Lords of Pain

by Angel Lawson

  Once again, I curse myself for letting Story get to me. For allowing her to creep under my skin. Inferiority isn’t something I’ve ever copped to, and it’s especially not something I ever want to air out to other people—unlike Story, whose entire persona screams weakness. She’s a walking billboard advertising her vulnerability. She always has been. It’s a part of what makes fucking with her so enjoyable. It’s also like watching a train wreck.

  By nature, I’m an empath. Not one of those touchy-feely soulful types. No. I can assess strong emotions and quickly determine how to capitalize on them—how to dominate. On the soccer field, I knew within moments how a player would react. It’s like having another sense that could hone in on my opponent. Were they nervous, intimidated, filled with adrenaline, high on ego? I reacted accordingly. Successfully. Winningly. In music, it’s even better. It’s the knowledge of how to evoke feelings, where to lead people, how to coax them.

  There’s no one easier to read than Sweet Cherry. It was obvious the first time I saw her, anxiously hiding in the shadows of Killian’s house. A mouse afraid of being exposed. She was terrified of him, but that wasn’t all. She wanted something from her stepbrother. Approval? Acceptance? Whatever it was, it was cloaked under the heavy musk of fear and impossible to achieve.

  I was the one who sensed her up in the laundry room that night. It’s like I could smell her all the way down in the basement, taste her special brand of defiance, fear, and want. I couldn’t resist tracking her down for Tristian, whose slut of a girlfriend had fucked his head all around. Considering how Story had done the same to Killian’s head by choosing his dad over him, it seemed like the perfect little game.

  Things escalated faster than I expected, all of us high on the way she tried so hard to bluster her way through it. Killian’s easy agreement had come as a surprise, but he was always good at hiding any emotion other than rage. That night, we all revealed a little bit more about ourselves. Especially Story. When I realized how wet she was—how fucking into it she was—it was like a whole other side of my mind opened up.

  When it comes to Story, every twitch, every gasp and every stare practically screams ‘break me’. Underneath all that flimsy bravado is a girl who needs to be put in her place. It was no different back then. If anything, it was more potent. A little more fear, a little less artful in her attempt at hiding it. She was younger than most of the girls we fucked with and Killian’s stepsister. But that didn’t stop us. It just made it more exciting. Something we’d been thinking about for so long that we wanted to savor it. But we didn’t get to—not that night.

  Not until now.

  Those same emotions followed her into the interview, then later into my bedroom. The stink is on her all the time. Defiance, fear, want. But this morning in the truck, it was different. I felt the panic rolling up her spine. It was in her badly hidden gasps, the way she held onto the door like she was looking for an escape. I knew exactly how to handle it. How to handle her.

  I’d wanted to claim her first kiss as my own, but almost as strongly was the urge to be the one who took that panic away. The one who controlled it. And that’s exactly what I did.

  But the problem is that she knows about me.

  She has a piece of control of her own, and that’s not fucking acceptable.

  When Ms. Crane and I head back inside, Tristian and the toadies are in the kitchen, setting up stacks of cups.

  “We need some snacks,” Lahey says. He’s a twiggy little fuckface, entirely void of charm, but he’s a legacy. “Are these for the party?”

  Tristian makes a snide glance at the tray of food Ms. Crane has already prepared. “Only if you want to eat garbage. What the hell are these? They’re barely a step up from chips!”

  Ms. Crane sneers right back. “You have arms and legs. Cook something yourself if you don’t like it.”

  Tristian’s nostrils flare and Killer and I share a glance at the impending bitchfest. “I said I wanted a vegetable tray!”

  Ms. Crane goes to the fridge and pulls out a bag of half-thawed baby carrots. “There,” she says, dumping them on the counter with a loud ‘thud’. “Go fucking wild, you useless rabbit disguised as a man.”

  Tristian instantly tosses them in the garbage. “I’m useless?!”

  Lahey laughs, looking between them. “Yeah, you stupid hag. How hard is a vegetable tray, anyway? A trained poodle could do a better job than this.”

  The kitchen goes silent.

  Big mistake.

  All our eyes shift to him, but he’s too busy arranging beers inside a cooler to notice the absolute mountain of shit he’s just dug himself into.

  In a low, even voice, Tristian asks, “What did you just say to her?”

  A lot of people think Tristian hates Ms. Crane. And he does, in his own way. But it’s a petty sort of hate. The kind of hate that’s more like a game than anything. Above all that, Tristian might respect her more than anyone ever has.

  He was the one to suggest we pull her out of South Side.

  Lahey looks up and then does a double-take at the expression on my face. “What?” He jostles when Killian’s hand lands on the back of his neck, body stiffening at what I’m guessing is a bruising grip.

  “What the fuck did you just say to her?” Killian growls, face hard with fury.

  Lahey’s gulp can probably be heard all the way upstairs. Idly, I glance toward the hall, and then unexpectedly make eye contact with Story. My eyes narrow and she flinches out of sight. Little fucking mouse.

  “I was just agreeing with Lord Tristian, that’s all!”

  Killian looks about five seconds from just taking his head off at the neck. If he doesn’t, I might. “That’s not your place, Pledge.”

  “We’re allowed to talk to Ms. Crane like that. Do you know why?” Tristian’s smile is all sharp malice. “It’s because Ms. Crane is a part of us. She’s family. What exactly are you? You’re nothing.”

  I take my place beside Ms. Crane. The look on her face, eyes cast down, makes me fold my arms to stop myself from punching this fucker in the face. Ms. Crane should never look like that. Cowed. Less than. Pissed off, but too smart to act on it.

  She’s spent too much of her life looking like that, and at the hands of worse people than some pampered little college pledge fuck.

  I ask, “You think the help is beneath you, Lahey?”

  His wide eyes ping around us. “Wha—no! No, she’s not beneath me.”

  Tristian slaps a hard, heavy hand down onto his shoulder. “No, she’s not. And I think you owe her an apology.”

  I stress, “I think it’d better sound sincere as fuck.”

  Lahey swallows, finally meeting Ms. Crane’s gaze. “Sorry.” I scoff and Killian gives him a jostle that results in a wince. “I—I was wrong. The food looks fine. Good, even! You probably worked hard on it, so I’m really sorry.”

  Tristian prompts, “You’re sorry, what?”

  It still takes Lahey a moment to stutter out a hasty, “Ma’am! I’m sorry, ma’am.” He stumbles forward when Killian lets him go.

  “You’re not invited tonight,” Killian says, throwing him his messenger bag. It hits Lahey’s chest hard enough to almost topple him over. “You can sit out front, in a car, and be the fucking DD. If you even step foot in the house, you’re done. And if you want to be invited next time, you’d better come up with a gesture to show Ms. Crane exactly how sorry you are.”

  Lahey skitters out of the house without so much as a peep.

  “Come on,” I say to Ms. Crane, gently placing her hand in the crook of my arm. “I’ll light your cigarette for you and say something fresh.”

  She snorts. “Nothing fresh about you, Lord Fuckface.”

  I pat her hand. “That’s our cranky old bitch.”

  “Don’t you fuckers forget it.”

  13

  Story

  I don’t breathe with ease until I’m locked behind my bedroom door. I’m not sure how Ms. Crane earned the luxury of t
hem jumping to her defense like that, but it doesn’t extend to me.

  Rath is pissed.

  Even so, I almost expected it out of him. He seems to get along with Ms. Crane the most out of the three of them. Killian sticking up for anyone is a surprise, but Tristian? He quite obviously can’t stand Ms. Crane. His words pulse back at me like an acidic whisper.

  Ms. Crane is a part of us. She’s family. What exactly are you? You’re nothing.

  Now that I’m alone, I kick off the painful shoes and rub my sore ankle. After all that tension, the last thing I want to do is go to this party tonight. God only knows what I’ll be expected to do. Serve food? Rub their shoulders? Grovel at their feet? Considering Tristian’s penchant for public displays, maybe even worse.

  A knock on the door draws my attention, and I brace myself for whatever Lord is on the other side. “Come in.”

  The door opens to reveal Martin, who sweeps in without reservation. “Lady, I wanted to talk to you about the party. As you’ve been informed, there’s a gathering tonight—a pregame ritual. There will be food and drinks and—”

  “I know what a party is, Martin.” I rub my temples. “What exactly am I expected to do?”

  He smiles. “Of course. Well, your role as Lady is to be available to the Lords as they need you. Typically, they would want you by their sides, refilling their drinks and looking—”

  “Like arm candy. Got it.” I tilt my head. “But there’s a problem. They hate me. Well, at least two of them do. I know Killian doesn’t want me doting on him all night. Rath, either. So how am I supposed to approach this?”

  He shakes his head disapprovingly. “Regardless of what they feel, they have chosen you as their Lady. You need to be available to their every need while guests are in the house. It’s how these things are done.”

  “Fine,” I grind out, hearing what he’s not saying. If the Lords want to reject me, humiliate me, then I’m meant to just take it. Even though I’m pretty sure they’d rather me be in the kitchen with Ms. Crane. “Anything else?”

  “One thing,” he says, shifting on his feet. “Killian has some very specific pregame rituals. They are very important to him since—as you may know—Lord Killian is quite superstitious. This season is vital to his career. The NFL will be watching his every move. His rituals can’t be disrupted in any way.”

  “And I need to assist him with those rituals,” I guess.

  He releases a clipped laugh. “God, no. I actually think it’s in everyone’s best interest that you stay completely clear of him for the evening.”

  I can’t control the smile that splits my face. “That sounds perfect.” A weight lifts off my shoulders. Staying away from my stepbrother is my number one priority on any given day. But during a party with alcohol and drugs? I don’t want to be anywhere around him. “Well, do you have suggestions on what to wear?”

  His lips form a tight line. “That’s not really my area of expertise. I’m sure there’s something suitable in the closet.”

  I cast a skeptical glance at the wardrobe. “I’m not sure what they’d like.” I’m not even sure which Lord I should be appealing to tonight. Should I be slutty? Should I be cute and coy? Walking over to the closet, I assess the clothes. In truth, dressing up has never been in my wheelhouse. Back in high school, whenever I needed help I would…

  Well, I’d call a girl friend.

  But I don’t have any of those.

  “Martin,” I begin, voice reluctant. “I know there are rules about who I can speak to and—”

  “No men,” Martin emphasizes.

  I nod. “Obviously. But I was wondering about other women. Other…students? Like the Countess or the Baroness?”

  Martin’s face screws up. “Not if it can be helped. Girls are meant to be loyal to their houses. They can’t be trusted.”

  I deflate, remembering how kind Sutton—the Countess—had been to me. Loyal to our houses? Yeah, right. These guys are all deluded. “So basically, I can’t have any friends.”

  Martin frowns, forehead creased in thought. “Well, I suppose…there are other girls loyal to our house. Prior Ladies.”

  I perk. “A prior Lady?” That’s not just companionship or camaraderie. That’s actual intel. “Like who?”

  Martin pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call Charlene. She was our last Lady. Perhaps she can be of more assistance.”

  As soon as she enters my room, I realize that any hopes I might have had of forming a friendship with this woman were misplaced.

  She greets me with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, cherry red lips pursed into something forced and rigid. “You must be the new Lady.”

  Charlene is gorgeous in that totally predictable sort of way. Every blonde strand of hair is perfectly curled and styled, tumbling down her back in elegant, platinum waves. She’s wearing a little black dress, breasts sloping from the top, accentuating her tiny waist and full hips into the perfect hourglass figure. I bet her list of rules was only half as long as mine. Clearly, Lady Charlene has never had to be told to remain waxed and sexy at all times.

  Instantly, I regret asking for her. “Charlene, right?”

  She gives me a slow look, eyes taking me in from top to bottom. It’s subtle, the way her lip curls, but it’s obvious that her expectations haven’t been met. “I see we have some work to do.” She dumps a bag by the door and walks, high heels clacking, to the closet. “Undress. I don’t have all night.”

  I glare at her back, wishing now that I could send her away without upsetting whatever idiotic ecosystem is running this house. Instead, I do as she asks, pulling my top over my head. “There’s a couple black dresses in there,” I start, but she raises a hand.

  “Black? Please. You’re the Lady to our star player.” She says this as if that makes any sense, pulling out a few different dresses, assessing them. “You should be in our spirit colors, obviously.” The sneer in her voice isn’t even thinly veiled, and she pulls something from the rack, turning to me. “Colors like this?”

  I stare at the oversized jersey—orange and purple—and when she flips it around, I see the number 36 emblazoned on the back. ‘PAYNE’ is spread across the shoulders. “Looks like one of Killian’s jerseys must have gotten in there by mistake.” I laugh anxiously. “But I think if I walked out in that, Killian may actually murder me.”

  She rolls her eyes, putting it back. “You have no imagination. Lord Killian, bending you over any flat surface, nothing but his own name and number staring back at him?” She scoffs. “Probably the best sex he’ll ever have.”

  I clamp a hand over my mouth to muffle my surprised bark of laughter. Maybe this girl isn’t so bad. “Yeah, he is pretty full of himself, isn’t he?”

  “Wear this,” she says, ignoring my question to fling a hanger at me. The dress is a deep, dark purple. Its short skirt flares at the hips, but the bodice is tight and more revealing than I’m used to. Nevertheless, I do as I’m told, dragging it over my head. “You need a bra with that,” she says.

  But I just shake my head. “I’m not allowed.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not allowed to wear a bra?”

  “Not in the house,” I explain, feeling my cheeks heat. I guess I’d been right before. Charlene clearly didn’t have as many rules.

  Thankfully, she doesn’t question it. “Whatever. We need to do something with your hair next.” She starts pulling various instruments from her bag, gesturing to the vanity.

  I take a seat and try, “Thanks for helping.”

  She just hums. “Do you want it up or down?”

  “I don’t know, really.” I look in the mirror, twirling a lock of hair around my finger. “What do you think?”

  She pops a hip, resting her fist on it. “Rath and Killian will like it down, Tristian will like it up.”

  Nodding at my reflection, I answer, “Okay. Let’s shave it off.”

  She doesn’t even crack a smile at the joke, gathering my hair to run a brush thr
ough it. “You have no idea how good you have it, do you?”

  “Good?!” I gape at her through the mirror. “Yeah, it’s so good being forced into servicing them, knowing that I can be punished for exercising even the smallest morsel of autonomy. What a blast!”

  The brush catches on a knot and she yanks, ignoring my sound of protest. “What’s fun is being able to have anything you want. You only need to ask. This whole campus will be at your every whim. Boo hoo, you’re having sex with the three hottest, most powerful guys here. No one is coming to your pity party.”

  When the brush hits another snag, I flinch away, glaring as I take the brush from her. “You’re acting like they aren’t the biggest assholes you’ve ever met.”

  She rolls her eyes, watching me gingerly run the brush through my hair. “Of course they’re assholes. They’re selfish and greedy and spoiled. So what? They’re also good at what they do. Don’t act like they haven’t made you feel good.” She sniffs, raising her chin. “If I were Lady again—their Lady—I’d be on my knees for them without even having to be asked.”

  “The only thing they’ve made me feel is a deep desire to hurt them back.”

  “Then honey,” she says, bending low to meet my gaze, “why the hell don’t you?”

  I pause, frowning. “Because I can’t.”

  “Says who?”

  “The rules, for one,” I reply, setting the brush aside.

  She spreads her arms. “Show me where it says in these ‘rules’ of yours that you can’t strike back?” At the look on my face, she grins. “You have a lot to learn. There’s a time for compliance and subservience. But selfish, greedy, spoiled boys love it when girls fight back. Everything comes easy to a Lord. Makes it hard to flex their power when there’s nothing to test it, don’t you think?”

  I’m still thinking of this as Charlene curls my hair, pinning it up. She does have a point. Nowhere in the contract did it say I couldn’t fight back. That I couldn’t hurt them. That I couldn’t defend myself. Could she be right? Would they like it if I fought them? Not disobedience or defiance, but a real, physical opposition. Would it make them like me more?