by Angel Lawson
“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.
16
Story
I don’t want to wake up.
My phone alarm blares at me, but I ignore it for as long as I can. I know the second I move a muscle, I’m going to find out just how badly I ache. It’s probably a full three minutes into the alarm before I give in, wincing when I reach for the phone.
If I ever wanted to know what it felt like to get rammed by a two-hundred and twenty pound college football player, then my curiosity is now satisfied. My body throbs, from my arms all the way down to my shins. It’s not just the bruises my stepbrother inflicted on me, but my muscles are also sore from tensing up during the attack.
And Tristian might mince words, but that’s exactly what it was.
An attack.
When I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror, it looks even worse. Mottled, purple marks litter my arms and torso. I’ve always been quick to bruise. When we were closer, when I was young, my mom used to call me her little flower petal. She’d say that I needed to be treated with care, or I’d wilt away. I used to think it was sweet at the time, like an endearment. But now, looking back, I can clearly hear the disappointment it was tinged with. Maybe, somehow, she knew she’d be releasing something so fragile into a harsh world filled with cruel men. Maybe she was hoping I’d be stronger.
Despite how badly I look, a small, sickened part of me has to give Killian credit. All of my exposed parts—my neck, face, and hands—are perfectly undamaged.
It doesn’t really flood back until I’m in the shower, standing mechanically below the hot spray. I press my fingertips into a deep blue patch of skin below my hip and remember the sound of his breath—quick and eager. I squeeze my eyes shut against the memory, but it’s no use. The sight of his cock pushing between my breasts. The way his hands looked, squeezing them, thumbs flicking over my nipples in hard, aggressive sweeps. The sight of his knuckles flexing, the letters on his fingers stark against my flesh, ‘KILL’. The way he watched, eyes just as rapt as they were angry. The way he tasted, salty and hot and slick.
Most vividly, I remember never being so turned on in my life.
Shamefully, I find myself rearranging it all. Removing the hatred. The aggression. The anger. The hurt. I imagine what it might have been like, without all the badness making it seem so tainted. Would I have liked it more? Would I have gone down willingly, taken him into my mouth and moaned around his hard shaft? Would I have asked him—like I asked Tristian—to touch me back, to make me feel good?
I know the answer.
I’m not sure I like it.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. Like I’d said to him; it could never be anything else. Hurting is what Killian does, and he did it with zero remorse. He blamed me for his inadequacies with the other girls, like I was somehow to blame for him not being able to get it up. Like it’s my fault he obviously needs to inflict pain to get to the pleasure. I suppose we both learned one thing last night. Those Barbies didn’t turn him on. I did.
And I know he hates that more than anything.
I turn off the faucet and dry off, getting another view of my battered body in the bathroom mirror. Charlene’s advice was clearly shit. Idly, I wonder if she’d meant it to happen like that—if she fed me bad advice hoping they’d hurt me back. She’s not loyal to me—she’s still loyal to them. I shouldn’t be surprised. Charlene’s played this game longer than I have. She knows the moves, the strategy. I’m just bumbling around, reacting.
But what Tristian said last night might hold more water.
You get more flies with honey than vinegar.
If I’m going to stay here—and I need to stay here—then I’m going to have to get my head in this game. I’m going to have to find out what to hold back, and what to give freely. I need to make myself useful—no, irreplaceable—and simply showing up on time and handing out some beers isn’t going to cut it. I need to play the part, just for a while. I need to figure out how to be a good Lady to all of them.
Even to Killian, I realize, already dreading it.
With that in mind, I dress for the day, making sure to cover up the bruises while still looking sexy. I choose a soft, pale-pink sweater, dark skinny jeans, and knee-high boots with a heel. I pull my hair up into a sleek ponytail and apply a light coat of makeup. Enough to look good for them, but not too much to attract attention from other men on campus. I’m walking more than one tightrope here, but after last night, I need to learn how to balance better.
Martin smiles at me as I descend the steps, nodding in approval. I look around and realize the house is a mess. It’s obvious poor Ms. Crane will have her work cut out for her today, and I resolve to offer her my help—not because it’s my job, but just because it’s the right thing to do.
With a steeling breath, I decide to stop by the dining room on the way to the kitchen. “Good morning,” I greet the boys. “I see everyone survived the party.”
Even looking at him makes my heart bang wildly against my chest, but I force myself to do it, to face him. Killian looks the same as always, blank-faced and impassive. He’s staring at his phone, fork in hand, and he doesn’t even bother acknowledging me. Part of me wishes he would—that he’d look and see how much he hurt me, and that he’d be surprised. That he’d feel sorry. A bigger part of me knows he never would. If anything, seeing my bruises would probably just make him happy. This indifference—pretending like last night never even happened—is most likely the best I could have hoped for.
Business as usual.
I do notice that he doesn’t seem as tense and hostile. He chews slowly, and the constant knot that’s been in the back of his jaw has magically eased.
I shift my attention to Rath. Unlike Killian, he at least gives me a small nod, even if it’s curt and served with a cutting glance. He’s obviously still holding his grudge. I can’t afford to have b
oth of them hating me like this. I’m going to need to repair our rift soon. I just need to figure out how.
Tristian, on the other hand, greets me like a queen, smiling warmly. “Good morning, Sweet Cherry. You’re looking fine today.”
“Thank you.” Although my entire body aches, I force a smile in return. “I wanted to see if you needed anything before I get my breakfast.”
Tristian makes a pensive sound, pushing his chair out a bit. “Just one thing,” he replies, patting his knee.
It takes every ounce of willpower to not roll my eyes as I wedge myself between him and the table, perching on his lap. The thing that’s getting difficult about Tristian is that his touches aren’t mean like Killian’s, and they’re not greedy, like Rath's.
Tristian gently gathers the hair from my neck, sweeping it back. I know the instant his lips touch my neck exactly what he’s kissing—the hickey he’d left there last night. My face heats at the memory of asking him, of taking my pleasure from him, of the way he kissed me so sweetly, his fingers working their magic on me.
He hums into the mark he left. “You smell nice. Too bad these two pissy fuckers are too stubborn to enjoy it. Oh well.” Arm winding around my middle, he whispers into my ear, “More for me.”
I see the way Rath’s looking at him over my shoulder, eyes flashing sharply. It’d be silly to call it jealousy. But it’s…something.
Something he wants.
Play the game, I remind myself, turning my head to catch his mouth in a kiss. Tristian makes a surprised sound—surprised, but pleased—and cradles my jaw as he licks into my mouth. His other arm pulls me closer, fingers dipping under the bottom of my sweater to tease the bruised skin there. The sound I make—a soft, quiet moan—is only half fake. The other half is pretty sure I feel Tristian thickening against my bottom.
Bang.
I jolt at the sound, whipping my head around to find Killian glaring at us.
His hand is still fisted on the table from where it must have landed. “We’re trying to eat,” he sneers, and that knot in the back of his jaw makes another appearance.
Swallowing, I grab Tristian’s glass. “Why don’t I get you some more juice?”
When I stand, his hand possessively runs down my backside. There’s no reason he couldn’t pour the drink himself, but every interaction is to make a point. I understand that now.
“Anything else?” I ask. Tristian watches me closely, like he’s considering asking for a lap dance but he shakes his head. I wait for a beat to see if the other two will give me a little—something—but they don’t. Tristian gives me a small, encouraging smile, and I head to the kitchen to get my own plate.
The ride to school isn’t any more pleasant. They fall into a conversation about the game the next day, excluding me from the discussion. Once again, I’m accosted by their strong scents—particularly Killian’s. Every morning I wake up to that overpowering scent of soap and body wash. It’s everywhere. He’s everywhere. I close my eyes and see him naked on top of me. I taste him in my mouth, I feel his elbows and knees pinning me down. Somehow, I manage not to have a panic attack. I just take deep breaths and focus out the window, reminding myself that I knew what I was doing when I took this job.
“I won’t be done until late. Coach is focused on the game and doesn’t want us out partying, so he’s making us watch film,” Killian says. He tosses the keys to Tristian, who catches them mid-air. “You guys can drive home.”
He spins and walks off. Rath watches him go and then shifts his eyes to me, then to Tristian. “Did I miss something? He never lets you drive his truck.”
“Guess he’s having a good day,” Tristian says, shrugging.
“Or he had a good night.” Rath pushes his hair behind his ear. “Did he turn that threesome into a foursome or something?” His eyes turn to me, assessing, suspicious.
“Yeah, maybe so.” Tristian says, perfectly aloof.
I focus on Killian’s back as he walks across campus. One of his teammates falls in step next to him and they bump fists. It’s weird to think about, this guy—this unutterably enormous, evil presence in my life—doing everyday things like having friends, going to class, and taking orders from a coach, like he’s a normal human instead of…
Well.
Killian.
Rath scoffs. “Whatever. I’ve got a packed schedule. I’ve booked the studio for practice this afternoon, but I have to meet with a professor right before.” His expression darkens. “I’ll just meet you at home.”
He walks off and once he’s out of earshot, I turn to Tristian. “You didn’t tell him about what happened with me and Killian last night?”
He looks at me in that innately condescending way of his. “We’re close, Story, but we’re not a bunch of twelve-year-old girls. I don’t tell them everything.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Well, he’s pissed at me anyway. We had this dumb argument yesterday. I need to find a way to make it up to him.”
“Rath is an artist. He’s all about the ego. All you have to do is stroke it,” he grins, throwing me a sleazy wink, “nice and slow.”
I pull a face, “I’m starting to think your answer for everything is sex.”
“You think it’s not?” he asks incredulously.
“Maybe Rath just needs something else,” I say vaguely, fully aware that I’m not supposed to reveal that he’s struggling with his reading. “Something personal.”
“Believe what you want, Sweet Cherry, but I’m going with sex. Look at Killian,” he says, gesturing to where he’s disappeared. “He certainly seems a lot better after busting a nut, don’t you think?”
I give him a hard look. “I’m glad one of us does, because I look—and feel—like a fucking punching bag today.”
Tristian frowns. “We should get you some pain reliever. Maybe some time in the hot tub, relax those muscles a bit.”
I shake my head, changing the subject, “Plus, I’m pretty sure that was about power, not sex.”
“They go hand in hand.” He gives me a sideways glance as we start across campus. His hand slides behind my back, looping around my waist. “Part of your problem is that you haven’t embraced your sex appeal. Once you get rid of that pesky virginity, I think you’ll see things differently.”
What Tristian doesn’t understand is that my virginity is the only thing that gives me power with the men in my life. They’re just too dumb to know it, too led around by their dicks to see things clearly.
“Do you want me to bring you lunch today?” I ask, coming to a stop at the front steps of the business school. “Or, I could—um, meet you somewhere?”
His eyebrow raises. “Look at you—taking initiative.”
Shrugging, I offer, “I figured after last night, I owe you.”
It’s a lie.
Obviously, I will owe him. I’m not stupid. The Lords aren’t here to give me pleasure, and Tristian got me off without—as he so eloquently put it—‘busting a nut’. That means I have a debt.
But mostly, I’m thinking of last night and how good it felt to have one perfect moment of bliss without it being all wrapped up in how someone’s hurting me in the process. It’s dangerous, I know. That’s something I could get lost in—addicted to—if I’m not careful.
“Not today,” he says.
“No?”
“I have a lunch date,” he explains, blue eyes sparkling. “Or rather, two.”
Before I can ask who he’s meeting, he cups my neck and bends, kissing me softly, slowly, tongue teasing mine. Despite knowing this is all part of his game, it still makes my knees feel weak. “Don’t worry,” he says, pulling away with a smirk. “I’ll figure out a way for you to repay me soon.”
He releases me and jogs up the stairs. My lips tingle from the kiss and my heart pounds, the twist of confusion building inside. The tightrope I’m walking is narrow and thin. I know that Tristian’s goal is to fuck with my head, that he’s probably just lulling me into trusting him. My new goal is to conv
ince them that I’m compliant. That I’m theirs. That they have me under their control.
But sometimes, when he kisses me like that, it makes it hard to know who’s controlling whom.
17
Rath
“Dammit,” I mutter, slamming my hands down on the keys. The sound that comes from the piano vibrates in my chest. Thankfully, the room is soundproofed and I’m alone. No one else can hear that I’ve fucked up for the third time in a row. I know the song by heart, every keystroke, every note, but I keep losing focus in the middle.
I take a deep breath and position my fingers, preparing myself for another run through. Annoyingly, my concentration is instantly destroyed by the buzz of my phone. It’s the GPS, followed by a text notification.
Story arrived at Meyers Hall.
Story left Meyers Hall.
Story: Checking in.
Story arrived at the Union.
Story, Story, Story.
Growling, I toss the phone aside. “Christ on a goddamn cracker, you two.”
I’m not like the other guys. I don’t have to control every moment of our Lady’s life. Unlike Tristian, who will blow a fucking gasket if she’s a minute late, or Killian, who’ll freak out if she so much as looks at another guy. Story is a grown ass woman. I’m not here to babysit her. For me, she’s more like a box of wonders. Open her up and see all the surprises inside. She may be crying on the outside, but she’s hot and fiery beneath the surface. She’s like one of those songs that starts off easy and simple, then as each instrument joins in and the notes all join together, you realize you’re dealing with something much more complex. Something deeper.
That’s Story Austin. At least, to me.
Something definitely went down between her and Killian last night, although no one is talking about it. I saw the guarded look in her eye this morning, the slight limp in her walk. Killian was in far too good a mood. Only one thing makes him happy: inflicting pain.