Dukes of Ruin (Dark College Bully Romance): Royals of Forsyth University Book 4
Dukes of Ruin: Chapter 5

I don’t know when it started raining.

There’s a palpable tension in the car on the way home and even I know better than to stoke it—not that I could. The windshield wipers fill the space with a rapid rhythm that’s intercepted by the static of the rain hitting the roof of the car. But even louder than that is the silence.

Lurker is absolutely fucking livid. It seethes under his skin, like maybe if I looked hard enough, I could see it coming off him in refracted waves. His jaw has been clamped tight since I first saw him in that room with the Kings. Now that I look, I can see the family resemblance. It’s in the eyes, the structure of their faces, their builds.

I’m used to big, angry men, but my father is a Count. We keep that shit simmering inside and strike when it can do optimal damage. The Dukes are just like their house sigil. Bears lumbering angrily around, no finesse or subtlety. Lurker—Sy—has it rolling off him, entirely unconcerned about who sees it. It’s weak. Too visible. Shows people your softest area.

It makes me antsy, but my hands are bound, as well as my feet. My mouth is still covered with tape, so I guess they’re taking Rath’s advice, the fucker. Instinctively, I scan the interior of the car for any way out, but my heart’s not in it. It’s dark out, we’re deep in the West End, and even if I did get away by jumping out of a speeding car, who’s going to help me? These guys own this area.

No.

I’m not a bear, I’m a viper. What I need is patience. A plan. Leverage.

The Royals are trading me back and forth because I have value, even if it’s no longer my virginity. Seeing the look on my father’s face when his house took that ‘L’ tonight makes whatever comes next a little more bearable. Funny to think about. A few years ago, he wouldn’t have cared who had me. But he’s the biggest Count there is, and if he showed his hand, coming at me like that, then I’m no idiot. It was on purpose. He wants everyone to know I’m his weakness, because it makes me a target.

Tap, tap, tappity, tap.

Fuck, even if I did replace a way to escape, the crazy one is right next to me, with those wiry, fast arms and ink-covered fingers that are currently occupied in tapping an erratic beat against the window. I can’t get a handle on this guy. He’s hot one minute, cold the next. He’s wearing a worn hoodie, the Delta Kappa Sigma symbols emblazoned on the front, but he’s also in a pair of jeans that I know for a fact run in the high hundreds. His sneakers are just as expensive—designer crap—but the laces are loose and dragging in the street. God, and his rich cologne is still hot in my nose. This guy comes from money and looks like it, without even trying.

And he’d probably grab me before I made it halfway out the door.

Tap, tap, tappity, tap.

“Jesus Christ, Remy,” the one driving snaps, making me jump. “Give it a fucking break.”

The tapping abruptly stops and Maniac—apparently Remy—stares at his fingers for a long moment before dropping his hand.

Lurker lets out a hard breath. “Thank you.”

Nick’s been unabashedly watching me in the rearview mirror this whole time, eyes dark and unreadable. Now, he finally speaks. “Don’t mind Sy here,” he says, turning his head just enough for a passing streetlamp to illuminate the sharp cut of his jaw. “Nothing gets him prickly like a nice piece of ass.”

Sy’s fingers audibly tighten around the steering wheel. “So help me god, if you don’t shut the fuck up…”

Nick turns back, grinning. “See? If he’s this bitchy, you must really get his motor revving. He doesn’t like being reminded he’s not a robot.”

In the distance, I see the dark outline of our destination: the clock tower. The tower’s been the Duke’s home base since the day DKS was established, a gift deeded over from a Forsyth University benefactor to protect the historic architecture from being razed. It’s tall enough to be seen even off campus, but even though it’s old, it bears the timeless intricacies of its era. The baroque stonework. The aged, bronze bell at the tippy top. The bear-faced gargoyles that stare out like sentries from each of the four corners.

According to my father, the Royalty all started innocently—a social club for the male students at the university. Someone had the bright idea to base it on a Royal system, calling themselves Lords and Counts and all that snobbish bullshit. I guess guys have always needed to measure their dicks. In any culture, there is no higher figure than king, and Forsyth is no different.

The difference is that, back then, it wasn’t about running drugs, selling guns, or hustling flesh. The OGs were academics, just a bunch of rich nerds looking for a way to bond groups of students in an effort to keep them focused, network, and build the community. Unfortunately, the small town that surrounds the University went from quaint and safe to abandoned and derelict in a few short decades. It felt the aftershocks of the 1970s. High gas prices. Soldiers that returned home villains instead of heroes. Businesses closed, and factories—the warehouses that line the city—shut down for good. Sure, the University and suburbs where I grew up survived, but not the downtown. Not the Avenue. Slowly the streets became overrun with crime, ruled by thugs, and the Royals at the time didn’t banish the decline, they embraced the anarchy of it. They claimed territory, recruited foot soldiers, created enterprises, established rule.

The car comes to a stop at the base of the tower, and I crane my neck up at the tall, statuesque building, trying to see the clock face in the dark. I know it’s broken. It probably hasn’t even worked in my father’s lifetime, let alone mine. I make out the frozen hands, 7:23, marking that as the moment I enter their world.

The day I truly become a slave.

Nick is the one to cut the ties binding my ankles before ordering me from the SUV.

When we enter the tower, there’s an elevator by the entrance and I go stiff at the sight of it. Maybe I could last the ride up—maybe—if I were alone, and the ascent was quick, but all four of us crammed into that metal box?

I’ll die.

I just know I will.

To my relief, all three of them ignore it. Broken, probably, like everything else in this place. The stairwell they herd me to is dark and has an odd smell, a mixture of dirt and damp, but the steps are solid beneath my feet as we rise.

And turn.

And rise.

And turn.

And rise.

Life at the Velvet Hideaway didn’t afford much space for cardio, and I count ten stories as we go up before Sy sneeringly says, “That’s right, princess. Dukes need the exercise. Get used to it.”

I shoot him a withering glare, second guessing my assumption about the elevator being broken.

Fucking masochists.

Better that they not know I’d rather take a million flights of stairs than be crammed into another box. It’s been two years since I’ve had that particular brand of punishment, and I’m in no hurry to show my cards. By the time we finally reach a door, I’m huffing through my nose, calves burning in protest. The first room we pass through smells like stale beer and weed. The walls are decorated with faded and torn banners, DKS iconography, and a cracked, framed print of Muhammad Ali. There’s a big screen TV on one wall and the long, flat surface of a bar spanning another. Half-empty bottles of booze line the shelves behind it. I wrinkle my nose at both the smell and scene. These must be the crumbling dregs of the West End’s frat party scene.

Suddenly the Velvet Hideaway isn’t looking so shabby.

“Go,” Sy grunts, pushing me toward another long, narrow staircase. Remy runs ahead, feet echoing on the steps. Unlike the other stairs, these are made of metal. Iron, maybe. I stumble up the first riser, but strong hands stop me from actually falling. My skin recoils, remembering the last time Nick touched me. Thankfully, once I’m upright, he releases me.

At the top of the staircase, we spill into the tower’s main chamber. It’s a square, cavernous area with ceilings that must be at least thirty, maybe even forty feet high. The look of the space is a mixture of antiquated stone, retro plaster, and rusty industrial, with ductwork and pipes running up along the massive wooden beams. I can spot a kitchen near the back, a drab dining area, a lounge space with two couches, and lighting that roughly resembles that of a dank murder basement.

It’s like someone took a cathedral and renovated it to be…

Well, a frat house.

But what really draws my eyes is the colossal clock face.

It’s just as breathtaking as I’ve always heard, taking up nearly the whole wall, corner to corner. One of its massive roman numerals could easily cover my entire torso. It’s cordoned off from the room by a raised loft. A rickety-looking staircase in the corner spirals up to the platform, which sits above a long row of tall, gothic-styled observation windows.

It’s no wonder someone gifted this place to the Dukes instead of seeing it torn down. Even in the midst of the ratty couches and faded area rugs, the craftsmanship outshines the filth. I note the doors along the interior walls—additions that were made farther into the industrial revolution than the tower itself, no doubt.

“Welcome home, Little Bird,” Nick says, spreading his arms in a mocking gesture.

“I have a question,” Sy asks, tossing his keys in a bowl on the kitchen bar. “Where exactly do you plan on her staying?”

Nick’s forehead creases. “Staying?”

“Sleeping,” Sy condescendingly enunciates. “The place where she goes to not be around me. Or did you not even think through something as simple as that?”

Nick scoffs, giving Remy a weary look. “I think my brother is confused as to what a Duchess is. Maybe you can explain it to him.”

Remy falls onto the couch and kicks a foot up, looking almost as tired as I feel. “The Duchess doesn’t get a bedroom. She doesn’t need a bedroom.” He lifts his gaze in my direction, head tilting as he assesses me. “She sleeps with her Dukes. Duh.”

My protest emerges in the form of narrowed eyes and a snarled grunt.

“Fuck that.” Sy flings a hand toward me. “I’m not sleeping with some skanky North Side whore. Are you out of your goddamn mind?! She’ll fucking shank us!”

Nick fixes him with a long, threatening gaze. “She’s not a whore. She’s our Duchess, like it or not.”

Sy begins pacing. “God, you’re an idiot. Do you know that? Probably not. Too busy thinking with your dick to use the last brain cell you brought back from South Side. Fuck!” Sy slams his fist on the counter. “I knew bringing you back in was a bad idea. You’re going to ruin everything we’ve worked for!”

They argue, voices rising, chests puffed, hands flying around. I don’t care. Cracks are good. The more they focus on one another, the better it is for me. I scan the room for anything I can use. Weapons, escape routes, hiding spots. Being this high up is a problem. One way in, one way out.

“Stop!” Remy explodes, shooting up from his seat. The guys snap their attention over to him. “We’ve got two semesters ahead of us here, and I’m not living with two ticking cum-bombs until it’s over. If you want to throw tantrums like we’re back in middle school, then fine. She can stay in my room.” He turns to me, those crazed green eyes descending my body. “I don’t mind sharing my bed. The two of us have unfinished business anyway.”

Like a switch has been flipped, Nick’s entire demeanor changes. “Like hell you are.” His blue eyes hold Remy’s. They contain less of a challenge and more of a warning. “She’s sleeping with me.”

“I knew you wouldn’t share.” Sy pinches his nose and sighs deeply. “Fucking knew it. This is just like you.”

“You’ll both get a turn,” Nick insists, whipping his gaze to his brother. “I negotiated, fought, and won her. Tonight, she’s mine.”

I force back a shudder at the thread of darkness in his voice. Unbidden, I’m transported back to that night. I feel his touch, smell his skin, and see the possessive spark in his eyes. I hear his voice, a ragged rumble against my ear.

“Tell me how it feels to know this pussy belongs to me now.”

Nick’s room is practically empty.

There’s a messily made bed, a box acting as a nightstand, and a desk lamp sitting on top of it. Unlike the other rooms, most of Nick’s walls are made up of an old, mortared stone. There’s an ancient iron ladder attached to the interior wall, and a tall opening at the top of it, leading out to the rafters that run through the main room. It’s a reminder of what this room used to be—something functional to the workings of the clock, most likely. Aside from that, there’s various detritus scattered about. A pile of clothes kicked to a corner. A gym bag, not unlike the one he’s dumping on the foot of his bed. A pizza box.

And then there’s me.

That’s what he focuses on when he turns. The whole force of that dark, blue-eyed stare pins me in place as he stalks forward. I track him, trying to feel more like a predator than his prey, but the whole ‘being bound and gagged’ thing might ruin the effect.

He thumbs the corner of his mouth as he stops in front of me, eyes dropping to my throat. My wrists smart when I fidget, the plastic zip tie pinching my skin. I’m imagining all the things I’d like to do to him. Smash my foot into his smug face. Knee him in the balls. Cut off the fingers he’s put inside me, just like he’d done to Perez.

Instead, I wait.

Patience.

He folds before I do, springing forward in a flurry of motion. He grabs the back of my hair and hauls me up against him, putting his mouth to my jaw. The solid wall of his body is the first warmth I’ve felt since Maniac forced his finger into my body. Nick, though…

He breathes in through his mouth like he’s tasting me, spreading his wide palm on my lower back. “What’d I say?” he whispers, voice a gruff exhale against my ear. “Took some time, but I did it. No one will come for you now that they’ve given you to us.” I feel his hand curl into a fist against my back. That, plus the rumble I feel against the swell of my own tits, must be the sad vestige of his restraint. Dragging his mouth over my jaw, a damp trail that makes me grimace, he pauses over the tape, letting out a quiet chuckle. “Almost forgot.” He lets my hair go to scratch at a corner, grabbing it tight before ripping it away in one quick motion.

It stings like a son of a bitch, which is the only reason I make a sharp, pained sound. Nick tries to soothe it away by thumbing at my bottom lip, eyes trained on the soft part of my mouth. They go heavy-lidded and dazed-looking, zeroing in as his head cants to the side.

I’ve seen this kiss coming since he stepped into the ring.

Being still for so long makes the action feel like a loaded spring. I wrench my head back and slam it forward, the curve of my skull cracking against his nose.

“Shit!” Nick shouts, stumbling back, hands coming up to his face. “What the fuck was that for?”

I answer by lobbing a wad of spit at his head. “Take a guess, asshole!”

He straightens, eyes aflame as he lowers his palms, surveying the blood. “You could have broken my fucking nose!”

Could have?

I try to hide my disappointment with a venomous grin. “Well, if at first you don’t succeed…”

He responds by barreling forward, wrapping his fingers around my throat only to march me backwards until my shoulders slam into the wall. “Try again,” he growls, lunging down to press his bloody mouth to mine.

I turn away before he can.

His lips stutter against my cheek and freeze there. “What kind of bullshit thanks is this?”

Staring at the door, I fume, “The only kind your sorry ass deserves, honestly.” There’s a moment where I brace for the strike, because Nick is a Duke. He can’t hide his anger. I can feel it vibrating in his grip—the struggle of holding back. He wants to crush and hurt. It’s all a Bruin knows.

“What’s your problem!” he snaps, wrenching my gaze to his. Those blue eyes narrow as he scrutinizes me. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about the Hideaway. I told you it was for your own good.”

Incredulously, I reply, “You mean the part where you raped me?”

He gives a derisive scoff. “Rape? Hardly. You asked for it, Little Bird.” He jerks his head toward the bed, where a laptop is sitting. “I have it on video and everything. You wanted it.”

Something poisonous wells within me at the thought of them having it. Watching it. Getting off to my darkest, sickest moment. I’m going to get out of here—that’s a done deal—but I make a promise to myself.

Not until I destroy it.

“Does that make you feel better about it?” I wonder, only half curious as I unflinchingly hold his stare. “Do you lie to yourself to soothe your sad little ego as you jack off into your hand like the sack of shit you so clearly are?”

His nostrils flare, fingers tightening around my throat. “The next words that come out of your mouth better be ‘thank you for rescuing me, Nick’ and ‘let me suck your fat cock to show my appreciation.’”

I strain against his grip, raising myself to my full height to sneer, “Fuck you, Nick. Put your cock anywhere near my mouth and I’m biting down until it comes off.”

“What the fuck is your problem! I saved you!”

I fight the urge to grab his wrists. “You can’t really be this deluded,” I say, glaring at him. “You can’t possibly have me tied up in your fucking tower, making plans to give your buddies a go at me, and think this was what I wanted.”

Only it is.

I can see it in his eyes, all wild and furious. “I freed you.”

Gaping, I raise my bound wrists, bumping his hip. “Maybe the concept of freedom has changed since being chained in a basement, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t what it looks like.”

“Then why,” he asks, flexing his grip, “did you warn me about Perez and the knife?”

A strained laugh escapes my throat. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. That wasn’t about you winning. It was about my father losing.”

His eyes jump back and forth between mine, so close I can taste the tang of blood on his breath. “You’re really not going to even thank me.”

“No!”

There’s another beat of silence, like he’s waiting for me to admit it’s all a joke, his face growing redder and redder by the second. “Do you have any idea of the things I’ve done to get you here?”

My own face must be red by now too, throat stinging with the crush of his grip. “I don’t care.”

I’ve never seen someone’s eyes go truly black before. Not in color. Nick’s eyes are as blue as ever, but his wide pupils are bottomless, transformed into something darker than death. “Fine.” Suddenly, I’m being pulled toward the door, his fingers constricting my throat as he marches us through it, uncaring of the way I’m clawing at his forearms. “If being in my bed isn’t freedom enough for you,” he growls, giving me a rough shove through the main room, “then let me show you the alternative.”

I’m too busy trying to gasp for air, struggling against his hold, to take note of where he’s pulling me.

And then I hear the sound of metal on metal.

Scraping and sharp.

The elevator.

“No, wait!” My voice can barely form a wheeze under his grip, and the next thing I know, he’s pushing me inside, the metal cage closing just as I bang into it. “Nick, wait!”

“I won you, Lavinia!” His fists slam violently into the metal, sending me scurrying back. “I won you!”

If I had any hope that he’d give me the gate, but leave the heavy outer door open, then I’m stupid. So fucking stupid. It never works out like that, does it? It’s never a proper punishment until it’s dark and closed in, leaving you all alone with nothing but your own torment.

He wrenches the outer door closed with a powerful jerk of his muscular arm, shrouding me in black.

It’s been two years.

Two years since I’ve been closed up in the dark, surrounded by nothing but the hiss of my own panicked breaths. Two years since I found myself thrashing against the confines of a space too small. Two years since I had to feel the crushing weight of hysterical terror clawing its way out of my chest.

I stave it off for as long as I can, closing my eyes, pretending I’m somewhere else. It’s the smells and sounds that get me, the way my breaths ricochet off the surface in front of me, beside me. It makes it impossible to truly get away. The words I’ve held onto inside my mind fluttering away like dust in the wind. The elevator is smaller than I thought—barely big enough for three. Every shift of my weight disturbs whatever fragile sense of mental escape I manage to muster, sending vicious creaks to slice through the silence.

The sweat comes first, making my clothes feel heavier, tighter. Then the nausea, my stomach roiling painfully as the tremors begin. The dizziness is next, made all the more disorienting by my complete inability to even see what’s up or down. Then comes the tightness in my chest, as if a fist has been wrapped around my heart.

I doubt I last ten minutes.

It explodes out of me in a stampede of urgency, my jaw locked tight around a scream as I ram my shoulder against the gate. These have always been the worst—the thrashings. It’s an instinct stronger than the will to breathe, driving me against the walls, my body struggling to replace a way out, out, out.

The longer it goes on, the more it feels like my throat is closing up. Rationally, I know it isn’t, but I lift my chin and I can’t fucking breathe. Too dark, too hot, too small. I must spend hours like that, thrashing, then hyperventilating, then thrashing some more.

After that comes the doom—the certainty that I’m going to die here.

It gets easier then.

Not better.

Just… easier.

Sore and breathless, I collapse against the wall, sliding until I hit the floor in a tense, trembling heap.

What was the last thing I read?

I pull my panic back inside, determined to remember the words. I always remember what I read. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at—flipping through the pages in my mind. Red cover. Corners creased. Something Augustine gave to me. A tawdry romance novel. Happily ever after.

Closing my eyes, I remember.

“Remember,” Anthony says, sweeping his thumb across my cheek, “as long as we’re together we can do anything.”

I’m not expecting the shock of bright, piercing light when the door slides open. There’s no way I haven’t been here for twenty-four hours. It should be night. Only the light pouring in from the clock face across the room is muted and gray.

Late morning.

I’m up against the gate before the outer door even finishes closing, gulping cool air through the metal lattice. Nick stands in front of it, and for some reason, I get a sharp memory of something Remy said to me last night.

“The universe, it’s just wax paper sometimes. Like the light gets through, but everything’s all fucking… indefinable.”

Nick is just like that; a blur of shape in an aggressive stance. Everything is hazy and I squint against the light, trying to replace his edges. I know it’s bad when Maniac’s crazed ramblings begin making sense.

His fingers are the first things to come into definition, hooking through the gate as his arm hangs. Lazily, he leans his forehead against his wrist, indulging in a suspended stretch of silence. Observing me, I realize, feeling his eyes tracing the lines of my face. “Jesus Christ, Little Bird. You look like shit.”

“Let me out,” I mutter, exhausted down to my marrow. There’s an ache in my shoulder from one of my thrashing fits that throbs in time to my pulse.

His face comes into focus next, dark eyes taking in the state of me. There’s a frown etched into his forehead and his eyes are dark underneath. “Were you crying?” I’d expect the question to be mocking, but it’s not. He says it very quietly.

His tone is troubled and horrifically tender.

My chin trembles as I lace my fingers through the lattice, repeating, “Let me out now.” I shouldn’t give this to him. It’s a weapon for Nick to know that this metal box is my undoing. So I swallow it back and strengthen my spine, determined to walk out of it with my head held high.

Immediately, he’s unlatching the gate and flinging it open, catching me around the waist as I all but stagger free from the thick, musty air. Winding an arm around me, Nick pulls me up against his broad, warm chest. He stands like that for a long moment, pressing my cheek to his shoulder as if I’m not as rigid as steel.

“Are you grateful now, Little Bird?” he asks, tucking a hand behind my neck. It’s a wicked sort of embrace. The kind of forced closeness that makes my skin crawl. “No one was coming for you. No one cared what happened to you. No one but me. I came in there and claimed you before the Lords could sell you off to the highest bidder. Don’t you understand?” He touches my cheek, coaxing my eyes to his. “I’m all you have. I’m all you need.” Quieter, his eyes flick to my mouth when he roughly whispers, “I’m the only one who loves you.”

I jolt back, nearly tripping over my numb legs, and crash into the wall beside the elevator. “You don’t love me. That’s crazy. You’re all crazy!”

My words make his brows crouch low, arms going tense at his sides. And I’m guessing the shocked, repulsed tone they’re spoken in doesn’t help matters. He bears down on me, but the only place to run is back into the box. “I’m not crazy. I’m the only person in this whole goddamn town who knows exactly what I want and exactly how to get it.”

I grit my teeth when he traps me with his body, his bare, tattooed chest hemming me in. “You won me,” I concede, the words bitter on my tongue. “You won me as an object. Not as a person. You can’t… love something like that. You don’t even know me!”

“You’re mine now. Body, mind, and soul. That’s all I need to know.” I swallow down a disgusted groan as he reaches out, touching my throat. The marks, I realize. The bruises he made with his fingers last night. His eyes zero in on them, and there’s something sharp and displeased about his frown. “Jesus Christ, you’ve got me fucked up. None of this is going the way it was supposed to.”

It’s clear now that he expected my gratitude, and for a second, I consider playing into it. If I piss him off again, he’ll stick me back in the elevator. That’s what makes my gaze drop to his mouth—the question of whether or not I could do it. Can I bat my eyelashes and pretend? Get on my knees? Tell him how thankful I am?

I almost think I could if it means avoiding another night in that box.

But then he catches my eyes and I know he’s seen it. The glance at his lips. The unspoken invitation. The unfettered tension whirring between our skin.

I twist just before his lips can land on mine, and this time, his hand comes up to slam into the wall beside my head. “Don’t fucking test me, Lavinia!”

“If you want to rape me again,” I whisper, staring sightlessly into the elevator, “then get on with it. I’m tired.”

I never was good at pretending.

There’s a long pause, but I can feel the fury and disbelief rolling off of him long before he hisses, “You ungrateful bitch.” The second he lurches away, I slide down the wall, heart thumping wildly. “Here,” he growls, reaching into a bag on a nearby armchair. I don’t catch what he pulls out of it until it lands in my lap, pale and bloody. He thrusts a finger at it, sneering, “I got that for you.”

“What the—” I jump up and away, letting the finger fall to the floor. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t have to. Perez made that gesture as a sign of dominance. Of what he wants to do to the thing that belongs to me,” he says, like it’s the most normal, rational, sane thing in the world. The thing. “In return, I showed him exactly what happens to anyone that tries to fuck with my things.”

The finger lays there, pale and grotesque. It’s a symbol of what this man will do—how far he’ll go to protect the things he believes are his.

It took me a while to see it, to understand it, but Pretty Nick Bruin isn’t just a frat boy with dreams of being a leader. He’s like all the other Kings out there. Ruthless. Dangerous. Relentless.

I should know. I grew up with one.