamn fight he just so happens to win, and now I have to get on my knees before every match.”

Haley laughs, and tugs on a pair of black Lycra booty shorts. “You know you love it.”

“I know it makes him happy, and that’s my job.” She walks over, kisses Haley on the cheek, and strides out of the room. “See you out there, girl.”

Haley pushes her feet into knee-high boots and spends a long time fussing over the laces. When she throws her head back to spritz on some perfume, I get a full view of the faded design Remy drew on her skin during Family Dinner. It’s a drawing, I remind myself. Not real ink.

Verity walks back in. “Mama’s looking for you, Haley,” she says, nodding at my feet. “You should be good now.”

Haley strides out of the room, leaving us in a gust of peach-scented body spray.

“Did your mom really want her?” I ask, pulling wads of tissue from between my expanded toes.

“Yeah, they’re doing some photos beforehand for promotional stuff.” She rolls her eyes. “Social media. It’s really big in the West End. Everyone here creams themselves for a good flex.”

“Who all’s doing photos?”

“Haley and Sy, and the other fighters and their ring girls.” She moves behind me and fusses with my hair a bit more.

I wiggle my toes, flexing them out. “And then what? There’s a while before the fight. Do they practice?”

She gives me a quick look and hands me the denim jacket. “I mean, you could call it practice, but most people call it fucking.”

“Bruce and Cheyenne,” I state.

“Definitely. They have some routine.” Her eyes meet mine. “What? Are you wondering about the guys?”

“I don’t care who they screw.”

But even as I speak the words, something about the thought of it—Remy bending someone over a table, Nick railing another girl in some dark back room, Sy showing someone that silent intensity I’d seen a couple nights ago…

It makes it feel impossibly crowded. More elements at play. More sweat and lust and hands.

I’d just really fucking rather they wouldn’t. “But it’d be good to know where they’re sticking their dicks, right?”

The look she gives me makes me feel hot and uncomfortable, and it’s not because of the jacket. “The Dukes and their Duchess always have their own arrangement. That’s between you and the guys.” I stare at her as she speaks. “But I guess I could tell you that Remy and Haley used to be pretty hot.”

“They fuck?” I ask. “Regularly?”

There’s a cringe in her eyes. “Lately, less so. I don’t think they’ve done anything since you became Duchess. You know, if you’re worried about STDs or something. It never struck me as anything beyond physical. Remy’s not really the type. Honestly, neither is Haley.”

The knowledge twists inside of me like something barbed, and I can’t help but picture it. Haley’s sexy, I guess. I bet she’d take it without any fuss whatsoever, spreading her thighs for him, uncaring of whatever litany of nonsense is pouring from his mouth as he fucks her.

“What about Simon?” I blurt, not meaning to.

“If he wanted her to, she would, but I think pre-match fucks aren’t really his thing. Or they haven’t been, as far as I know. I haven’t seen any… signs.” She arranges the makeup table, forehead creasing. “The other girls actually have experience with sex stuff, though.”

“You don’t?” I ask, eyebrows shooting upward. “You’re a virgin?”

She nods, and wow. Who would have thought, with all that cutslut gear? “I was saving myself.”

“For them?”

She laughs at my tone. “Not Sy, Nick, and Remy, like… specifically.” She lines up the nail polish again. For a third time. “Just whoever the Dukes would be. It was always meant to be my place—to be Royal.” She sends me a brief look. “And we all know what Royals like. A virgin in the street and a slut in sheets.”

I’m still hung up on the thought of anyone saving themselves for three random jerkoffs. “What if they ended up being…?” Creepers? Lurkers? Maniacs? Assholes? It’s not like the current batch could get much worse, and she was clearly down for that. “What if you didn’t like them?”

“It wouldn’t matter,” she replies simply. “It’s not about the guys—not really. It’s about being Royal. Belonging to something bigger than yourself. Helping your community, making your name mean something. I guess liking them would be a bonus.” Before I can tell her how insane that is, she goes on, “Sy seems more like he’d punch walls to psyche himself up for the fight or something.” She gives me an awkward smile and a long beat settles between us.

Finally, I ask, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

She frowns. “I’m a nice person.”

“No, I mean…” I wave a hand between us. “Let’s not bullshit each other here. You’re obviously better suited to be Duchess than I am, and plus, you actually wanted it. Like… enough that you were willing to save yourself for three potential psychos. Doesn’t it piss you off?” Quieter, I ask, “Doesn’t it hurt?”

She pulls one shoulder toward her ear, half shrug and half wince. “Not in the way you’re thinking. Not because of you. You seem nice enough.” She cuts me a sly look. “For Count trash, at least.”

“Gee.” My voice is deadpan. “Thanks.”

Her responding smirk is teasing enough to lighten the words. “It definitely messed up a lot of plans, but if I’m being honest… not all of them were mine.” The look she gives me runs right to the pit of my chest, because I know it. I saw it in Leticia, and sometimes, I see it in myself. It’s the look of someone who has expectations to live up to. “I’m nice to you, because even though I didn’t get chosen, I’m still loyal to the Dukes,” she says, matter-of-fact. “I’ll do anything they ask of me. Won’t you?”

We stare at each other.

I know she’s remembering my little scuffle with Sy earlier when she bursts into laughter right along with me. Whatever pang had settled into my chest before is purged when I throw my head back, shrieking with deep, belly aching laughter. “Yeah, right,” I snort, dabbing wetness from the corner of my eyes. “Fuck, I needed that.”

“That’s probably why it has to be you.” Her grin fades, but doesn’t completely disappear. “The Dukes are fighters, and I wouldn’t resist anything. I bet they’re never bored with you.” She opens up the makeup bag, flicking her wrist in a motion so similar to her mother that it startles me. “Don’t worry about the other girls. They’ll come around once they get it.”

“Once they get what?”

“That you aren’t here to spy or sabotage our guys.” She begins dropping all of her polish and supplies into the bag, adding, “Because that’s why they’ve been—Sy and Remy, at least. Ours, for the last few years. But now?” She stands, pushing out a decisive exhale. “Now, they’re yours.”

It’s impressive how three words can say so much when they’re spoken so resolutely—so fiercely. I don’t need to see the warning in her eyes, because I hear it.

The Dukes have more than their own six fists.

Verity walks me to the ring. I get the feeling she’s been told to keep an eye on me until I’m back with the Dukes. In a crowd like this, there would be ample opportunity to make a run for it. But I’m not running. I’m biding my time.

Eight days.

As Verity has made perfectly clear to me tonight, the entire Duke system places value in their Duchess. For now, it’s the best I can do.

Friday Night Fury has a different vibe when you’re not being dragged in by an intimidating Lord, micro-chipped, and offered up as the prize in a bitter rivalry between gangs.

Not that I’m still not on display.

Nick watches us approach from the other side of the gym. He’s standing against the outside of the ring, arms slung lazily over the top rope. He must have been watching the door to the dressing room. It’s the only way to explain how his eyes replace me from across the crowded space, which was empty hours ago, but is now taking on a rowdy demeanor. His gaze never leaves me. The closer I get, the straighter he stands, his blue eyes taking in every part of my body.

I hadn’t really been able to think much of it at the time, but the outfit… it’s exactly the kind of thing I would have worn back in high school—when I actually had the chance.

When I begin rounding the ring toward them, Nick nudges Remy, making me subject to his intense gaze, as well. The area is shrouded; the spotlights focused on the center mat, but I can see Nick’s fitted black button-down shirt and pants. I’m used to seeing him covered in blood splatter or half-naked. Like this, he doesn’t just look pretty, he’s gorgeous.

They both square up to meet me, hopping down from the platform, but Nick’s the one to reach out, tugging me forward by a belt loop.

“I see we’re going to need to reconsider your wardrobe situation.” Leaning down, he speaks directly into my ear. “I’ve never seen you hotter than you are right now.” He punctuates this by squeezing my ass, fingers poking through one of the slashed rips right below my ass cheek. It’s why I’m not wearing panties, and from the way he freezes, a low, strained sound escaping his throat, he can tell.

I fight back a shiver and try to blame it on the crop top. My entire bottom torso is exposed. I’m pretty sure if I lift my arms, my tits are going to peek out of the bottom.

But at least I get to wear boots.

He reacts by wrapping his other arm around me, hitching me up close to rasp. “One day, you’re gonna let me fuck your pretty cunt again. Name your price, Little Bird, I’ll pay it.” Another squeeze of my ass brings his forefinger in dangerously close proximity to things he hasn’t earned a right to. He doesn’t make me fight him off, spinning me around to face Remy. “See?” he asks him, winding his arms around my neck, chin propped on my head. “Do you see it now?”

Remy is definitely seeing, but I’m not sure what he’s seeing. His eyes are roving over me like someone who’s deciding whether or not the car he just bought is a lemon. Whatever he’s looking for, he doesn’t seem to replace it.

Not until he hooks a finger into my waistband and shoves it down, revealing the star.

I watch him mouth the numbers, the divot in his forehead easing. He steps back, giving me one last sweeping look, and then nods. “Yeah, I see it.” His eyes flick up to mine, and then Nick’s. “She’s a fucking Duchess, bro.”

Nick gives me a shake that feels strangely victorious, as if he’s the one who’s won a fight. “Damn right she is. Let’s do this.”

I cringe from their energy, but a part of me unfurls at the same time. It’s the first time someone’s called me a Duchess without it feeling forced and halfway like a joke. I begin to wonder if I am—if I’d even want to be, even in ideal circumstances. I’ve known Countesses before, met a couple Ladies, and sold a joint to a Baroness at a local show during my junior year of high school. But this was always Leticia’s place. I feel it so keenly that I can almost see a flash of her golden hair in the crowd. I never saw myself as one of them. A Royal woman. Someone people look at when I walk into a room. Someone who becomes the center of attention when Nick grabs my hips, lifting me effortlessly toward Remy’s outstretched hand as I’m pulled into the ring. Someone who looks out into a crowd and sees a group of men cheering for something I’m a part of.

For the briefest moment, I think I understand what Verity was talking about before.

Nick circles the mat, fists in the air, flashing his gold ring and amping up the crowd. If this is new to him, you’d never know it. I guess it’s just in his blood. The way his tattoos shift against the muscle as he stalks from corner to corner, riling up the masses. The stony look on his face, like he’s not even worried about the outcome. I never would have pegged him for a performer, but here he is, commanding his kingdom—no, their kingdom—like a master with puppet strings. The crowd is like a drumbeat in my ear—stomping their feet. Some of the frat guys lean toward the ring, slapping their palms against the mat in time to a chant.

DKS! DKS! DKS!

They watch Nick like he’s a magnet, and it’s clear that they want him—either for his name or his reputation. It doesn’t matter. The higher Nick raises his fists, the higher the din of the cheers.

Remy isn’t without his fans, though—mostly female. I’m not surprised. He oozes sex as he stalks around the ring, leaning over the ropes to bump fists. He swipes a cutslut’s beer and downs it in three big gulps, chucking the cup back into the sea of reaching arms. The same manic energy that’s sharp enough to cut is also bright enough to gleam, and he radiates it like a secret, dangerous thing, his messy platinum hair glowing like a crooked halo.

I remain in the back corner, unsure of what my role is here, and I don’t feel any less nervous about it when Remy stalks toward me. The weight of his hand lands on my hip, splayed fingers rubbing against the fabric. “You’re a star, Vinny,” Remy says, mouth close to my ear. “Tell me this doesn’t make your pussy wet.”

There’s an unmistakable energy rolling off of him, and I’m both enthralled and terrified. This is the Remy that may jump off a tower, or shove his hand down my pants in front of a crowded gym. It’s a roll of the dice. But one glance reveals that there’s no trace of the darkness I’ve witnessed before. It’s all shiny here, the vibration of euphoria building inside of him.

He drags me into the spotlight and lifts my fist into the air. And fuck.

The crowd gets louder.

Part of that may be that my bra is showing.

But a bigger part is just having the position. Duchess. The West End is Forsyth’s lowest house. The other kingdoms would spit on it, given half the chance. And yet, they fight. Not to be the best. Not to topple someone else. They fight because they don’t know any other way—just like me. The epiphany ricochets around my chest like an ache, because I’m one of them. Without ever knowing or intending it, I feel more kindred to this sweaty, heaving mass of bodies than I ever did to North Side.

I look out into the crowd, and I don’t see a kingdom that despises me. I see forty—fifty—sixty guys that are cheering me on, ready to stand behind the four of us as their ruling house. I see a crowd of men who are built for this. The fists of Forsyth, just as ready to stand for something as against it.

I see an army.

Remy lets out a loud, crazed bark of laughter, and then swoops me up, crushing his mouth to mine. I flail for a second, but his arms are like steel around my waist, and I’m not sure if the instinct to kiss him back—open-mouthed and slick—is physical or survival. But I do. I fist a hand into his shirt and taste his tongue, and I can’t even hear my own internal reaction, so distracted by the heat of his mouth and the roar of the crowd.

Somewhere off to the side, a random person shouts, “Yeah! Fuck the North Side out of her, Maddox!”

Then I remember who I am.

A Lucia.

That, just as much as the hands prying apart, sends me crashing back to earth. I gasp for air as Nick’s stony face glares back at me, and I remember.

The agreement.

“I want you to only kiss me.”

“He did that!” I insist, panic swelling in my chest at the prospect of being punished for this. Naturally, Remy just smirks back, raking his teeth over his bottom lip.

“Later,” Nick says, wrenching me away from his friend with a bruising grip.

The platform containing the ring is about four feet high off the base of the gym floor, and Nick jumps down first, holding his arms out for me. He catches me effortlessly, lowering me to the ground as Remy hops down beside us.

He doesn’t let go, and I know instinctively when he leads us to our seats that I won’t be sitting in any of them. The second Nick sits, I curl into his lap, heart pounding with the possibility of where I’ll be sleeping tonight. I watch his face carefully as I do, searching for any sign of temper or viciousness.

His expression is inscrutable. Nick is good at that—hiding his reactions, preventing expectations. It’s one of the worst things about him, never knowing what comes next. When he finally meets my gaze, there’s a darkness within them, and I know better to flinch back when he crushes his mouth to mine.

The kiss is punishing.

There’s no other word for the way he forces his tongue between my teeth, licking away the taste of Remy’s mouth. It’s quick, however, and the moment he pulls away, I feel myself relax. His cock is hard beneath me and he’s giving my lips that glazed, satisfied look that suggests he’s pleased.

Our seats are nothing special. The same hard bleachers as the rest of the crowd. But we’re ringside, and once Nick has settled with his arms around my waist, my eyes take in either side of the room. The cage where they’d kept me last time, and the VIP area for the Kings. The cage is empty, so I guess there’s no human prize at stake tonight. In the VIP section, it’s not packed like last time, but the Lords are there, including their Lady, and three pretty boys I have to assume are Princes, with their own Princess. It’s early in the process, but her belly still looks flat.

On the other side of the ring are two Barons and their Baroness. They’re all sitting back, somehow managing to look both tense and bored. This isn’t anywhere close to being their scene, which is made all the more obvious by the fact there aren’t many Beta Nus in the crowd.

Just one.

He’s near the back. The Barons foster the ability to get lost in a crowd. To be the nicely dressed guy who can disappear within the masses. To be masked and hidden and waiting for the time to strike. This one is pretty good at it, but I spot him anyway, leaning against a pillar. He’s playing with a device that draws my attention, clicking it into his palm, emitting a green light.

I know instantly what it is.

And I know exactly what I want to do about it.

Remy’s hand settles on my thigh, running up and down in long, repetitive strokes. I search the ring and lean toward Nick. “Where’s Sy?”

“Bruce is fighting first, then Sy,” he says, grinding his erection into my hip. “He’ll stay in the back until it’s his turn—last minute prep.”

I think of the discussion in the lounge. Is he shoving his cock down Haley’s throat right now? Overpowering her and making her gag? Or does she take it willingly? It’s not important. What’s more important is what Nick said before about keeping the peace with Sy. He wasn’t wrong. I’ve always had a hot temper, and I’m not going to pretend slapping him wasn’t insanely satisfying. But it’s not going to do me any favors. What if Nick wants to put me in the elevator again? What if he wants to hurt me? Nick might be standing between me and the world, but who’s going to stand between me and Nick?

I stand abruptly. “I need to talk to him.”

Nick pulls me down, scowling. “You definitely fucking don’t.”

“I need to tell him something.”

“So tell me,” Nick argues. “I’ll tell him for you.”

I look him in the eye. “Look, I promise I’m not up to anything. I’m not going to start shit. This just…” I glance back at the Beta Nu in the crowd. “It has to be me.”

He studies me for a long moment, but gives me a curt nod. “If you try anything, I’ll track you down, and all our arrangements—all of them—are over. Got that?”

That means the kiss didn’t break them.

It means no elevator.

Relieved, I answer, “I do.”

The walk to the back is strange. I haven’t been in the company of so many people since high school, and it makes me feel prickly and over-sensitive, like being hemmed in and trapped. My muscles feel as tight and strained as my smile when I finally break through the doors.

Haley is in the hallway.

She’s smacking on a piece of gum, eyes on the screen of her phone, and she’s sitting in front of the door to the locker room like a slutty, sparkling gargoyle. Her eyes flick up at the sound of the door opening, and she raises her chin. She doesn’t look like someone who just had their face fucked by a monster cock, but I wouldn’t put it past either of them. The cutsluts around here are almost as fanatical as the Counts’ dope fiends.

“Where’s Sy?” I ask.

She tilts her head toward the door. “Doing his thing. Getting ready.” Nodding, I steel myself, taking a deep breath, and then march to the door. Haley blocks me. “Uh, you can’t go in there.”

I step back, crossing my arms. “He won’t care. I’ve been in there with him before.”

“Not before a fight, you haven’t.” She gives me a patronizing smile, pushing her shoulders back. “Sy has a lot of pre-game rituals. If you mess with one and he loses—”

I roll my eyes, shoving forward. “I’ll take that chance.”

“Hey!” She tries to grab me before I push through the door, but I’m faster, barreling through.

Sy is sitting on the first bench with two pods sticking out of his ears, but the volume must not be very high, because he whips a white-hot glare at us as Haley stumbles through after me.

“Sorry!” she squeaks, tugging me by the arm. “I tried to tell her—”

“We need to talk,” I say, yanking my elbow from her grasp.

Sy is shirtless, putting all of his muscles and russet skin on display. I get this vision of the way he wore that suit earlier, snugly tailored around that broad chest. Something flutters in my belly but turns quickly to stone when he shoots Haley a significant look.

“He can’t talk,” she tells me in a curt voice. “On fight nights, the second he walks into the gym, he’s quiet. It’s a ritual, like I said.”

My face hardens at both her snotty tone and the absurdity of such a thing. “Perfect,” I reply, crossing the distance between us. “That means you’ll have to keep your mouth shut and actually listen to me. You can leave.” I say the last part to Haley, a finger pointed toward the door.

Her jaw drops in outrage. “You can’t just—”

I cut in, “I’m the Duchess and I want a minute alone with my Duke.” Making sure she hears the possessive undercurrent of authority in that, I add, “Is that going to be a problem?” I can see the hot irritation simmering under her skin, but she spins on her heel and storms out of the room.

When I meet Sy’s gaze, he’s staring up at me, face composed into a blank mask.

I reach out and take one of the buds from his ear, enduring the flash of hostility in his eyes. “There’s a Beta Nu out there with a laser pointer.” When all he does is raise an eyebrow, I elaborate, “It’s one of those really strong lasers. Like the kind of shit that could probably blind someone. I’m guessing eyesight is kind of important to you, so keep your head down out there.”

One of his cheeks scrunches up, eyes flicking to the door.

Impossibly, I know exactly what he wants to say. “I am going to tell them. I just—” But I’m not sure how to finish that in a way that isn’t horribly transparent. So I go for honesty. “It’s an olive branch. You were a shit to me; I was a shit to you. But for better or for so much fucking worse, you’re my Duke, and that means if you go down, I go down with you.” I hand him back his ear bud, not missing the way his eyes lock on my bare stomach for a brief moment. His fingers brush mine as he takes it. “Just because we hate each other doesn’t mean we can’t both win here.” His gaze jumps up to mine, head canting to the side quizzically. “Don’t worry about what I’m winning. Just know that taking you down isn’t a part of it. In fact, I’d rather see you beat them—all of them. Baron, Prince, Count, Lord.” I reach out and take the other pod out of his ear, motions slow and gentle enough that he just curiously follows my hand with his eyes. “I need you to hear this—really hear this,” I explain with a hard stare. “You can call me a whore. You can push me around. You can hurt me, degrade me, make me feel like trash. And I’ll still want to see you take them down. I won’t stand in your way, now or ever.”

He takes this in with narrowed eyes, flexing his hands. They’ve been intricately taped, knuckle to knuckle. Idly, I ponder that I’m going to learn how to do that. Maybe there’s a book about it. When he gives me a single, chin-dipping nod, I consider it an agreement.

But not until he shakes on it.

He gives my outstretched hand a look that’s full of confusion, but he takes it anyway, almost toppling me into his broad chest when he uses it to pull himself to his feet. He towers over me, but he’s not scary. I’ve seen those eyes, heavy lidded and full of need. I’ve felt this bronze skin sweating against mine. I’ve heard the sound of his agonized breaths as he rutted himself against me in the dead of night. I’ve seen him stripped to his most human, basal instincts. And I know what he wants, above all, more than anything.

To win.

Sy is, after all, just another man.

When we exit the locker room, Haley is pouting. She tries to hide it, jerking her chin up at our approach, but I can see the sourness in her eyes. “You’re almost up. Bruce is winning.” Sy starts to walk toward the double doors leading out to the ring, but pauses when she calls out, “Wait! You’re forgetting the tradition, Simon. The Duchess always has to send her Duke to the mat with a kiss.” For a second, I get this swell of outrage at the thought of her knowing Nick’s rules for me. But when she shoots me a smirk, it’s clear that she merely understands just how much neither of us wants to do it. “It’s good luck.”

Sy turns, revealing a stony sneer, but Haley doesn’t realize that I’ve found a new resolve. The Dukes are my captors. I’ll never have power over them. But the rest of DKS?

I walk fluidly to where he stands and strain up on my toes, pushing a quick, firm peck to the pulse point in his neck. In the blink between my lips touching his skin and my retreat, his fingers graze my hip. It’s just a quick, involuntary gesture, but when I step back, I see the imprint of my lipstick on his neck and the will in his eyes, and I know he’s going to win.

Having three Dukes between me and Forsyth is going to be useful. Being a Duchess is a good role—a strong role. But I’m playing the Royal game now, and only one title will put me on equal footing with my father.

Queen.