by Angel Lawson
“Oh,” I blink back at him, understanding. “Then how do you…?”
“Pass?” he asks, eyes narrowed. “The same way I always pass.”
I guess, “Bribes. Payments. Threats.”
He gives me a hostile smirk. “You’re just full of observations, aren’t you, Sweet Cherry?”
Intuitively, I realize he’s about to strike back. Probably with something that’s meant to embarrass me as much as it’s meant to scare me. I don’t give him the chance. “You’re really good at playing piano. I saw you before, the way you were so focused. It looked effortless. It must have taken you a lot of time and practice to get to that level of proficiency. I bet you could pick up…other things, in no time.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried?” he snaps. “It’s different now that I’m a Lord.”
I pause and let a group of girls pass by. Several turn to get another look, most likely of Rath, who’s dark, handsome face is the kind that draws a second glance. Secretly—guiltily—I’ve caught myself doing it, too. “How?”
He looks at me like I’m stupid. “We’re the top of the heap at Forsyth—actually, beyond that. Lords don’t have weaknesses. Ever. People are always looking to exploit one.”
I cut him a look. “It isn’t weakness, Dimitri.”
Something flutters behind his eyes when I use his real name. “It is when you want to be the best at what you’re doing.” He sweeps his dark hair from his eyes, scowling. “If people want to think I’m lazy and entitled for making others do my work, then I don’t give a fuck.” I hear what he doesn’t say. That it isn’t even a lie. “It’s easier this way.”
“I think it sounds a lot more complicated, actually.” I chance a look up at him, meeting his gaze. “I meant what I said before. I can teach you.” I wither at his stare, but force myself to explain. “Look, I’m under contract to keep quiet. And it’s not like I don’t already know. You might as well get something useful out of the two, right?”
“I can’t afford to shake shit up. Don’t you understand that?” He stares at me spitefully, cheeks turning a faint pink, but before I can respond he mutters, “Of course you don’t. You’re nothing but a dumb, worthless bitch, anyway. Like you could teach me anything. Seven minutes of making out in the car, and you still kissed like a dead fish.”
He storms off, leaving me in his angry wake. I gape after him, stunned and wounded in an odd, surprising way. Something inside me cringes and curls up, feeling dumb for thinking I could get close to him. That I could get through to him.
Ms. Crane is wrong. Rath—Dimitri—is just as hard and cruel as the others. Trying to have a civil conversation with one of the Lords is like stabbing yourself in the eye. Clearly they aren’t capable of that or any other functional emotion except anger and hostility. If I’m going to survive being their Lady, I’m going to remember not to let my guard down.
Ever.
I manage to get through the morning without any infractions. At least, I hope so. I texted at the correct times. I didn’t speak to any of my male classmates, which is harder than anticipated. The sexy-yet-coy clothing is like a beacon to college men, but I don’t fall for it. I suspect wearing these outfits is probably just another trick to come up with justifications to ‘correct’ my behavior.
When I change classes, I stick to the edge of the quad, ever alert so that I don’t run into someone again or accidentally do something wrong. I’m determined not to miss lunch today, so I get in line at one of the takeout places in the student union. I work my way through the queue, heart rate elevated. I know it’s crazy, but I can’t help but feel the heat of eyes on me. I know I came to Forsyth for a reason—to protect myself and others—but the paranoia may break me before Ted does.
The server calls my name and I flinch, grabbing the bag quickly. The common area is crowded—loud. Too many people to talk to, too much trouble to get into. I’ve only been in this arrangement for two days, and already my brain is taking hold, seeing every little thing as an instinctual danger. It’s frightening to think what kind of person I’ll be once it ends.
I take the stairs to the second floor, ignoring the signs that say ’Wet Floors-No Admittance’ and see a grouping of unoccupied leather chairs outside one of the conference rooms. I rush to a seat, drop my backpack and coat on the empty cushion next to mine, and open the bag. I have the sandwich halfway unwrapped when someone moves my backpack and sits next to me.
“Sweet Cherry,” Tristian drawls, “did you go get lunch without offering to get me something?”
My stomach sinks as I gaze back at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you wanted anything.”
“Did you ask?”
His tone is gentle, but I know better. He caught me in a vulnerable, compromised position. His favorite thing. I take a deep breath and hold out the sandwich. “I can go get you something. Or,” I swallow back the annoyance, “would you like mine?”
His nose wrinkles, while his stone cold blue eyes hold mine. “As if I’d eat that garbage. Anyway, you’re too late. I’m not hungry anymore. At least, not for food.” I frown, trying to follow him, but then his hand rests on my thigh. “You didn’t wear a skirt for me.”
“It was in the closet, but I—” Heat burns in my cheeks and I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“You dressed for Rath today.” The corners of his eyes tighten with a brittle smile. “No worries,” he says, as though he anticipated a kink in his plans. He lifts my black coat off the chair next to ours and spreads it over his lap. “As much as I like putting my fingers on—or inside—you, I’ve been dreaming about yours being on me for a long time now.”
He reaches under the coat and I hear the unmistakable sound of his zipper parting. My eyes widen, stomach plummeting. “You want me to…” I can’t say it. “…here?”
His hand takes mine, cool and large and soft, and slides it under the coat, placing it forcibly on his already erect cock. I can’t see it, but I can feel it. The skin is hot, taut, and smooth. I look around, panicked, but we’re completely alone. I’d been so worried about not being around other people, about staying out of trouble, that I’d led him straight to the perfect secluded spot to fulfill his obvious need for exhibitionism.
He leans back and exhales, the column of his throat rippling with his groan. “I know you don’t have a lot of experience with this, but first off, you’re going to need to move your hand a little.”
“I can’t do this,” I whisper, desperate to yank my hand away, but knowing that I can’t. “This is…this is wrong. We’ll get in trouble.”
“Maybe we will.” His lips quirk, like he’s almost hoping we will. “This is what happens when you selfishly don’t consider your Lord’s needs.” He settles back and closes his eyes. “The sooner you get started, the sooner you can go.”
For a blink, I consider running, bolting out of the building, away from Tristian, the job, and every stupid, stupid, decision I’ve made since I was sixteen. But then his cock twitches under my hand, pressing into my palm, and a different kind of feeling settles deep in my belly. It’s the sensation I’ve struggled with since that night in the laundry room. The bitter conflict of fear and want.
I take another look around, making sure no one is watching us, and then slowly stroke up his cock, toward the tip.
“There you go,” he says, cracking one eye to look at me. “Keep it up.”
I run my hand back down to the base, touching the soft sack at the bottom. I get a feel for him, the size and girth. He’s thick, filling my fist. I shift my position, trying for something more casual, natural-looking. I reach for the bag with my lunch, placing it on the couch between us so that it looks like I’m doing something other than…what I’m actually doing.
What the heck am I doing?!
His voice a low, resonant murmur. “That’s it, sweetheart. A little harder, if you don’t mind.” Tristian, to his credit, looks completely serene, like a college student taking a nap during his break. As I stroke up and down,
his face remains impassive, utterly blank, but as I build a rhythm, I begin noticing tells. When I reach the base, his nose wrinkles just a little. When I stroke up his length, his neck muscles tense. And when I get to the top, rolling my thumb over the tip, his tongue darts out and he licks his lips.
I watch him without really thinking about it, finding myself curious. Playing with the reactions. Anticipating them. Creating them.
Controlling them.
“Does that feel good?” I ask. I didn’t mean to, but it slips out. I hate that I even want to know.
“It does,” he breathes, head lolling to the side so he can look at me. His eyes dart down and he grins lazily. “Your nipples are hard. You little freak.” My nipples are hard, and the spot between my legs burns. I like the way he feels in my hands. I like that, even though he’s in control, I have a little bit over him, too. “Are you wet?”
“Maybe. Just a little,” I stiltedly confess, squeezing my thighs together. I hastily divert, “But this isn’t about me. It’s about you.”
The door of the conference room pushes open and suddenly we’re no longer alone. Dozens of people pour out of the room. Men, women, students. I look at the sign on the door and see that it says ‘Orientation Meeting’. Fuck. Those meetings hold a hundred prospective students and their families. My hand freezes, but Tristian’s comes down on mine. “Don’t stop,” he says, his voice a warning.
Stiffly, reluctantly, I continue. Surrounded by the building crowd, I sense Tristian coming closer to the edge. I lean into him, like we’re talking quietly, my body curled innocently around his. His jaw tenses. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters.
I look up and see a woman watching us, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Part of me wants her to go tell on us, to make this stop, for someone to tell Tristian this is not okay. But there’s the other part. The one I battle every day. The dirty, fucked-up, guilty idiot who got myself into this. Sometimes that part overpowers the other.
This is one of those times.
“People are watching,” I say, “so unless we both want to get expelled, you need to finish up.”
I bend down and press my lips to Tristian’s, swallowing up any response. His lips part in surprise, eyes flying open. After a moment, his hand reaches around my neck and crushes me to him. His tongue pushes into my mouth, hips bucking into my fist, and then hot, sticky fluid begins filling my palm. I do my best to catch it all.
The next minutes pass in a blur. I break away from the moment only to find myself flustered, hands and knees shaking, body lit on fire, convinced we’re going to get caught. Somehow, though, he gets my hand clean and his cock back in his pants. He leads me through the crowd as I fumble with my coat and backpack. No one would ever know what just happened between us. What he forced me to do.
At the doors, the sun bears down on him, alighting his blond hair in a halo of light. From this vantage, someone might mistake him as god-like.
“See you this afternoon,” he says, smirking. No thank you, no apology, nothing a guy should probably normally say to a girl after something like that. I watch him go, fingers sticky with residue, cheeks aflame with humiliation, and my belly warm with want.
Two girls pass me by, eyes sweeping jealously between me and his retreating figure. I feel pity for them, knowing that they saw the façade. The lie. The deceit.
There is nothing god-like about Tristian Mercer. If anything, he’s a demon.
It takes all afternoon to slow the adrenaline from my lunchtime encounter with Tristian. I half expect campus security to bust through the door and drag me out for inappropriate behavior. I don’t hear half of what my professors say and, once classes end, I’m mostly just glad for the escape—even if it does mean going home to the Lords.
The music building is cool and quiet when I enter, and I check the information board to get directions to the practice room. Room A4 is up one flight of stairs, and I peek into the windows of the different practice rooms in search of his. The rooms are sound-proofed, but I can see people playing various instruments, some individually, like cellos and violins, others in small ensembles. When I get to the right room, I pause to peer through the window. Rath is walking up to the piano and places his sheet music on the stand. He sits, face determined, jaw set in concentration. He’s not alone in the room. A small group of students sit in the observation seats. It makes sense. He needs to practice in front of people, I suppose.
As much as I hate to admit it, it hurt when he called me a dumb, worthless, bitch that morning. It hurt when he said I was a bad kisser. Mostly, it hurt that it hurt at all. As if I don’t know him. As if he hasn’t already hurt me worse than that, and for less. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. I knew him being nice to me was nothing more than a trick. The last thing I want to do is sit in the room with him and wait for more abuse. But I know if I don’t, the consequences could be worse.
Carefully, I open the door and step inside, trying to be as quiet as possible as he begins to play.
Music fills the room and he doesn’t look up as I enter. I take a seat in the back, wanting to stay invisible.
A guy in the front row clears his throat loudly—so loudly that Rath stops playing, shooting him a glare. “That’s Prelude in C Major,” the guy says, and some of the others laugh quietly in their seats. “The board says you’re playing Solfeggietto?”
Rath stares at him unblinkingly, not responding.
The guy shifts in obvious discomfort. “It’s in there. In the folder.”
After a moment of Rath’s dark stare, he gets up from the bench, snatching the folder from the piano. He thrusts it at the man’s chest. “If you’re so fucking smart, then why don’t you pull it out for me, fuckwit.”
Forehead creased in a frown, the guy flips the folder open, leafs through the pages, and plucks one out.
Rath snatches it from his hand. “Congratulations, you’re capable of something a trained monkey can do. Now if you don’t mind, I was warming up with Prelude, you shining testament to dead dicks.”
The others laugh louder now as the guy shrinks down into his seat. Taking the bench once again, Rath unfolds the paper and begins playing.
If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine it’s being played by someone with actual, real-life feelings. Feelings that aren’t anger. Feelings that don’t only want to hurt. I can almost forget the fact he just effortlessly manipulated someone into doing work for him.
I can almost forget that it’s not okay to like those fingers flying across the keys.
His playing sounds magnificent, rich notes reverberating through the room. His fingers move quickly, fast like lightning, and I can’t imagine Rath not being able to do anything, let alone read. But even though the notes feel flowing and serene, when I open my eyes, I see his shoulders are tense, his jaw tight, a lock of hair falling into his eyes as he reads the music.
Dimitri is troubled.
But the expression on his face, when he stands and bows to the audience, says otherwise.
His eyes flick to the back of the room, to me, and a chill runs down my spine. Ms. Crane had been right about one thing. Rath had never been the meanest of the guys—Killian holds that position—and Tristian is just mindfuckingly cruel. Rath is aloof. Dismissive. Indifferent, until he wants something. Like seeing me cry. Wanting to hear me beg. Loving that we share a dirty secret.
He steps off the stage, collecting his things with jerky, hostile movements. Storming down the row toward me, he doesn’t stop when he reaches me. He just grabs me by my arm and drags me outside. I stumble in my clunky shoes, twisting my ankle, but swallow back the cry of pain.
“I failed my fucking oral report, thanks to you,” he growls, eyes ablaze. “It was worth thirty percent of my fucking grade.”
“Me? I didn’t do anything!”
“Yes, you did!” he spits, getting in my face. “You got in my head this morning! All that bullshit about trying. You made me think I had something to prove. You fucking played me!”
I
gape at him, bending back to put some distance between us. “That’s crazy, Rath. You’re crazy! I just wanted to put the offer out there, in case—” I swallow. “Your problem is that you’re so used to being around assholes that you don’t even know what it’s like to have someone be nice to you,” I tell him, taking a step back. “Because that’s all I was being—nice. Just like I thought you were being nice by kissing me before.”
His hands move lightning fast, slamming hard into my shoulder. In a blink, I’m pressed into the wall, being crushed against the stone.
He openly sneers at my whimper. “Shut up.”
“You’re hurting me.”
“Good,” he replies, applying more pressure, jaw clenching at my wince. “I’ll do more than that if you tell anyone what I said this morning. If you tell anyone anything.”
“I can’t, remember? I signed a contract.”
“Just don’t fucking forget it.” He releases me and I rub my shoulder, watching him storm off. I grab my bag and trail after him, knowing that if he shows up without me, there will be hell to pay.
On the way to the truck, I simmer in what I know to be true. Rath is freaking out because I touched something personal. A weakness. Something a Lord shouldn’t have. Proof that a failure isn’t just laziness or entitlement. It’s an inability to do something.
An inferiority.
And I’m going to be the one to pay for it.
12
Rath
As soon as we get home, I realize the pledges have already arrived to help set up the party. Not in the mood to deal with the toadies, I go right out back to meet Ms. Crane for a cigarette. My blood is pumping with something black and hot. Fucking bullshit, failing my report. I could have worked my way out of it, but no, I had to go up there and make a fucking effort.
What a goddamn joke.
Ms. Crane is in a mood of her own, barely sparing me a grunt as she sucks down her own cigarette. You know we’re both over the day when we don’t even bother insulting each other.