Lords of Pain (Dark College Bully Romance): Royals of Forsyth University
Lords of Pain: Chapter 15

After Story goes in to get her sweater, I head back to the den, keeping an eye out for the pledges, Tucker and Beckwith. It was difficult, going easy on them in front of Story, but I did. Because I know she’s jumpy as fuck. But they’ve got some serious payback coming their way for laying hands on our Lady, and once Killer and Rath replace out, it’s going to be even worse for them.

“Jesus,” I overhear a girl say. She’s on the other side of a decorative plant, sitting on the edge of the fireplace. “What the hell do you think is his problem?”

“I don’t know,” replies the other, “but my vagina isn’t dry like sandpaper, that’s bullshit.”

“It is. He’s the one that can’t get it up. He needs to stop blaming that shit on us and go see a fucking doctor.”

Curiosity gets the best of me and I peer around the plant. It’s the two girls that went upstairs with Killian earlier.

“You know something’s wrong when he wouldn’t stick it up my ass. All guys want that. Every. Single. One of them.”

She’s right about that, but this isn’t the kind of gossip that needs to be going around about any of the Lords. Once a rumor gets going, it doesn’t stop, and we have more than just the usual South Side business to keep secret. The parameters of our contract are private. Killian having some kind of problem is a sure signal that something is up, which will only make people sniff around harder. If any one of the other frats founds out that Story’s virginity is part of our game, they’d do their best to fuck it up. The last thing we need is anyone suspicious. I stroll over and try to get a handle on what’s happening.

Up close, I can tell these girls aren’t exactly Killian’s type. They’re perfectly packaged, with bottle blonde hair, and big, most likely fake tits. Their waists are unnaturally narrow, legs thin with an inch-wide thigh-gap. The only flaw is the red around their noses, the tiny tell of a coke habit that is mandatory if you’re a Kappa.

“Ladies,” I say, giving them my best panty-dropping grin.

Beverly looks up, and when she recognizes me, she straightens, pushing her shoulders back. “Oh, Tristian. Hi!”

“Hey, cutie.” I glance over at Cami, who smiles back, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. They’re as red as her nose. “What’s got you two so upset on a night like tonight?”

“It’s nothing,” Beverly says, adjusting her top and making her tits bounce around in the process.

I squat before them, making eye contact. “I thought I saw you two go upstairs with Killian earlier.”

“We did,” Cami says, sniffing. “He just—”

“He acted like an asshole,” Beverly blurts, then looks repentant. No one wants to cross the Lords. “It’s my fault. I just…I wasn’t what he wanted.”

I reach out and rub my thumb against the corner of her puffy lips. “Killian’s been stressed lately. The NFL’s been watching him. We’ve been getting settled into the house. This rivalry between us and the Counts is heating up, and we’ve been breaking in our new Lady. There’s a lot on the line with the game. You know how he gets.”

How he ‘gets’ is an understatement. Killian’s mean streak is legendary. Everyone knows it.

“We didn’t mean to upset him. We tried to make him happy.” Beverly wipes a tear off her face. “I even offered him anal.”

“I know, sugar, and that’s just a testament to the amount of pressure he’s under. I don’t know anyone here who wouldn’t jump on the chance to pound that fine ass.”

“Right?” she says appreciatively.

That seems to mollify her, because ultimately, she’s not upset that he was a jerk to her. She’s upset that he rejected her. I stroke her hair. “How about this? You two forget any of this happened and the hot tub out back is open to you, any time.”

They share a look, smiles spreading across both their faces. Cami says, “Yeah, that sounds great.”

When they walk off, I feel confident that they won’t go sharing all over social media that Killian’s got a limp dick. Jesus. Fucking embarrassing. I suggest they go replace a skinny margarita over at the bar and then I search the room for either of my brothers. Rath is still wallowing in his moody, emo bullshit by commandeering the music, but I do see Killian has emerged, shoulders at ease and a big shit-eating grin on his face.

That’s not the look of a guy who just struck out limp-dicked with two of the sweetest pieces at his own damn party.

In fact, he looks completely satisfied.

A thought—no, a worry—niggles at the back of my mind. Furtively, I scan the room for Story. It hasn’t escaped my attention that she never made it back down with her sweater. I look back over at Killian, eyes narrowing when our gazes meet.

He winks, jerking his shoulder in a rueful shrug.

Fucking hell.

No one sees my tension as I cross the room and climb up the stairs to the second floor. My poker face is my best attribute. It’s what makes professors and parents love me. It’s what gets girls to undress for me, and it’s what allows me to move easily, pretending like everything is fine, even though I know it isn’t.

Hopefully it’s what helps me clean up whatever mess Killian’s left up there.

We call him Killer for a reason. He’s a mean, vindictive shit. He’s also petty and almost as vain as me. If he really couldn’t get it up with those girls—if something broke his ritual—there would have been hell to pay. And if Story crossed his path at that very moment, we may be out of a Lady.

The second floor looks undisturbed, both Story and Killian’s bedroom doors closed. I go to hers first, checking the knob. It’s locked. “Story?” I call, tapping my knuckles against the wood. “Sweet Cherry, you in there?” I hear a small thud against the base of the door and try the knob again. “I’m going to need you to unlock the door.”

“Go away,” I hear. There’s no bite to it.

“Story,” I say, raising my voice. “Open the door. That’s a fucking order.”

My heart pounds as I wait for the sound of movement, for her hands to reach the knob on the other side of the door. When she finally opens it and I see her, face splotchy and red, I exhale. I don’t know what I thought Killian did to her, but at least she’s in one piece. When my eyes lower, I see that her dress is hanging off her shoulders, the top stretched and torn. Something shiny and slick is stuck to her neck. I glance behind me and step in the room, taking her with me.

“What happened?”

She laughs. “Like you fucking care.” The words are harsh and bitter—deserved. Sort of.

“Hey,” I say, cupping her elbow as I lead her into the room. “Didn’t I get Tucker and Beckwith off your back tonight? I care.”

She yanks her arm away. “Because I’m your property.”

I blink. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I don’t see why it should be. It is what it is. Story belongs to us. We all signed off on it. Sure, we might get rough with her—might correct her—but I took on the role of making sure her needs are met. I don’t take my jobs anything but seriously. I study her more closely now, noticing her eyes are red from crying. Her upper arms have dark, reddish marks in a round shape.

Gently, I touch them. “Who did this?” Stupid question, of course. I know the answer. And she knows I know, because she doesn’t even bother replying. She walks into the bathroom, turns on the hot water as far as it will go, and listlessly grabs a washcloth off the hook.

I watch, more transfixed than I’d like to admit at the sight of her like this, all debauched and vulnerable. Her hair has completely escaped its pins, tumbling down her shoulders in loose curls. I’d liked it up, the way it accentuated the column of her throat, the feminine slope of her neck. I’ve always liked girls’ necks. The way they feel under my grip. For a moment there on the back deck, I’d wondered if she’d worn it like that for me.

I take a deep breath and start, “Did he…?”

“Rape me?” she bluntly asks, voice dull. “Sometimes I wish he just would. Then he’d lose interest, right?”

I purse my lips, watching her. He definitely has a major hard-on over her virginity. Fuck, we all do. But it’s more than that, for Killer. The way he is about Story is something unique. Obsessive. “If he didn’t fuck you, then why are you so upset?”

She dunks the cloth under the steaming water, and then holds it up so that it drips down her arms. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, and I’m not so sure I like what I see. They’re lifeless, dark, completely void of that flicker I’d seen earlier. Once again, she doesn’t bother replying—I’m not sure I like that either—choosing to scrub at her neck and chest some more.

I don’t need to ask what she’s washing off. “He’s just under a lot of pressure,” I start, repeating the lines I told the girls downstairs. “When things aren’t going his way, he…well, you know how he gets. Didn’t you live with him for a year? I’m sure you remember.”

Finally, a flicker. Whatever angrily contorts her face also makes her fling the wet rag at my head. “I remember! You know what I remember most? You doing the raping!” She makes a deep sound of disgust at my baffled expression. “What, you think you didn’t rape me just because your dick didn’t enter my vagina?”

I raise a finger. “It’s interesting actually, the legal definition of rape varies on—” I pause. Possibly, it’s not the best time to recite my vast knowledge of sexual assault law. Instead, I opt for, “Come on, Story. Let’s not be obtuse here. You had a choice that night.”

Her eyes start welling again—oh god, oh fuck—right before fat tears start rolling down her cheeks. “Why?” she cries, sobbing. “Why did you do that to me?!” Christ, I fucking hate it when girls cry like this. There’s snot and blubbering, all kinds of fluids, and none of the sexy kind. She leaps forward, ramming a fist into my chest. “Answer me!”

It’s easy to swat her hand away, taking her wrist in my palm. “You’re hysterical.” Roughly, I grab her arms and turn her around. “Stand still,” I tell her, ducking the washcloth under the water again. I pump a little soap on it and rub it around with my thumb. She watches me with watery eyes, following my every move. I ignore her, tilting up her chin to where I see a shiny, half-dried spot of semen just under her jaw. Gently, I wash it off, explaining, “Hot water and jizz are a bad combo. Soap and cool water are key. There, see? All gone.”

I hand her a towel, watching as she mechanically blots her red-raw chest with it, tears having thankfully stopped. Shimmying the dress down her chest, she covers herself quickly, but not fast enough for me to miss the bruises forming on the pale sides of her breasts. Those, along with the ones on her arms, are disturbing.

I jerk my chin. “Take off your dress.”

“What?” she whispers, voice rough from crying. “Why?”

“I want to see if there are any other bruises.” She strips stiltedly, hands shaking, eyes averted in such an intense show of shyness that I almost laugh. “I’ve already seen it all,” I remind her, raising an eyebrow. Even still, it takes her several moments to finally step out of the dress and drop the towel, head ducked as I look my fill.

The tops of her thighs have bigger, purpling marks. Same on her shins. A picture starts to form in my mind. Killian, possibly a hundred pounds heavier than the tiny wisp in front of me, pinned her to the ground using his elbows, knees and feet. His hands squeezed her tits so hard, I can almost see the points of his fingertips bruised into her flesh.

Fucker.

Motherfucking fucker.

It’s one thing to use our Lady. It’s another to mark her up like this. This shit isn’t kosher. It could get us all in trouble, and maybe Story hasn’t realized it yet, but it’s a violation of the contract, too.

It makes my fist curl at the sight of it—of him, pressed into her skin. What gives him the right? She belongs to all of us. And now she’s standing here, tattooed all over by one of his stupid fucking tantrums.

I love Killian like a brother. I trust him with my life. My career. My family.

But I don’t trust him with our Lady.

Not one fucking bit.

When I realize she’s made no effort to move, I look away. “You can get dressed.” Like a zombie, she walks over to the dresser, replaceing a T-shirt and shorts. She struggles to get the shirt over her head, so I move closer and help her into it, giving in to the impulse to graze the bruised sides of her breasts as I do. “Get into bed,” I tell her, turning down the covers. Wordlessly, she crawls onto the mattress and leans against the pillow. “Did you do something to set him off?”

She scoffs, moving her eyes to mine. “Do you make it a habit of blaming all your victims, or am I just special?”

“I just want to know the truth.”

“No, you don’t.” She reaches for the comforter and tugs it toward her waist. “That’s exactly what caused this. Me, telling the truth.” She turns her head away, looking out the window. “I told him exactly what I felt. That he was repulsive and broken. That his dick didn’t work because he was a sick fuck.” Her eyelids look heavy and swollen from the tears. It’s not attractive.

I think.

It shouldn’t be.

Softly, I explain, “If you want to survive this job, you’re going to have to keep that mouth shut. You know that, right?”

“How am I going to suck you off with my mouth shut?”

Even though she says it bitterly, sharp like knives, it still makes my dick twitch. I chuckle at the way she’s looking at me, like she knows it. “I like that sexy mouth, but Killian can’t always handle it. I’m not sure Rath can, either. Every time you fight back, you make it harder on yourself.”

“It’s not in my nature to be submissive,” she admits.

“Then why the fuck did you take this job?”

A strange expression crosses her face, and she shrugs. “I needed somewhere to stay. I didn’t want to be reliant on Daniel again.”

It’s bullshit and we both know it. There are plenty of possible living situations that aren’t this. Story Austin is hiding something, and one day I’m going to replace out what it is. “You know that saying, ‘you get more flies with honey than vinegar’? You may want to try that. Look at me, Story. I’m easy. But the other two are mean as snakes. Unless you really do want them to make your life miserable, or get kicked out, you’re going to have to play the game a little.”

She shakes her head, looking away. “There’s no winning with the three of you. If I lie—if I act like a perfect little simpering puppet—then I’ll be boring, just like those two blonde girls. If I fight back like I did earlier with Killian, then this happens. You all hurt me because you want to hurt me. There’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

That’s a copout of the highest order. Instead of saying so, I sigh, sitting next to her. “You want to know what happened that night? Why I did it?” I shrug, not having really thought about it much, if I’m being honest. “You pushed me.” Her gaze swings to mine, full of fiery rage. Before she can argue, I explain, “Genevieve didn’t just dump me. She fucked around on me. She got the best of me. She made me…feel something for her, and then she…” Well, she broke my fucking heart. But Story can’t know about that. No one can. Love is weakness. I might have forgotten that, back then. But I won’t do it again. “And there you were, pushing salt into the wound. Rath, too. He thinks we don’t know about his little problem, but we do. You do, too. And you held it against him.”

Her forehead wrinkles when I reach out to push her hair behind her ear, but she doesn’t flinch back.

“Fight back, Cherry. Be interesting. But if you want to survive this job, you should realize that every time you poke at a weakness, it just makes us feel like we’ve got something to prove.” Chuckling, I think of the look on Killian’s face earlier. “I mean, damn, babe. A limp dick is like the number one nightmare for a guy’s ego. You didn’t even need to pour gas on that fire.”

“What about you?” she asks, eying me doubtfully. “I know you, Tristian. I know you’re not just coming in here because you’re a good guy.”

I snort. “No. I’ll never pretend to be that. But I don’t like anyone—even Killian—damaging our girl. As long as you’re in this house, I want you to be safe. Understand?”

“Do you mean that?” she asks, something scared but hopeful shining in her eyes. “You’d really—you wouldn’t let something hurt me?”

I look at her pensively, considering. “We’ll punish you, if we have to. We’ll use your body, enjoy you. But no, I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you. Not if I could help it. Maybe even sometimes if I couldn’t.”

She nods, and I sense a touch of tension falling away. “Good.”

I gesture for her to lie back and she hesitantly follows, eyes tracking me as I bend to press a kiss to her forehead. Then I walk away from a half-dressed, vulnerable girl for the first time in my life.

Almost, at least.

“Wait,” she whispers, stilling me. When I turn, she’s shifting beneath the blankets, squirming. She doesn’t meet my gaze. “I can’t…uh, you know. Because of the contract, so—”

“Can’t what?”

She grimaces, fixing her eyes to the ceiling. “I can’t…you know…”

Losing my patience, I demand, “Spit it out, Cherry.” There’s a party going on downstairs. I can’t spend the whole night coddling her.

With a tight huff, she gives a terse, “Masturbate.”

My face falls slack for a moment before I get it under control. Fuck me. Could Sweet Cherry be horny? I fight down my smirk. “You have my permission,” I offer, continuing for the door.

But then she makes this little noise of protest. “I’m not very…uh, good at it.”

I pause, watching her. “Are you asking me to get you off?” Fuck, please be asking me. That might be worth more points than I already have. “You need to say the words, Story. I can’t do it if you don’t ask.” She gives me a hot, belligerent glare that makes my dick jump. Obviously, she has a point. I’ve already gotten her off without her asking. But for the consensual request bonus points, it needs to be explicit.

“Fine,” she growls. “Would you please get me off.”

Just like that, I’m rock hard.

I want to laugh, but I don’t. He must have done a number on her to drive our Lady to this, considering how tired and sore and pissed off she must be.

Intuitively, I know exactly how to approach this. “Take off your shorts.” I watch as she heaves a brittle sigh, blanket shifting as she obeys. I walk back to the bed and perch on the edge, eyes fixed on the way her chin quivers. Oh yes, she’s sacrificing something to ask for this. He must have really gotten her close. Classic Killer, getting a girl right to the edge before leaving her in the lurch. Quietly, I say, “Look at me,” and it takes her a moment, but she finally does, those damp eyes boring resentfully into mine.

I know what she needs. I cup her cheek in my palm before taking her lips with mine. I keep the kiss gentle, slow, chaste. Let her loosen up a bit at the feel of it. This is easy, coaxing her into it, letting her be the one to part those plump lips of hers. Killian was mean and rough. A little tenderness will go a long way here, but I never do anything by halves.

By the time I lick into her mouth, she’s already sighing, shifting into me like I’m a goddamn port of harbor. The way she kisses is completely artless, unpracticed. Maybe some guys wouldn’t like that, but the three of us? Fuck. Every time she mimics my movements, licking against my tongue, it’s like I’m shaping her, molding her to everything I like.

It’s not long before I’m dipping a hand beneath the covers, trailing my fingers teasingly down her warm arm. When I reach her hand, curling my fingers into her palm, she curls back, clutching me.

I lead it to her bare pussy.

Her mouth goes still, but she doesn’t protest, letting me arrange her fingers right over her clit. I press them there, coaxing her back into the kiss, guiding her hand. She’s a quick study, making a soft sound into my mouth when I make her press into the nub. Unable to help myself, I leave her fingers there to do a little exploring of my own, dipping lower.

I can’t hold back my groan when I feel how wet she is. Holy shit, this girl is fucking soaked. What the hell did Killian do? She rips her mouth away to gasp, but I stay close, watching the way her eyes fall closed, pressing soft kisses down her jaw.

I whisper, “Did he get you close, sweetheart?” She whimpers, teeth bearing down into her lip as her hips chase my hand. I can already tell from the way her legs are trembling that it’s not going to take much. “Does that feel good?”

I can feel her nod beneath my lips as I shower the column of her neck in gentle kisses. She’s getting louder now, mindless in that way being on the edge always makes someone feel. The bed creaks with every shift of her hips—we’d engineered it that way, just for Killian—and she lets out a strained whine.

Unable to help myself, I finally allow my tongue to taste her neck, latching onto the skin right above a taut tendon.

I give a hard, powerful suck, sinking my teeth in.

She goes rigid, crying, “Tristian,” and god, I can feel it. She clenches, shuddering under me so delicately. It’s even better than that time in the library, feeling her spasm, legs clamping tight around my wrist as I work her through it.

I rise from her throat, groaning from the sight of my mark on her there, all purple against her pale flesh. It feels better like this, knowing that Killian isn’t the only one on her. She looks blissed out, eyes glazed, chest heaving. Before she can start to worry about the fact my dick could drill a hole through solid steel right now, I pull the blankets up to her chin.

I don’t tell her that she owes me for this—big enough that I plan on collecting in full when she’s feeling better. But not tonight, I think, taking one last, lingering kiss from her gasping lips.

After a moment, she looks at me, those dazed eyes clearing enough to land on mine. When she does, her expression shutters, going blank. I don’t stop her from rolling over and curling in on herself, shutting me out. She looks small like that. Helpless. Sad.

“If I’m broken,” she whispers, rusty voice cutting through the silence, “then you’re the one who broke me.”

I blink at her, confused. “You look pretty together to me.”

Silence.

Well.

I guess it was too much to hope for a ‘thank you’.

Fully erect and half-annoyed, I snatch the used rag from the bedside table and step into the hall. Closing the door behind me, I’m instantly aware of Killian’s presence down the hall.

“What were you doing in there?” he asks, eyes narrowing.

Ah yes, all the squeaking.

“Cleaning up your mess,” I say, wiping my hands on the rag. “Literally and figuratively. Was dousing her like a fire hose really necessary?”

He laughs. “Hell yeah, it was. She’s lucky I didn’t use it to glue her goddamn mouth shut.”

“Did you have to mark her up like that in the process?” I hiss, flinging a hand at the door. “She’s absolutely fucking covered in bruises!”

He crosses his big arms over his chest. “So what? The bitch went crying to you about it? Since when do you care about getting rough?”

I know I can’t move Killian, so when I shove his shoulder and it jerks back, I know he’s letting me. “It’s too fucking far, Killer. It’s visible. I know we don’t play the game the same way. You’re all about being physical, and I’m—’

“You’re all about the mindfuck.” He gives me a look that tells me exactly what he thinks of that. “I mean, if that works for you, fine. But that’s the long game, Tristian, and I needed to get off tonight.”

“And now she hates you even more, which I didn’t even realize was possible.”

“So.” He walks past me to stand in front of his door. “I hate her, too. Always so goddamn nosy, always in my fucking space, flapping that fucking mouth of hers, pushing me. Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean. Watching her get coated in my spunk was the best damn thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re an ass, and that temper is going to fuck everything up.”

He pokes me in the chest with his finger. “And you’re a pussy. I’m going to get the most points. A titty fuck? Coming all over her? That’s ten points plus.”

I look behind me at her door. “Shut up, or she’ll hear you.”

“What? Over her tears? Whatever.”

I decide to get through to him the only way I know how. “Well, I just gained thirty five.”

He freezes, jaw dropping. “Bullshit.”

I shrug, knowing that he believes me. He wouldn’t look so furious if he didn’t. “You left her hurt and angry and horny as fuck. I took care of her. She asked for it. That’s what your game is doing—giving the rest of us an in. It’s also reckless and stupid. Let the Counts see her walking around all bruised to hell, or even worse, the Princes. You know their game.”

Jaw clenched, he pushes past me, reaching for his door. Before he can enter, he pauses to say, “I do know one thing. If I have a good game this weekend, I’m adding her to my pregame ritual.”

He accentuates his claim by slamming the door in my face.

My eyes sweep between the two rooms, conflicted over Killian’s brutality and Story’s inability to just submit. Killian’s right about one thing. We play this game differently. His power is in his body, and mine is in my mind. But the one thing we all do the same is play to win. And I’m going to have to rein Killian in if I’m going to make that happen.

Else, there won’t be a game at all.