novelxo Dukes of Madness: Chapter 30
Not to sound like a martyr, but getting hurt is part of being a Lucia. Physical, emotional, spiritual… nothing was off-limits. We were tested, broken down, built back up, and taken apart again.
I survived my father.
I survived Nick Bruin.
I will survive the pain inflicted on me by Simon Perilini, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Part of it was my fault, anyway. There’s a word for it, buried deep in Sy’s textbooks. Transference: attaching romantic feelings to a person in a protector role.
Sy saved me from the box. Protected me from my father. It’s natural I’d develop some kind of feelings for him even if it is illogical. Transference. It’s the only thing I can think of that would have caused the reaction I had after he hurt me. The way I’d cried, torn up and bloody, in the bathroom while Verity helped me. While I allowed her to help me. That’s how bad it was.
Nick’s waiting outside when Verity pulls her car to the curb.
The clock on her dash tells me it’s just after three in the morning, and I clutch the bag in my hand before turning to thank her.
Before I can, she shakes her head. “Don’t mention it.” Her gaze dips to the bag. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah.” The twenty-four-hour clinic she took me to is a no-questions asked kind of place, but I told them the truth: that my partner is well endowed and too much for me to handle. The doctor sent me away with a packet of Epsom salt and instructions for warm baths, ice packs, and a sample bottle of lube. “It’s your friend,” she said, pushing it into my hand. “Use liberally.”
“No, I mean—that’s good, but what about…?” Verity tilts her chin toward where Nick is approaching the car. I texted him ten minutes ago, letting him know we were on our way.
I give her a smile that feels tired and worn. “Nick’s fine. We’ve sort of… hashed things out.”
She looks relieved, but he’s at my door then, swinging it open for me. Ducking down, he looks between us, asking, “All good?”
Verity and I share a quick look at the stilted, awkward way the question emerges. “Call if you need anything,” she says as I step out.
Nick reaches the tower doors, holding them open for me. Ignoring the look I send him, he asks, “Are you going to be able to… take the stairs?”
I roll my eyes. “My pussy might be a little broken, but my legs work fine.”
He even has the good grace not to say I told you so when I end up taking the climb slowly, wincing at the rub between my legs. By the time we get to the top, I begin wondering if it wouldn’t have been better to just take the elevator. Sure, I would have had a panic attack, probably passed out, but still.
Ouch.
In the bathroom, I toss the bag in the bathroom drawer under my tampons and curling iron, and go through the motions of getting ready for bed. When I look in the mirror, I put on a brave face like I’m not embarrassed, hurt, humiliated. The suspicion still lingers, though.
What if Sy isn’t the freak? What if it’s me? Could a girl like Haley take him? Or one of the other cutsluts? Would they cry in the bathroom afterwards, like big fucking babies about it?
When I emerge from the bathroom, Nick is waiting, having already kicked off his shoes and shucked off his shirt. “Sy left,” he says, one hand propped on the doorjamb, blocking the doorway. “You could come to bed with me.”
The bare expanse of his chest looms in front of me, muscular and covered in ink. I stare at it, mesmerized. “To… sleep?” I clarify.
He leans back, eyebrows knitting together. “Christ, it’s not like I’m going to try anything.” Shoving his fists into his pockets, he turns away. “Forget it. Just don’t go to Remy. He’s all hopped up on that shit tonight.”
I could sleep in Sy’s bed. It’s not like I’m afraid of him, I’m just…
Disappointed, maybe.
Disappointed and lost, because I’ve fallen into this habit. When we get hurt, Sy and I go to each other. He doesn’t always make it better. Sometimes he doesn’t even care. But that’s how I know it’s okay. At some point, I came to accept that me and Sy are each other’s medics, and I can’t shake the phantom urge to go to him, because I’m used to hurting. I am. But being with Sy taught me that hurting is better—just a little—when you’re not alone.
Before Nick gets too far, I break. “Wait.” He stops, the muscles in his back flexing as he twists, raising an eyebrow at me. “Okay,” I decide, turning off the bathroom light before following him into his bedroom.
I step over the threshold slowly, not having been in here since the day I took back Leticia’s old cigar box. It’s messier than I’ve ever seen it, clothes and books scattered around, but not dirty. Just lived-in. Nick’s smell is concentrated in the air and I breathe it in, wondering what feeling it will elicit.
Dread? Fear? Comfort?
The answer is an odd, simmering eagerness that doesn’t lessen any when he unzips his fly, pushing his jeans down his hips. I look away, belly fluttering as I enter. “Do you have a sh—”
Wordlessly, Nick reaches to his bed and plucks up a shirt, extending it to me.
I recognize it as the one he was wearing earlier.
I change with my back turned, leaving my bra on as I pull his shirt over his head. It’s large and soft, imbued with the same scent of his room, but cleaner, more soothing. Stepping out of my skirt next, I turn, hands wringing, as I watch Nick close the door.
“Leave it cracked?” I ask, pulling the hem of the shirt lower. “For Archie?” But then I get a glance at the door—the back of it—and shuffle forward to see. “What the fuck?”
Painted on the back of Nick’s door is a girl. Blue hair. Black eyes. There are snakes in her hair, like Medusa, but they’re curled on each side of her head like demon horns.
She’s holding a skull.
No.
I’m holding a skull.
Nick scoffs, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. He’s been working on this shit for days. Don’t freak out if you wake up at five in the morning and see him standing there.”
It’s disconcerting, but I can’t really pinpoint why. Remy has drawn me before, and some of them were gory, disturbing, but for some reason, this one makes me shiver. I get this impulse to ask Nick if this is what I look like, even though that’d be stupid. It’s stylized, not exactly super realistic.
It just bothers me.
When I turn back, Nick’s climbing into bed, leaving a vacant space for me at his side. Giving the demon-snake girl one last look, I turn off the light and join him, easing myself onto the mattress, inching between the sheets.
We lie there on our back for a long stretch, silent. It’s hard not to remember the last time I was in this bed, tied down, crying my soul all over the sheets. It makes me feel tense and too alert, the smallest rustle from the other side of the bed resulting in a flinch.
Nick finally sighs. “You don’t have to sleep here.”
“I know.”
There’s another rustle, and then he stills, voice low and defeated. “You’re never going to forgive me, are you?”
Turning, I struggle to make out his expression in the darkness. The arm closest to me is wedged behind his head and he’s staring up into the darkness, unmoving. I’ve only slept with Nick a few times—enough to know this stiffness isn’t usual.
I answer honestly. “I don’t know.” Half of me feels like it could, but the other half is still terrified to trust him. Will this new attitude of his hold forever? Or is the person who hurt me so callously, so selfishly, still in there? “I know that you’re trying,” I offer, needing him to know this much.
Nick and I have always had this balance between us, and it turns much like the cogs in the clock upstairs, always revolving.
You hurt me, I hurt you.
But maybe that can extend to more than the miseries we pass back and forth like currency—debts and payments.
Maybe I can try a little, too.
Nick’s the one to flinch this time, his body jolting in surprise when I press against him, resting my cheek on his chest. He’s warm and hard and solid—sturdy like his brother. My knees bump up against his leg, and reluctantly, I thread my leg through his, the rough hair covering his shins scratching against my calf.
The muscles under my cheek shift when he repositions his arm, pulling it from beneath his head to curl around my shoulders. It’s a slow, testing touch, as if he’s expecting me to react badly. When I don’t, burrowing in against his side, he curls his fingers around my upper arm, palm dragging against the skin with a light caress.
I don’t see him turn, pressing his lips to my forehead, but I feel it—the pressure, the warmth, the expansion of his chest when he lingers, inhaling the scent of my hair.
When he sighs, his body goes lax against me, muscles dropping their tension.
Sleep comes more easily than I’m expecting.
I don’t find the journal until after we return from our classes, strung out on a lack of sleep. Nick tells me his Dad called to say Sy’s moved back home for a bit, to ‘get his head on straight.’ I don’t know exactly what it means, but I’m fine with a little space. I’m not sure how I feel about Sy right now or how I’ll feel when he returns. I’m too busy trying to heal my body from feeling like I got rammed by a freight train.
But when I enter his room to collect some clothes for a shower, I find it there, sitting on my pillow.
The forbidden fruit.
I stare at it for a long time, gnawing my thumbnail as I consider it. I’ve watched Sy write in it for weeks now, desperate for any little peek, and now it’s just… there.
An offering.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I pull it into my lap, rubbing my thumb over the worn leather. It feels wrong, like a violation, to open the cover.
Simon Perilini, it reads. A study in human behavior.
Turning the page, I’m greeted with a crudely drawn color wheel. Green, red, blue, orange, yellow, black. In each slice of the wheel are words. Red is violence, energy, chaos, overwhelming. Yellow is grief, sadness, pain (emotional), death. Blue is calm, comfort, trust, goodness. Orange is betrayal, lies, deception. Purple is lust, but there’s a note beside it: Pain (physical)? Green is sickness, white is healthy, renewal, clarity. And black…
Regret, reprisal.
Black means sorry.
This is Remy—his code, his colors. Straightening, I turn to the next page, titled ‘Head Check’, which features the one-to-ten scale Remy told me about my first night back. Flipping through them, I realize this is all about Remy. Toward the back, on a page dated three months ago is this entry:
R: Cycling since Wednesday. Refuses medications. Extreme aversion to yellow today. Sensory issue? Subject isn’t forthcoming.
All of them are like that.
Or at least they were.
Until September 27th.
L: Dehydrated following prolonged confinement. Exhibits dissociation. Subject is only sporadically alert. Injuries include—
I flip the page, seeing the one dated two days later.
L: Subject is more alert today. Sleep is improving. I’ve been rolling her to her side at night, as the supine position appears to make her most susceptible to sleep paralysis. Doesn’t voice an appetite, but eats when prompted. Expresses a deep concern for her stupid fucking asshole cat, who I did feed.
The laugh escapes unexpectedly and I fold my legs beneath me, ravenous to absorb it all—every word. It’s thick, dated all the way back to two years ago, but it’d only take me one night to get through it, flying through the pages, soaking every pen stroke into my mind.
Closing the journal, I tuck it under the pillow.
This isn’t something I want to inhale in one breath. I want to savor it, give each page the thought it deserves. Still, it’s hard to grab my clothes and leave it there, a treasure trove of insight into not just Remy, but Sy himself.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I’ll read another page.
Probation keeps us home for Friday Night Fury, but from the way Verity tells it over the phone, that’s for the best.
Bruce lost to Lars, one of the only two Counts left. The frat is probably fucking losing it. There’ll be no victory party tonight. No celebration. No victor. No spoils. It’s the first fight of the academic year in which DKS hasn’t won the main match of the night, and if I had to guess, my father is insanely pleased.
Annoyed at the thought, I spend a couple hours up in the clock tower, trying to figure out what I’m missing, why I can’t get this fucking prehistoric beast to work. I’ve worked and reworked it, but I can’t get the mechanism to catch, and it’s not helping my mood.
The only thing that does is reading another page.
This one is from a year ago.
R: Low appetite. Not well-rested. Subject is quick to temper today, but I disagree with the diagnosis of a mood disorder. Painting with a lot of orange following a session with his doctor. I suspect someone has lied to him, but he’s not speaking about it. Probably his dad. R has always displayed a deep resentment for dishonesty. He frames this as a disloyalty, but from my own observation, it’s more of a phobia toward abductive reasoning. R is prone to catastrophization and delusion. Without all the facts, his mind reaches to fill in the details, which will often be negative and grandiose. Keeping an eye on him today.
The entry I read on Saturday, curled up on Sy’s bed following a jog alone through West End, is from nine months ago:
R: Sleep deprived. Absent of appetite, but active. Subject is seeking stimulants again. Intercourse with multiple women over the week and an increased desire to train with me. I suspect he’s chasing endorphins, which would explain the tattoo piece he’s started on his ribs. The chosen design (clown smoking a blunt) has no emotional or creative significance.
There’s a sentence scribbled out, and then:
Subject would fuck anything on legs. Note to buy him more rubbers.
Monday’s entry, from a month after the last one, is somehow even bleaker:
R: Subject is in a depressive state and not attending class. Ignoring my texts and has locked his door, resulting in a visit to his RA around noon. R is beginning to smell and hasn’t showered in days. No fresh canvases in his studio. If following his usual pattern, I expect him to worsen over the next few days. Will observe him for more overt displays of self-harm.
Solemnly, I put the journal away and give in to the impulse to seek him out.
We sit together up in the belfry that evening, just as the sun is slumping toward the horizon.
He’s animated as he points out each section of Forsyth, unable to sit still. “I know Sy’s over there.” He points to a spot that would be close to his parents’ neighborhood.
“How?”
“It’s shrouded in black.”
I stare out over the city, wondering if it can ever be that easy.
Tuesday’s entry is a little more positive, and I read it up in my loft after spending the day turning it into a more comfortable reading nook:
R: Subject is in good spirits following a new medication. Well-rested. Appears to be eating well. Active. We lifted weights at the gym together. He doesn’t seem to be chasing. Competitive but not aggressive (any more than usual). We had a discussion about his dad, who’s been attempting increased involvement in his medical and academic care. Always happens around this time of the year.
Wednesday, I flip to the back of the journal, hoping for something a little more recent, and pause on this:
R: Subject on a roller coaster of emotions, but for once it’s not connected to his chemical imbalance. N returned home. Surprised both of us. Not just for a visit. He wants to come back for good, reclaim his title and join R and I in the tower next year. I was already apprehensive about the long-term effects of this change for R. It’s going to involve a move, an elevated position of power, and attention—all of which could trigger delusions of grandeur. The addition of N, who has erratic, deceptive, and aggressive behaviors, could cause even more extreme conflict. But N also understands R. He allowed the subject to tattoo his forearm—solid black—a sign of trust and apology. Will keep a close eye on the dynamics.
I read that one twice, aware that the following pages will inevitably involve me. Finding out what Sy thinks is something I’ve wanted for a while, but the thought of really knowing makes my heart pound anxiously. I shove the notebook under the mattress Ballsack and his boys hauled up the elevator for my loft.
I hold off as long as I can, but Thursday, I’m sprinting up to my loft, digging the journal from beneath the mattress, and flipping the page, breath caught in my throat.
This one has three entries.
R: As predicted, N’s arrival has thrown the house into complete upheaval, and along with it, the subject’s stability. Color talk. Erratic mood swings. Hyper sexuality. Chasing. Obsessive drawing—all centered around one image: the girl. After last night, I don’t see this ending positively. For any of us.
N: Already conflicting with authority. Doesn’t like Saul’s attitude. Inexplicably eager for his initiation fight. Moved into his room with nothing but a trash bag half-full of clothes. Secretive.
L: She stayed so still at the end. Uncertain why.
Remy has been withdrawn and aimless all week, starting and stopping projects. He keeps playing what I now think of as his erratic music, and I’m starting to appreciate how well Sy handled his mood swings because I’m at a loss. Do I give him space, or do I nag him into okayness?
On Thursday, I plan to ask Nick his opinion, but pause when I find him arranging weapons on the kitchen table.
“Did I miss something?” I ask, eyeing the guns and knives, all sorted into neat rows. “You didn’t kill someone else, did you?”
I’m only half-joking.
“Just taking inventory,” he says, grabbing a rag and wiping down some pieces. He’s wearing a plain white undershirt that’s tight in the shoulders, muscles shifting under the fabric as his hand scrubs the metal. “Cleaning what needs it. Seeing what Sy took with him.” It’s the first time Nick’s mentioned Sy since his brother walked out, and I watch him closely, trying to decipher the blankness in his expression. But all I get is his turning to call out, “Remy, bring me your heat!”
At first, I’m pretty sure Remy’s going to ignore the request—he didn’t answer when I knocked this afternoon—but sure enough, he emerges, carrying a sheathed knife and two pistols. Carefully, he rests them next to the others, reaching up to rub his nose.
“This everything?”
I gawk at him.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. There are these tiny capillaries around his irises which are blown out, and it makes him look like he’s been crying.
But I know better.
Nick hums, jerking his chin at me. “Bring me yours—the knife, too.” Before I get more than three steps away, he adds, “And bring me that revolver. You know where it is.”
My stomach churns as I think about it, and even worse when I actually retrieve it from the top drawer of Nick’s dresser. I hold the weight of it in my hand, only now noticing the intricately etched letter ‘B’ on the barrel.
I return with my pistol, the revolver, and the knife I’d stolen from under Nick’s pillow weeks ago, setting them on the table with the others. “I know you’re the Dukes and all, and it’s kind of your thing.” I say, sliding up to perch on the tabletop. “But this feels like a bit much.”
There are eleven guns and five knives, of varying caliber and length, but one stands out among the sleek, modern Glocks.
“What’s this?” Remy reaches for the revolver and Nick and I share a look. We’ve been inching around the tornado that is Remington Maddox for days now, and I’m not sure how much longer we can avoid the wind.
I know he plans to lie before Nick’s mouth even opens. “It’s something I got from—”
I cut in, “He got it from the Baron King.” Nick swings a hard, sharp gaze on me, but I just shake my head. After reading those journal entries on Remy, I think I’m beginning to understand a little better. “It’s how we got Leticia’s skull. We didn’t tell you because we knew we couldn’t get any more information out of them without putting one or all of us at risk.”
Remy stares at me, his pupils blown and dark as he holds the revolver. “You went to see the Barons?” Rubbing his nose again, he turns to Nick. “Alone? Just the two of you?”
Nick sighs, straddling a chair and picking up a pistol. “We just needed to know for sure if Leticia was dead or not. The Barons were the obvious place to look.”
“How?” he asks, wild eyes moving between us. “The Barons don’t give up information like that. Not for you. Not for anyone. Remember three years ago? The Prince who went missing? Even Ashby couldn’t get anything out of them, and he’s a King.”
“Remy,” I sigh, reaching out to grab his shirt. I pull him between my legs, framing his face with my hands. Even like this—even close enough to look me in the eye—his gaze is still jumping around: my nose, my hair, my cheek, my mouth. “It’s not important.”
He jolts back, face contorting. “Don’t tell me what is and isn’t important. We’ve got enough shit going down here without some fucking debt to the Barons hanging over our heads.”
“There’s no debt,” Nick says, standing to fix Remy with a hard stare. “The Dukes and the Barons are square, but we won’t be if you go poking around, asking more questions. That’s why we’re keeping this under wraps. It’s nothing bad.”
I know the last three words are a lie, but Nick believes it, so it comes out sincere—a touch irritated.
After a moment of watching us, Remy looks down to run his fingers along the engraving on the barrel. On a good day, it’s impossible to know what’s going through Remy’s head.
Today is not a good day.
The silence stretches on, his green eyes fixed to the ‘B’. “It’s a nice piece. What? Twenty? Thirty years old? You can tell from the grip design.” He studies it carefully, getting that bothered, faraway look I’ve seen too much of in the last week. “Why would he give you something like this?”
I know I shouldn’t, but I look at Nick. His expression gives nothing away—as usual—but he raises an eyebrow and says, “The simple answer is that the Baron is batshit crazy, and no one knows why the fuck he does anything, but the real one is that apparently that gun belonged to the Dukes. My dad specifically. I guess he was feeling generous.”
Remy takes a deep breath, nostrils flared wide as he raises his gaze to us. “Let me get this straight. You got this gun,” he lifts it, pulling the hammer with his thumb, “and Leticia’s skull from the King of the Barons, for an undisclosed price?”
“Don’t get your fucking jock in a twist over this,” Nick snaps, shoulders tensing. “You’ve been bouncing around here like a meth-addled kangaroo. If you could stay sober for a few weeks, then maybe we’d be a little more fucking forthcoming.”
Before the simmering anger in his eyes can burn hot enough to get physical, I pull him back to me, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Remy, please. Trust us, okay? It was nothing.” Lower, I stress, “Nothing.”
Slowly, he places the revolver back on the table, his jaw suddenly tight. There’s a coldness to his eyes that I never like to see, and when Nick asks, “Dude, what?” he just shrugs.
“Nothing.”
As he’s storming away, Nick gives my shoulder a hard shove, hissing, “Good fucking going!”
I shove him back twice as hard. “He’s all over the place! Do you really want to risk messing with his head more?”
Unaffected, Nick stares through the sight of the revolver, eye lined up with the empty barrel. “Tomorrow is his Friday Night Fury, and he’ll finally fight some of this fucking energy off. He’s just anxious with Sy gone this long.”
Deflating, I wonder, “Are you?”
Nick spins the chamber, snapping it shut, and shifts his gaze to mine. “I think my brother belongs in the tower, if that’s what you’re asking.” He wipes his hands on the cloth. “But I also think he needed some time to cool off. He’ll be back when he’s ready to face his shit.”
“How do you know?”
He walks around the table until he’s in front of me, fixing me with a long, burning stare. When his hand slides around the back of my neck, pulling my face to his, I don’t resist, spreading my thighs to let him in close. “Because he’s hooked on you as much as the rest of us, Little Bird. He fucked up, and this may be hard to believe, but sometimes it takes the Perilini-Bruin men a hot minute to realize it.” Nick’s eyes drop to my mouth. He tilts his head before tipping forward, pausing just before our lips meet to hold my eye. It’s a new thing with him, ever since that night we slept in his bed together. If he wants to kiss me, he’ll shoot his shot, but he always gives me the chance to back away or lean in.
Right now, I lean in, eyes sliding closed.
I don’t regret it.
The kiss is slick and slow, his tongue licking my lips apart as I grasp his sides, feeling the warmth and strength of him.
Since three nights of sleeping beside him was enough to test my resolve, I haven’t been to his bed since Saturday, nervous of how something like that might work once I’m… healed. Will he demand more? Will the bulge I wake up to being poked in the back with become my responsibility?
He releases me, slow and easy, reaching up to touch my bottom lip. I know logically things are a fucking mess, but looking at Nick right now, I wouldn’t know it. He’s got this lazy, indulgent grin on his face, so close to looking like the younger version of himself I’d seen in that photo that it makes something in my gut melt into liquid heat.
“Go check on Remy while I get all these pieces cleaned,” he says, sighing. “It’s best if he doesn’t start to ruminate.”
I find him twenty minutes later.
He’s sitting with his back against the stone, one leg kicked out toward the ledge while the other is bent, the leg of his jeans pulled up to reveal his pale knee. It takes me a long moment to figure out what he’s doing, his spine a curve as he looks down at his knee, hand moving in a strange rhythm.
Then I see the needle.
“What are you doing?”
His rhythm never falters, the long, straight needle going into his flesh, over and over. “Spider web.”
Gawking, I clarify, “What is that?”
He pauses to dip it into a tiny bottle of ink near his hip. “Needle.”
“I know it’s a—” Regrouping, I try a different question. “Why are you using that instead of your gun?”
It looks gruesome and crude, and from the stories he’s told me, a lot like what I imagined his tattoo operation looked like in high school. Slow. Painful.
His voice is raspier than usual as he flicks his hair from his face, returning to the web. “This is a finer point.”
I wonder if he really believes that, or if it’s a lie. Either way, I’m pretty sure I know the truth. Chasing, Sy called it. Endorphins.
Carefully, I sit down beside him, wincing at the sight of the needle going into his skin. “Hey, look at me. Please?” When he does, chuffing out an annoyed breath and raising his eyes, I ask, “Head check?”
“You’re not Sy.” He scoffs, swinging his attention back to the web. “I only give Sy my numbers.”
I frown. “I told you mine. Before. When I was—”
His head snaps up. “I told you not to let him get in your head.”
“Sy?” It’s not unusual to have a conversation with Remy where I’m not following all the steps, but this seems more specific than usual.
“Not Sy.” His eyes flash. “My father.”
I frown. “I haven’t seen your father.” I think back. “I mean, not since we went to dinner with him. That’s the only time I’ve ever seen the guy.”
He looks down, visibly fuming. “Yeah, well, that’s not what he says.” The next poke of the needs goes deeper than I’m expecting, making me flinch in surprise.
Without thinking, I snatch it away, acting lightning fast as I hurl it over the edge of the belfry. “Stop fucking stabbing yourself!”
Remy reacts instantly, eyes flaring wide when his palm comes up to press against my throat. But he doesn’t squeeze—not this time. He gives me a long, boiling stare and then growls, ripping his hand away. “How the fuck do people like you sort these?” Shoving his hand into his hair, tugging at the roots, he rants, “Colors and numbers and letters—they just slither in and jerk me around, but you… you just fucking bat them away. Red, yellow, twos and threes and sevens. He puts them in here!” Remy jabs the tip of his forefinger into his temple. “And then he just walks away!”
Breathing deep, I wonder, “Are you talking about your dad?”
Frustration explodes his features, but it’s replaced with exhaustion just as quickly. “Goddamn it, this is what he does, you know?” He drags his palms down his face, and when he pulls them away, I see the dark conflict in his eyes—muddled confusion, along with dark smudges underneath. Too little sleep. Too many stimulants. The more I read, the more I realize his dopamine is fucked, and his lack of routine and sunlight is only increasing his erratic behavior. I feel his paranoia inching up and without Sy here, I’m afraid it’ll get worse.
Scared, I ask, “I don’t know, Remy, tell me. What does he do?”
He looks out over Forsyth, the sky reflected in his eyes. “He lies, Vinny. All the time, every day. Even when he’s telling the truth, he’s only telling the parts of it that help him hide something worse.” Intensely, he whispers, “His skin isn’t real. He puts it on every day, but it’s always orange and red. Sometimes I wonder if he even exists at all. Sometimes I wonder if I even exist at all. Maybe he made me like this.” His eyebrows knit tightly, face twisting. “Or maybe I died that night on the cliff and this is all just neurons firing off in a skull whose brain is rotting.”
“Hey,” I say, stomach plummeting as I rise up on my knees in front of him, forcing my way into his lap. “Don’t—don’t talk like that. This is real. Remember?” I tug down the waist of my leggings, showing him the star.
He touches it without reservation or thought, like it’s automatic to press his fingertip into the points, counting. Brows crouching low, he tugs at my shirt, and I don’t protest when he pulls it over my head. I know what he’s looking for. His touch is feather light as it grazes the line of the moth.
He blinks at me, slow and heavy, eyes so bloodshot that it makes my own sting to stare into them. “You can’t let him in, Vinny. He thinks you’re bad for me, and he’ll do whatever it takes to poison us.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I assure him, winding my arms around his neck. “I’m your Duchess.”
His eyes flutter closed, hands sliding around my waist to my backside, down the curve of my ass. “Even though Sy hurt you?”
I lean down to press a kiss to his jaw. “I’ve survived worse than Simon Perilini.”
He runs his nose along my ear, breath hot and loud. And then he pulls me closer with one arm while his other hand abruptly begins fumbling for his belt. “Let’s fuck.”
I freeze, wanting to but afraid. Every part of my body craves him just as much as it throbs for Nick and misses Sy. But the ache between my legs is still there, and as much as I trust Remy—and I do—he’s too erratic right now. I’m afraid he may get lost in the feel of it.
Placing my hand over his, I admit, “I need more time.”
He goes rigid, lips stilling against my cheek. “More time?”
“To heal.” I shift nervously. “You know, from… uh, the other night.”
“Your pretty pussy.” A shudder runs through him. I’m expecting the kiss, but I’m not expecting the frisson of energy behind it. His fingers clawing painfully into my ass as he grinds into me. “I bet it looked just like the first time, didn’t it? Blood and blue. Cyanine blue.”
I did some research after reading Sy’s color chart. Blue means trustworthy, calm. Cyanine is a specific type of color pigment used in painting. His thumb rubs against my star, and I take it for good sign. Remy wants to be grounded, to have faith in me, to trust me, and I can be his calm if he’ll let me. If he can’t count on his father or even Sy right now, he can count on me.
Remy needs endorphins.
Those, I can give.
I reach down to wedge a hand between us, squeezing his length. “I can still make you feel good. I can still be… blue?”
He peers at me through dark, glazed eyes, breathing, “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about your mouth, Vinny.” When he presses two fingers to my lips, he barely gives me the chance to let him in before sliding them past my teeth, pressing into my tongue. “You sucked my cock so good before. So sweet and purple.”
Before I even have a chance to parse that, he’s lifting me up, shooting to his feet. Eager fingers fumble for his belt again, but I press against him and ease his shirt up first. I push up the hem until my hands meet his and he yanks it over his head. My lips press against the hard muscle of his chest, along the tattoos and smooth skin. I suck his nipple, then blow air across the tip to watch it pebble.
His hands blaze a frantic trail over my skin, running up and down my arms, my back, under my shirt. I kiss down his lean belly as I descend, running my fingers through the soft hair that vanishes beneath his waistband. I taste his skin, the inked flesh, sensitive and warm. His belly dips, and I make quick work of his belt, the metal hitting the stone wall before I unbutton his fly.
It’s no surprise Remy’s not wearing shorts, his cock springing out the instant I lower his pants. I reach for him, running my hand down his length, feeling along the curve that’s sent pangs of pleasure through my core. His hand moves to the back of my head, shifts, his long fingers threading through my hair. His grip is tight, sure, and I let him pull my mouth closer, face tipped up to watch him.
“Suck it, Vin,” he says, thumbing my bottom lip while guiding the tip of his cock inside.
The first taste is sharp and salty, the warmth surprising against the heat of my mouth. I take my time licking the shaft. It’s not a tease. It’s just like the kiss I’d given Nick earlier. Slow. Sensual. Imbued with things I’m not prepared to say.
Groaning in frustration, Remy yanks me by the hair and directs me to the head of his cock before pushing between my lips, thrusting so deep that I nearly choke. Noticing my reaction, he tightens his grip. “Can’t you take it? You took Sy and now he’s inside you. He did, right? He came inside your pussy?”
I struggle to nod and he makes a sound—low and hungry in the back of his throat. His pace shifts, as does my own, Remy’s hips bucking—fucking—into my face. It’s only briefly I can catch sight of his expression, but every time I do it’s stony and tight, lined with some unspeakable agony.
His hands grab my head like a basketball, fingers tangled in my hair as he drives his cock in and out. I’d like to say it’s not a good feeling, this sense that I’m being mindlessly used, but it’d be a lie.
Heat builds between my legs, and I squirm.
“You won’t let me fuck the red back into you,” he pants, pulling me off his cock just far enough that I can look into his eyes. “But you can touch yourself. I know you can.”
I shake my head, mouth full of cock. This is about him, not me, but he strokes his thumbs over my cheek, gentle and soft, saying, “Do it, Vin. Don’t make me fall without you, baby.”
Face searing hot, I slide my hand down the front of my leggings, to the wet heat building between my legs. I tentatively brush over my clit for the first time in a week and exhale sharply when I feel the spark of arousal, relieved that it feels good.
That I’m not completely broken.
“That’s right,” he says when I find my rhythm, fingers gentle but sure. He lets me take the lead, leaning back and watching, eyes heavy, jaw slack. With the evening sun catching on his white hair, sending it ablaze in the dusk, he looks like a beautiful ghoul, pale and covered in ink that might as well be tendrils of smoke creeping up his chest.
My heart twists when I see him like this, the torment carved into the lines of his face as if he’s the tragic marble statue of some crumbling civilization.
It doesn’t take long, but I never expected it to.
My orgasm comes in a rush and he pulls me closer, nudging the back of my tongue as I shudder and cry, chasing the pleasure just as much as he is. I feel his cock thicken, and then hear his hitched inhale, his hands cupping my cheeks to still me. Our eyes lock together as he holds me in place to accept his release, his cock giving a strong pulse.
Warm, salty cum floods my tongue and I knee myself closer, ravenous to take it all—every drop—as if I could pull the sickness out of him and neutralize it with my blue.
He eases me off his spent cock, but doesn’t let my face go—not until I swallow, throat bobbing as he watches. When two of his fingers jab at my mouth, I open for him, and it’s just like mornings when I watch him take his pills.
“That’s my girl,” he says, eyes distant and dazed as he pushes his fingers against his tongue. “My good girl…”
I’d love to say that it soothed the edge off of him, but the frenetic vibe still hums beneath the surface. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from reading Sy’s journals is that it won’t last. The question is what will the fallout be when it finally happens.
I know how to find out.