Lords of Pain (Dark College Bully Romance): Royals of Forsyth University
Lords of Pain: Chapter 2

I stand in front of the brownstone, checking and rechecking the address. It’s unnecessary. Everyone knows this place. For a house that’s indistinguishable from the others on first glance, it only takes a moment of scrutiny to feel that this one has a strange presence. Regal. Looming. A little colder. It’s hard not to think about what’s behind this door. Right this second, they’re in there, waiting, so close that my pulse is racing against the truth of it.

I know from my research that the house has four stories in all, including the basement, with the fourth floor probably overlooking the park. The location is perfect for students, coveted, a quick walk or bike ride to the University half a mile away. It’s not a surprise that the most powerful club at the school has this for their residence.

After reconfirming the address one last time, I climb the front steps and approach the door. The brass knocker is a huge, heavy skull with Greek letters carved into the forehead. The Lambda Delta Zetas, or Lords, are a century-old exclusive club that has dominated Forsyth University for just as long. There’s no doubt I’m in the right place.

After taking one last look over my shoulder, I wrench open the door and let myself in. Three other girls are already waiting in the front room—a formal parlor. Each, I assume, is here to apply for the same position. My stomach twists in anxiety as I look around, half expecting one of the guys to appear in a doorway.

I give a tight smile to the girl closest to me and take a seat in one of the armchairs. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve prepared to be here, under the same roof as them. It still feels like I’m jabbing a knife into a light socket, waiting to get zapped.

I try not to compare myself to the other applicants, but it’s hard. It’s obvious from their hair, clothes, and physical beauty that a certain type of girl is expected here, one that doesn’t surprise me in the least. I know instantly that I don’t fit the mold. The pitying looks they give me in return confirms that they know it, too.

Save it, I think bitterly. I’m not here to be some show poodle for a bunch of frat boys. I wouldn’t be here at all if I had other options, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

And that’s exactly what I am.

Desperate.

Why else would I come here, to these three men who have already hurt me, shamed me, violated me? It’d have to be bad, to seek them out, to put myself beneath their heels again, but willingly this time. Once again, my stomach turns at the thought. Even though I’ve faced it down and accepted what must be done, it doesn’t make it easy.

I never told on Killian and his friends for what they did to me, which is funny, in a horrific sort of way. I’d ended up shutting down my sugar baby account anyway. Obeying their disgusting orders was all for nothing, in the end. I didn’t leave my room for a week, faking sick, and falling into a deep depression. Something about the three of them knowing about my sugar baby account bothered me almost as much as what’d happened in the laundry room. As a result, I’d deleted all traces of my online activities.

The Plan was dead in the water. There’d be no getting out—not on my own, not without help. After a week of hiding in my room and cleaning up my past, I begged my mother to let me apply to boarding school. She and Daniel argued about it for days, until eventually the word came. He’d agreed to pay for me to go to an all-girls school across the country. It wasn’t ideal. My plan had been to run away. To be on my own and free. But sometimes you have to make compromises.

I packed my things and never looked back.

The first year away was about getting my shit together. I focused on my studies, joined activities and groups, tried my best to adapt to this idea of a normal, safe life. Things were even going smoothly.

Until the first letter from Ted arrived.

He was one of the first sugar daddies I’d spoken to. The letters were terrifying at first, the constant panic of having been found, even clear across the country, infecting every aspect of my new life. But really, the letters were nothing, not in comparison to what came next. The gifts. The messages on my personal social media. The emails. The photos. The videos. They grew more and more threatening, possessive, bitter at my lack of response. Even when I finally did get my wish—when I finally ran away from it all—he still found me again.

It was the biggest escalation that finally drove me here, to this awful place, with these terrible, heartless people.

The click-clack of heels on the marble floor echo down the hallway and another girl appears from the back of the house. Her blonde hair is in a sleek ponytail, her dress bright blue and cinched at the waist with a belt. Her shoes match and have sharp, pointed heels. Although she looks put together, her cheeks are red and she’s rubbing at something on her skirt with a handkerchief.

“Fucker came on my dress,” she says to the room. “This thing is silk!”

If anyone is shocked by what she says, they don’t show it. I’m grossed out but unsurprised. There’s nothing I’d put past these guys. They already proved that to me in spades.

A youngish, serious-faced guy appears in the hallway and calls out in a wobbly voice, “Bridget Walker?”

The brunette next to me stands and smooths out her skirt. She appears confident but I see the falter in her step. She’s smart to be nervous. She’s walking into a goddamn lion’s den, a sweet little lamb for the slaughter.

The door clicks shut down the hall. I stare at my nails, wondering for the millionth time if I’m doing the right thing. Then I remember that this isn’t about the right thing. It’s about survival.

“So,” the redhead across from me says. I glance up and see her addressing the other girl in the room. She’s curvy with smooth brown skin. A chain hangs around her neck with an elegant, cursive ‘D’ settling in the dip of her cleavage. “A friend of mine had her interview yesterday.”

“Oh yeah? Any advice?” D asks, as though we’re not competing for the same position.

“They’re all good looking and sexy. Intimidating. But you know that, I’m sure. It’s obvious when they’re walking around campus. But she said one of them seems really nice, at least. Sweet and charming, all smiles.”

Tristian Mercer. I’d know that description anywhere. People are so easily taken by it, even though he’s mean as a snake beneath the façade.

“Then there’s the quiet one with the piercings. Hot as hell, but super intense. Stared at her the whole time and totally gave her the creeps.”

Dimitri Rathbone—Rath.

“And then there’s the psychopath.”

“The what?” D asks, frowning.

“Killian, you know? Killer. He’s like ridiculously, panty-melting hot. Got a full ride for football, but…I don’t know. She said something is just off about him. It’s like he’s more than just a jerk. Like maybe he’s dangerous.”

D seems to consider this. “Dangerous can be sexy.”

“Yeah,” the redhead says, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “I know, but this is like another level. She said he’s completely in control at all times, to the point that when she blew him, he lasted so long her knees were rubbed raw and her jaw had totally locked up by the time he finally came.”

And that would be Killian Payne. My stepbrother. They have no idea just how much of a psycho he really is.

D just rolls her eyes. “That’s nothing special. I auditioned to be Countess last month and you wouldn’t believe some of the stuff they made me do.”

Red holds up a hand, head shaking. “No, I mean…obviously, any house is going to put their girl through the wringer—”

“Except the Princes,” I cut in, trying not to wilt under their gazes. I’ve done my homework. I know all about the rival frats and their respective girls.

Red snorts. “The Princes don’t even count. They’re total pussies.” Despite this, I see the way her eyes flick away, the spark of resentment there. She’d interviewed to be their Princess, no doubt about it. “But the Lords take it to another level. They’re more than just controlling. It extends to everything. What you wear, when you eat, where you sleep. They completely rule your life. They own you.”

“And in return, you’re the most powerful girl at school. No one can touch you. Well,” she laughs, “except them. Are you trying to scare me off? Because I know what I’m getting into. I’ve done my research.”

“Same,” Red replies. “Being the Lady on campus is the highest position you can have on the social scale at FU. I’ll do whatever it takes to get there.” Her gaze shifts to me. In a moment of clarity, I realize that this little gossip session was meant specifically to frighten me. “What about you, sweetie? Are you willing to do what it takes to be their Lady?”

Down the hall, the door swings open and the brunette, Bridget, emerges. She stumbles for a couple steps before replaceing her footing, eyes rimmed with red. Her shirt is wrinkled, skirt all twisted sideways, lipstick slashed into a dark smear over her mouth. She glances at the three of us, declaring, “Fucking pigs,” and storms out of the house.

When we’re alone again, I look at Red and D, smiling sweetly back at them. “Oh, I’m willing to do what it takes.”

I know what I look like compared to these girls. They’re all in heels and tight skirts, low-cut tops, breasts hanging out, hair teased and shiny, lips stained a whole palette of glossy reds. They look ready. Prepared. Eager.

By contrast, I’m wearing a simple sundress and flats, my hair up in a clean ponytail. Just a touch of foundation and blush, nothing more. I must look cute and innocent next to them, like someone who doesn’t know what she’s agreeing to. I look like someone who’ll be scared away. Someone who’ll have to be chased. Someone who’d say no.

“Better than that,” I add, looking away. “I know exactly what it takes.”

“Mary McBeth…”

It takes me a minute to realize the man is talking to me, even though I’m the only one left in the room. The two other girls had both gone in and left—each looking a little numb on their way out the door. I’d given a false name. I couldn’t tip them off that I’m coming in for the interview.

“That’s me,” I say, standing up. He gestures for me to follow him down the hall, stopping before a pair of closed wooden doors. I take a deep, steeling breath. He gives me a final sympathetic look before turning the knob.

They pay us no attention as he crosses the threshold, each too caught up in themselves to notice who’s entering. I peer around him, getting a good look at the guys who nearly destroyed me. It’s been over three years since I laid an eye on any of them.

All three look a little older. Rath has a leather journal in his lap, scribbling notes inside. Wireless headphones are plugged in his ears. The lines of his jaw are sharper than before, more defined by the dark scruff of his beard, and he has a new nose piercing to go with the two in his bottom lip. His hair is a bit longer, shaggier around the ears, and his body is long, taking up the entire leather loveseat. He still has the same presence I remember from high school, like the light bends around him, making his aura just a touch darker than everything else.

Tristian sits across from him, and time has served him just as well. His cheekbones are sharper than I remember, hair still an immaculate sweep of pale gold. He has a man’s face, now. Full lips and long, dark eyelashes that oppose his fair hair. He’s scrolling through his phone, smirking at whatever he’s perusing. He almost looks nice.

Almost.

If it weren’t for the red handprint blooming across his cheek.

Either Red or D must have slapped him. Internally, I’m impressed. They’d both seemed completely down for this. It’s good to know that even these boys’—these Lords’—biggest fans still have their limits.

I shift my gaze to the third man in the room. Killian, my stepbrother. I almost don’t recognize him. His eyes are cast down at the floor, jaw flexing around something that looks frustrated and impatient. He’s bigger than before, probably a half a foot taller, wider across the shoulders and chest. His shirt looks handmade, fitted perfectly to accentuate the bulging muscles in his arms and chest. Below that is the sprawling canvas of ink that his skin has become. His arms are absolutely covered in tattoos. No single one stands out more than the others, but I can clearly see the word ‘KILL’ spelled out across his rough knuckles. If the boy I once knew looked strong and intimidating, then I don’t even have words for the man standing before me right now.

Killian looks like a gangster.

When his eyes first replace mine, it feels like my heart wants to beat itself from my own chest. His body might be different, but that face and those eyes…

I’d know them anywhere. I’ve seen them in my nightmares for years now. Always watching, looming, observing me.

Despite that, I can’t help but notice the similarity between his face and his father’s. This sharper, harder, more mature version of Killian is still devoid of any sort of emotion. Even as he takes me in—even as his eyes flash in realization—that doesn’t change.

“Your final appointment is here,” the guy says. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”

“Shut the door,” is all Killian says, eyes still pinning me in place, and their lackey steps back, encouraging me to enter. I step into the room and feel their gazes on me all at once. Now it’s my stomach’s turn to feel like it wants to exit my body. Every hair on my body stands on end, and for a moment, I feel like I might run.

I’d practiced what I wanted to say a million times over the last week, but now that I’m here facing them down, it’s caught in my throat like a boulder. The way they all stare at me, silent and still, makes me wonder if they’re feeling the same thing. Maybe they’re not used to being confronted with their past crimes. Maybe they expect their trash to stay gone once they’ve thrown it away.

It’s Tristian who shakes out of it first. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Sweet Cherry,” he drawls, my nickname like honey on his tongue. He leans back, throwing his arms over the back of the seats. His gaze fixes itself to my mouth. “This is an unexpected surprise.”

Rath pulls the buds from his ears slowly, one by one, dark eyes assessing me. Apart from the tight line of his lips, his face is expressionless, that cold gaze making me shiver under its inspection.

With the two of them looking at me, it’s like I’m back in that laundry room all over again. They’re the predators. I’m the prey. I have to curl my hands into fists to stop them from trembling under the intensity of the memory. The sharp taste of semen. Fingers sliding through my folds. The sound of their harsh, excited breaths as they used me like a cheap toy. No. I won’t tremble and cower before these men.

I’m not that girl anymore.

Tristian jerks his chin at me. “You never said your little sister was in town, Killer.”

Killian’s still staring at me, but now his face is set into a hard scowl, lip peeled back. He’s looking at me like he just scraped me off the bottom of his shoe. “She’s not my sister.”

“Not so little anymore, either,” Tristian says, eyes sweeping over me before once again settling on my mouth. I get this humiliating flash of memory—the way his penis felt as it slid between my lips, the warmth of his fingertip as he swept my tears away. I feel the heat bubbling on my cheeks and it makes his lips tip up into a smirk. “Look at you, all grown up.”

He’s right. I’ve matured. Physically, emotionally. A year of boarding school, a few months on the street, and a year and a half working and living and surviving has a way of doing that to a person. It’s already obvious that these three are exactly the same as they were that night. There’s no remorse here.

“What are you doing here, Story?” Killian asks, voice deep and rough. “Last I heard, you’d skipped out on boarding school and fucked off to parts unknown. Now you show up on my doorstep? If you’re looking to even the score, you’re a little late. If we were untouchable before, then we’re practically Teflon now. Should have stuck around if you wanted to take a shot.”

I push my shoulders back, chin up. “I’m here to interview for the position. I’m applying to be your Lady.”

There’s a long stretch of silence, their eyes unblinking as they absorb my words.

“You’re applying to be our Lady,” Killian says, voice hard and flat. He leans forward, shoulders shifting, and rests his inked elbows on his knees. “Are you even fucking aware of what the job entails?”

Unflinchingly, I answer, “To serve the needs of the Lords that live in the household.” It’s a bit of a copout. They’re the only Lords living here.

“You know, maybe I’m misremembering,” Rath says, head cocked to the side, “but the last time we talked, you weren’t very compliant about serving others.”

“Not willingly, anyway,” Tristian adds, flashing me a sharp, lopsided grin. “Although that didn’t bother me very much.”

“It’s like you said,” I insist, voice like stone. “I’ve changed.”

“Does my father know you’re here?” Killian asks, knitting his fingers tightly together.

“Since June. He’s the one who helped me get into Forsyth.” The hatred in Killian’s eyes turns a shade darker. “But I’d rather do this on my own. I figured that a job that took care of my room and board would be the right step.”

“This isn’t just cleaning bathrooms and making us meals, you understand that, right?” Tristian drops the mocking smile for something more condescending. “We already have a housekeeper, sweetheart.”

I nod once. “Yes, I know.”

“Tell us, Sweet Cherry, what does being our Lady entail?” he prompts, the wicked curve of smile tugging at his lips.

“It means you’re in charge.”

“Of?”

“Everything.”I swallow, well aware of what I’m about to do. What they don’t know is why I’m so willing to do it.

Tristian watches me. He’s still got that charming ease. That same disarming, sexy demeanor. Facing him is worse than the others, because even for me—even after what he did to me, after how he treated me—it’s so easy to fall into it. To let it lull you. To believe that he’s not as bad as the rest.

Right up until he strikes.

“There’s a contract,” he says, eyes darkening. “We’re perfectly solid here, Story. But for our own benefit, I think I want to hear you say what you’re willing to do. Be specific.”

My stomach sinks, palms growing clammy as I fight to remain composed. My voice nearly sounds mechanical. “I’ll…pleasure you. I’ll let you do things to me.”

Tristian raises an eyebrow, clearly not having expected this level of bluntness. “And? The contract gives us unilateral rights to control every move you make for the next year.”

“What you wear,” Rath adds, staring at my chest. I can still feel the ghost of his hands on them. His cock rubbing against my backside. His harsh whispers into my ear.

Tristian nods. “When and what you eat.”

“When you sleep.”

“Who you fuck,” Killian says, suddenly joining in.

“How you fuck.”

I steel myself. “I can handle that.”

The guys glance at one another. Rath stands and walks toward me. I’m still standing near the door. I never got very far into the room. “You didn’t handle it last time, Story. We waited for you and you never came. Killer sat outside your room, but it was locked. Then you ran and erased every trace that you existed.”

“That was different. I wasn’t ready then. I am now.”

Rath’s tongue darts out and he raises his eyebrow. “Take off your dress, then. I want to see how much you’ve changed.”

It’s a test. A test to see if I’ll comply. But I also know that they don’t like easy. Whoever slapped Tristian probably has the best shot at this job. It’s a fine line, knowing what they want, and I have to tread carefully here. I also have to get control of my fears before I blow it.

“Take off your dress, Sweet Cherry, or this is over before it starts.” Tristian leans back against the couch, leather creaking. He makes this movement with his hips and I see the bulge in his pants. I can still taste the phantom sourness of him, even after all this time.

My fingers shake as I reach up to finger the strap of my dress. I refuse to look at Killian. I know damn well he’s not going to put a stop to this. My stomach whirls, bile climbing the back of my throat.

It’s not worth it, it’s not worth it.

“Cherry, we don’t have all day. We interviewed ten other girls, and every single one of them was willing to do anything I asked,” Rath says, annoyed by my hesitation. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but being a Lady is serious business. Maybe you should take this as an opportunity to run. You’re so good at it, after all.”

I swallow my nerves and hook my fingers beneath the straps of my dress, tugging them from my shoulders, dragging them down my arms. The dress flutters to the floor at my feet, and suddenly, I’m bare, standing in nothing but panties and a pale blue, lace bra. Their eyes suspiciously watch my every move, and I know as much as they might hate me, they want me just as badly.

Tristian shifts forward in his seat, like maybe he’s about to reach out for me. He never does, though. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “She’s bigger,” he tells the others. “Do you remember how big her nipples were?”

Rath nods at my chest. “Size of a half dollar. Are they bigger now, too?”

I dart down to grab my dress, shimmying it back up my torso. Once I’m covered, I send them a hot glare. “If you give me the job, then maybe you’ll replace out.”

A wide grin splits Tristian’s face. “Still feisty. Maybe even more than before.”

“Tell me something,” Killian says, eyes dilated. “What exactly do you have that the other girls don’t?”

I play the card I’d been holding onto for years. The same card I’d thought nothing of until that night with them. That’s when I realized how much importance it has. How much power.

“Easy,” I say, righting my dress. “I’m still a virgin.”