Lords of Mercy: Royals of Forsyth U (Royals of Forsyth University Book 3)

I don’t know what it is about Genevieve Carter that turns Tristian from a charming, handsome suitor to a callous, chilling man, but that’s what she does. I try not to be hurt by the abrupt way he dismissed me, or by how he reacted to his ex-girlfriend being at the party, but Tristian’s hang-ups when it comes to her make something inside me bristle and boil. She cheated on him, humiliated him, and slashed at his unwavering narcissism. And she still gets to him, even after all this time. Gen was the catalyst to him assaulting me that night in the laundry room. No matter what else changes in our life, Gen and that night—those ten minutes of complete cruelty and debasement—still stand between us.

I knew coming here was a bad idea. Everything about this party is above me. The successful people, the magnificent estate, the glitz and glam, the dresses and decoration… hell, the cost of catering alone could probably cover a semester’s tuition at Forsyth. Even Daniel’s lifestyle is a fraction of the Mercers’, and I’m not technically even a Payne. I’m the daughter of a sex worker who’s currently in a contract to serve three men. No wonder Tristian sent me to the kitchen with the staff. That’s the kind of place I belong.

The least I can do is make good on Tristian’s promise to the girls. If anyone deserves something sweet, it’s those two. But I don’t make it to the kitchen. Instead, I grab the arm of a waiter and tell him exactly what I need. “Chocolate. Cookies. Ice cream. Sweets. Whatever you’ve got. Please have Benedict send it up to the twins’ room.”

His eyes sweep over me, but I must look authoritative enough, because he nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

Now that I’ve accomplished that, I do the exact thing I shouldn’t.

I go looking for Tristian.

Whatever is happening with his parents and Genevieve, it involves me, and I’m not about to get blindsided. I spot the top of his blond hair as he turns down a hallway. Due to the congestion in the room, and a woman stopping me to ask where I got my shoes, by the time I break free from the party and head down the hall, I barely see the dark wood door swing shut—not quite latching.

There’s no mistaking as I approach the door that I’ve found Tristian and his parents. His father’s voice carries into the hall.

“The simple fact that I understand what it’s like to be a Lord is why I’ve allowed this to go so far. The parties and excess—including exploits with the Lady—are part of this phase of your life, one I encourage, but bringing her here—”

“Her mother is a hooker, Tristian!” his mother cuts in, voice belligerent.

To his credit, Tristian argues, “She used to be a hooker, mother. And let’s be honest. It’s not the hooking part you have an issue with. Half the women in that ballroom are using sex to get ahead. You’re just looking down on Posey because she didn’t charge enough.”

There’s a brief pause, and then his mother’s hiss. “I’ve had to put on a good face because of your father’s business with Daniel Payne, but there’s no way in hell I’m allowing you to trot that girl out on that dance floor at midnight.”

“But you think Genevieve is a good choice?” Tristian says in a low snarl. “The bitch who humiliated me in front of the whole—”

His mother scoffs. “That was years ago, Tristian! You were both kids. She made a mistake, but even she realizes that it’s time to grow up, make amends, and get back to the business of building a stable future with a good partner. An appropriate partner.”

“She’s not a broodmare and I’m not your goddamn stud.” I flinch at the sharpness in his voice. “None of this is your business.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” his dad’s voice rings out. “It’s business. You have an obligation, and it’s not to South Side or Daniel Payne. You’re not a thug, Tristian. You’re a Mercer, and you’ve tarnished your reputation enough. You’re certainly not going to ruin it further by making some kind of declaration about your house girl.“ His father lets out a scornful laugh. “Everyone knows Royal women are good for two things, and both of them are located between their legs.”

Tristian snaps, “Watch what you’re saying,” and his father barrels right over him.

“I’ve allowed this spoiled, petulant, entitled behavior to go on too long. Christ, son, you were held at gunpoint!”

“And that bastard is dead,” Tristian argues. “Because of Story.”

“We can’t allow these kind of people around the twins,” his mother says, tone softer now, as if she’s begging him to understand. “You know I’m right. You’ve had your father stepping up security around them for weeks. You’re killing yourself driving over here every two days, texting them all the time. Something has you scared, and you can’t tell me she isn’t a part of it.”

This is all news to me. Tristian is scared for the twins? He’s been over here that much?

“I have it under control.” The words sound ground out through gnashed teeth, and they make my stomach sink. Because she’s right. I can hear it in his voice—can just imagine the steely shadow crossing over his face as he says the words.

He is scared for them.

I’d been fine until that point. I know what Tristian and I have. I know it runs deep, but I’m fully aware that it’s unconventional and impossible to maintain. It’s dark and dirty and sexy and depraved, and could never be explained to the likes of his mother. I light the match, and he sets the fire. He tells me to bend, and I let him push me until I’m about to break.

But there are some things he just can’t control, and the complete nightmare known as my life is one of them.

With my heart in my throat, I step away from the door, not even knowing where to go. It takes me a long moment of wandering to find the corridor we’d entered the ballroom through. On either side of me, the Christmas trees twinkle and shine, but it doesn’t penetrate—not like it had when we first arrived and I’d swelled with wonder and joy at the sight of it all. Now the blue and silver looks too cold, the lights too bright, the branches looming and greedy. I feel suddenly exposed, as if one glance could reveal me, an imposter in a pretty gown and shiny shoes.

By the time I find a bathroom to duck into, my feet hurt.

It’s a well-lit space that’s almost as big as my room at home. An enormous mirror sits above two decorative basins, and there’s a pile of elaborately embroidered hand towels stacked by each. It’s immaculately tiled—perhaps more marble—and the light fixture has crystals hanging from it. I focus on these details to slow my breathing, reaching into my small clutch to retrieve my phone.

He answers on the fourth ring.

“What happened.” It’s not a question. Killian’s just a hopeless pessimist in that way.

“He threatened them, didn’t he?” My lungs still feel constricted, but I push through an exhale, and it shudders out of me. “The twins. Ted threatened them.” There’s a long stretch of silence before Killian answers.

“Kind of.”

I blink away a sudden surge of tears, voice cracking when I say, “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Do you want to be there?” he asks. “Take away Ted and all the snobbery. Do you want to schmooze with Tris and do all that dumb ballroom dancing bullshit, ‘kissing under the mistletoe’ garbage?”

Easily, I answer, “Yes.”

“Then fuck him.” I can practically hear Killian’s dismissive shrug. “Seriously, fuck Ted and the horse he rode in on. If you want something, then you fucking take it.”

Sniffling, I add, “His parents hate me. They think I’m trash that’s going to tarnish his name.”

“Then fuck them, too.”

“Killian…” I groan, leaning against the counter. “They invited his ex to be his real date.”

This, at least, gets a rise out of him. “Ex-fucking-scuse me?”

“You should have seen the look on his mother’s face when he talked about dancing with me later. And his dad said…” I trail off, cringing at the memory of his words.

Killian’s voice is ominously low. “What did his dad say?”

I roll my eyes at my sensitivity. “He said the only thing I’m good for is located between my legs.”

“And he’s completely right.”

I freeze, phone pressed to my ear as I turn.

Genevieve stands in the open doorway, skinny and lithe in her beaded dress. She’s holding a flute of champagne, and I must have been completely caught up in my discussion with Killian to have missed the sound of the door opening.

“I’m going to call you back,” I tell Killian, ignoring his protest as I hang up, sliding the phone back into my purse. “Gen.” All those old feelings of inferiority come rushing back. Not just about Tristian, but of being that awkward girl in high school. Gen was the queen bee and I was never anything but the peasant class, barely worth even acknowledging. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”

“I’m sure Tristian didn’t either.” She stalks forward in that feline sort of way, steady and confident in her six-inch-heels. “I know you’ve been caught up in your Royal games, but Tristian is more than a Lord. You realize that, right?” She blinks at me with her big blue eyes. “He’s not the spoiled spawn of a crime boss, or some dirty street-urchin from South Side. He’s a Mercer. And Mercers have their own rules and traditions.” She reaches out to finger the leather cuff on my wrist, seeming unbothered when I yank my hand away. “Girls like you don’t stick around. At least not in public, and not for long.” She’s not saying anything I haven’t thought of myself, but I hate the way she’s looking at me, somehow both smug and sympathetic. “I’m not trying to be mean. I just think it wouldn’t be fair to you to sugarcoat it.”

“Tristian is different,” I say, knowing how weak that sounds, because even I don’t believe it. Not that I’d give her that satisfaction of admitting that. She doesn’t understand what we’ve been through. The bullets and bloodshed. Fire and ash. Jesus, I have this man’s initial is carved into my chest. “Whether his parents accept it or not, he’s a part of something bigger.”

She laughs, teeth white and straight. “Nothing is bigger than the Mercers. Truth is, you’re just a convenient pussy for him to dump his come into.” Head tilting, she gives me a long, narrow-eyed look. “I have been wondering, though. Does he still fuck like a robot? More interested in how he looks than how it feels?” She drops close, whispering in my ear, “He looks anywhere but at you when he comes, doesn’t he?”

My hand snaps up and clenches around her throat, my sharp nails pressing into her flesh.

“Ah!” she gasps, hands flying up. “Let go—”

“Not until you understand something, bitch.” Sneering, I slam her back into the wall, barely hearing her champagne flute shattering on the tile. “Just because you don’t know what to do with a man like Tristian Mercer doesn’t mean I don’t.” My fingers squeeze tighter and I enjoy it—the pained pinch of her brow, the bitter heat in her eyes. The rage takes me over, because the thing is, I’m remembering.

I’m remembering the chilling, lost look in his eyes that day at school when I got on my knees for him in the study room. He didn’t look anywhere else. Not once. I saw every bit of agonizing desperation in his eyes.

“I want to see your complete devotion. Show me.”

I’m remembering his gentle kisses afterward. The way his lips look when he calls me sweetheart. How it feels when he tells me I’m his good girl. The sight of his face collapsing when I take him into my mouth. The weight of his eyes, always on me. The pressure of his arms around my waist when we’re on campus and I let him make a show of claiming me. All these memories come to me in a tidal wave—touches, glances, his fingers stroking a lock of my hair away from my face—and nothing about it seems anything less than painfully human.

I know exactly what Tristian wants.

“I want to be very clear, Gen. The reason it felt like you were fucking a robot when you were with him? It’s because you were flawed. Tristian couldn’t look at you because you were a fake, uncommitted cunt.” I’m the one to smile then, making sure to show all my teeth. “But what we have isn’t just about the sex—which, I can assure you, is fucking transcendent.” I give her a hard shove against the wall. We’re so close I can feel her heart race in her chest. “He would kill for me, Genevieve. Put a bullet in a body. Set a building on fire. Do whatever it takes to keep me safe.” Narrowing my eyes, I wonder, “Do you have a man in your life who would do that for you?”

I stare at her, waiting for an answer, and she finally shakes her head, croaking out a short, “No.”

“Well, I have three,” I snarl, releasing her with one last push against her windpipe. “You can think about that when you’re sleeping tonight, all alone in your bed. Because maybe he can’t be mine,” I slam my palm onto the wall beside her head, nose-to-nose with her, “but Tristian will never be yours. I will make fucking sure of it. I’ll show the Mercers which of us is the real trash. I’ll slander you. I’ll get you kicked out of Forsyth. I’ll have you exiled from this whole goddamn town if I have to. And Gen?” She coughs dramatically, rubbing her throat. There’s only one more thing I need her to know. “I’m not a fickle little bitch like you. I keep my promises.”

It isn’t until I step back that I see the figure standing in the doorway. I fight back a recoil at the realization we’re being watched, though I don’t know why I’m surprised.

Watching is what Tristian does, after all.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Perhaps a scolding, or maybe his cheering me on, or getting in a few of his own digs. He deserves that much, after all. But what I get is far more confusing.

He’s staring at me, face set into a motionless and unreadable mask. “Get the fuck out of my house.” I worry at first he’s talking to me, because his stare doesn’t waver when he chews out the words. But then he does look away—a simple flick of his eyes to her—and his nostrils twitch, flaring. “Now.” It’s a quiet, but undoubtedly deadly command.

“You psychos deserve each other,” she growls, pushing past me and then pushing past him. She scurries down the hall, her high heels clicking like an automatic weapon.

He doesn’t speak until the sound has completely disappeared. “You heard my parents before.”

I look away, but all I get is the reflection of my face. Red cheeks. Wild eyes. Lips that are pressed into a tense line. “They’re wrong about Gen,” I tell him, working up the courage to look into his eyes again. “But they’re not wrong about me.”

He watches me, the sounds of the party echoing down the corridors, not shattering the tense stillness between us. “You asked me before how you made me feel,” he starts, finally moving. Tristian stalks forward, slow and deliberate, until he’s right in front of me. “Do you still want to know?”

I swallow, reaching to grip the counter at my back. “Yes,” I quietly confess.

His blue eyes bore into mine, and try as I might, I can’t find the softness there. “You make me feel so fucking irritated,” he says, bearing down on me. “You won’t let me take care of you, even though you don’t take care of yourself. You don’t ask for help. You’re stubborn and impulsive. It makes me want to lock you inside your goddamn room and never let you out.” The words are blunt, without inflection or warmth. But when I look away, he reaches up to grab my chin, forcing me to look at him as he goes on. “You make me feel powerless, because I can’t order you around anymore. I have to wait and just, fucking,” his fists his free hand into my dress, right against my thigh, “hope that you do the right thing. That you come home at night. That you call us if something happens. That I won’t wake up tomorrow and find your bedroom empty, all your shit gone.” After a pause, he tacks on, “Or worse.”

I try, “Tristian,” but the words get locked in my throat when he yanks my dress up, the muscle in the back of his jaw ticking.

“You make me feel helpless. I spend the better part of every day worrying about you, and I’m not like the others. They would have let you go before. But me?” There’s a spark of dread in his eyes that I’m alarmed to see. “I would have followed you. I would have been your next Ted, only I would have been worse. Do you know why?” He answers his own question as he slides my skirt over my hips, bunching it around my waist. “Because I know you want me back. I would have tracked you every fucking hour. It’s insanity. I don’t like it.”

When he fumbles for his belt, I do nothing but stand there, a deer caught in headlights, a bug trapped beneath a microscope. Because he makes me feel the same way.

This is insanity.

And I want it.

I want it even though I’m terrified of it. Of the way he’s watching me with those shuttered eyes. Of how much he looks like that man who forced me to my knees in the laundry room, years ago, and of how much he doesn’t look like him. I’m terrified of his dad being right about this being all I’m good for, and I’m terrified for him.

“You make me feel all of that,” he says, reaching into his pants. “But mostly?” He grabs my hips and pushes me onto the counter, unstoppable as he forces himself between my thighs. “Mostly you make me feel like I don’t care. About any of it. Being irritated and worried and so fucking crazy about the thought of you leaving…” He reaches between us, grabbing the crotch of my panties, and I flinch, eyes flying toward the door.

It’s wide open.

“People will see.” The words are rushed and panicked, and it doesn’t matter, because Killian’s words are still ringing in my ears.

“If you want something, then you fucking take it.”

I spread my thighs for him.

“Let them see,” is what he says, lining himself up and shoving his cock inside me.

My jaw drops on a gasp, fingers clawing at his shoulders, but I don’t speak. The words I need are locked tight in my chest, pinned under the weight of his heavy, intent stare as he fills me.

“If you think I can’t be yours,” the slow drag of his cock pulls a whine from the back of my throat, “then sweetheart, you haven’t been paying attention.” He braces one hand on the mirror behind us, and winds the other into the back of my hair as he fucks into me.

The punches of his hips are short, calculated, his eyes never leaving mine. It’s almost too much to hold his stare, because I see inside of it exactly what I’d realized before. What Tristian wants, above all else. It’s the thing that makes him mean. It’s what drives him. It’s the very thing Gen could never give him. It’s the reason the sight of her still bristles at his insides, and it’s probably not even because he loved her. It’s because he feels foolish for having believed her.

Tristian Mercer just wants someone who wants him.

Not for his money or his status, or his good looks or charming smile, or for his future or his past. He wants someone who’s seen him stripped bare of it all and still finds what’s left worthwhile.

I touch his jaw, my fingertips caressing the tense muscle there, and it’s true that I remember his softness and warmth and sweet touches. But likewise, I remember his hardness, coldness, and cruelty. Like Killian and Dimitri, he’s not just one thing. Nothing that felt so good could ever be that simple.

I stroke his cheek as he fucks me, forehead braced against my own, and the words tumble free in a flutter of sharp, shared breaths. “I think I might love you.”

He freezes there, just like that—pressed so close that I can feel the flex and surge of his muscles as he struggles to still them. So close that I can see his lips part and his eyes close. Close enough that it only takes the tiniest tilt of my head to fuse our lips together.

It’s all different then.

I wind my legs around his waist just as he invades my mouth, tongue plundering deep and forceful. He reaches down to grab my hips, hitching me closer to the edge of the counter, and then he digs his way inside. It’s so deep—I’m so full of him—that I don’t want to let him go. My calves burn with the strain of squeezing him closer, and even when he grunts into my mouth, slamming into me, over and over, I wonder if it could even be called ‘fucking’.

Maybe there are people walking down that hallway, but neither of us would hear them over the sound of our hard breaths. It’s frantic and uncoordinated, and it’s how I know that, whatever it is I’m feeling—love, devotion, want—Tristian feels it, too.

Because we must look so ugly.

There’s no showmanship here. No flair or pretense. Tristian digs his fingers into my hips, baring his teeth as he hammers against my tense thighs, and it’s completely primal.

It’s just like he said before.

Insanity.

He never once looks into the mirror behind me.

“Don’t you dare,” he’s grinding out, cheeks flushed with the way he’s driving into me. “If you’re thinking of leaving, don’t you fucking dare.”

And I’m chanting, “I won’t, I won’t,” because maybe that’s what I should do. I should leave them behind and take all this rot with me. I should make sure they’re all safe. The Lords, my mother, the twins, Ms. Crane. These pieces of the world that assume the awkward shape of a family… I should protect them. All of them deserve so much better than my bullshit.

But in the end, I’m selfish enough to take Killian’s advice.

“If you want something, then you fucking take it.”

Maybe that means I’m a bad person.

Or maybe it means I’ve finally found something worth fighting for.

That’s what I’m thinking of when my body shudders out its orgasm. Hands, arms, legs, ankles—everything clutching him closer to me as I quake, teeth clenched around a choked wail. He makes a raw, animalistic sound in response, crushed so close that I think for a moment he might just crawl right up on this counter and fuck me through it.

In the end, it’s a hard drive of his hips that marks its end. He grunts into the air we’re sharing between our mouths, slamming me back as his body stiffens. There’s a moment of crushed stillness, and then I feel him inside, pulsating, hot and slick as he slowly fills me.

His exhale takes all his tension with it, leaving him limp and sated against me.

He’s still breathing hard into my neck, even minutes after. I run my fingers through his hair idly, enjoying the closeness. His breath is damp and warm, and his cock has gone soft inside me. Anyone could walk past and see. I’m messy and a touch sore, and I don’t want him to move.

When he does, I feel the loss like a physical ache.

His forehead glistens with sweat as he eases back, lifting my dress high enough to watch his spent cock slip free. It’s embarrassing, the way I writhe, chasing it, wanting it back, but he’s stroking my cheek and saying, “Shhh.”

All of the warmth and softness I’d been missing earlier is here now, present in the way he kisses the corner of my mouth, my cheek, my temple. It’s as if he pumped all that fire out of his veins and left it inside my body to warm me from within. When I close my eyes, he presses a kiss to each eyelid, feather light and so sweet. It helps me to see those cold, masked moments from before for what they are: a privilege to see. If I were anyone else, he would have smoothed over it, put on a smile, and faked his charm. But he wants me to see—to know that he’s not always going to be the gentle, handsome man who pampers and coddles me. Sometimes he’s the harsh, cold jerk who has to let the veil drop.

He wants to know it won’t drive me away.

“You’re perfect,” he says, reaching between us to feel where he’s leaking out of me. He brushes his lips over my jaw, whispering, “God, you’re so fucking perfect,” and uses two fingers to push his cum back inside. “And you’re mine.”

I bite down on a moan at the drag of his fingers, in and out, achingly slow. “But your parents,” I argue, immediately latching onto the kiss he plants onto my lips.

“I don’t care,” he says, heavy-lidded eyes boring into mine. “They can’t stop me. No one can, except you.” And you won’t. He doesn’t say it, but I see it in the curve of his smirk as he lazily fingers me.

“Your sisters.” His smile falls, hand stilling between my thighs. I don’t protest when he pulls away. “I can’t let them get hurt over this. They’re just sweet, innocent kids.”

“Story, look at me.” His face is stone again as he pulls several tissues from the box on the counter and wipes my thighs. He tosses them and hastily runs his hands beneath the water. “Do you really think I’d ever let anything happen to them?”

“Let?” I ask, feeling tired. “Of course not.”

When I look down to lower my dress, he jerks my chin up, mouth pressed into an unhappy line. “You think this guy is better than me? Than us?”

Immediately, I answer, “No.”

“Then have faith.” The riddle in his eyes unfolds, allowing me a peek at the resolve underneath.

Faith.

That’s never been something that comes easy to me, and by the plea in his eyes, he knows it. Despite this, I give him a slow nod, working hard to gather up my resolve. “I trust you.”

His expression shifts then, the intensity of the moment twisting so fast that I can barely keep up. “Then come on.” Tristian briskly dries his hands before holding out a palm. When I place my hand in his, he eases me off the counter and carefully straightens my dress, smoothes down my hair. “Follow me. There’s only a few minutes.”

Tristian’s fingertips tickle the small of my back when he leans down to whisper against my ear. “At midnight—in two minutes—all the Mercer men will take their women out onto that dance floor. See that guy over there? He’s my uncle.” He points to two others. “His oldest son is married, and his youngest is engaged.” A pause. “My parents, of course.” He nods to our right. “Three more cousins over there.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” My eyes ping around the crowd, wide and panicked.

“Showing my family and all the other blowhards in this room that you’re mine?” He plants a sweet kiss on my neck. “Sweetheart, there’s nothing I want more.”

My insecurity is more about me than him. He laid himself bare in that bathroom and I believe him. But the scrutiny of the men and women in the room—well, I’ve had the attention of people before. Dozens of men when I was in the pit. An entire frat when Killian forced me to suck him off in the LDZ basement. Moments that have left me shaken and changed to the very foundation of my marrow.

And somehow, neither of those were as intimidating as this moment.

The song ends and Tristian’s fingers link with mine, just as a clock chimes somewhere deep in the house, starting its ascent to twelve. The couples he’d pointed out to me step onto the dancefloor, one by one, each settling into position. I watch the women and their excited grins, backs straight with perfect posture, and try to imagine myself looking like that. Like I belong. Like this isn’t a moment I’m just recklessly stealing.

No one here knows my heart is threatening to escape from my chest as Tristian smoothly walks me into the center of the room. I try my best not to look at the others, unable to see the scorn on his parents’ face. I’ve been claimed before, with knives and trackers and bruises and marks. But never gently, proudly, formally.

Tristian Mercer has elevated me. The second one of his hands settles on my hip and the other grasps mine, I’m no longer Story Austin, daughter of a sex worker, Lady to the LDZ Lords. I’m Story Austin, Tristian’s partner.

“Take a breath,” he says quietly, eyes twinkling with a light I’ve never seen before. “Push your shoulders back.” He’s loving this, I realize. He’s basking in the publicness of it. The declaration. I shouldn’t be surprised. This is a man who’s been taught his whole life the importance of image. That something isn’t yours until you’ve flaunted it about and seen the envy reflected back at you.

I suck in a deep breath and straighten my spine, shoulders back, eyes locked with his. I see a flash of movement over his shoulder and glance up at the balcony. Izzy and Lizzy beam from between two enormous plants, spying. They both wave when they spot me, and I can’t help my smile. “At least not everyone in your family is against this,” I say, nodding discreetly.

He turns his head, following my gaze, and grins. “You sent them piles of sugar. You’re their favorite.”

“I doubt that,” I say, smoothing down his lapel. “They worship you.”

“Not as much as I worship you.” The final chime of the clock rings and the music starts. His grip tightens, and he says, “Just follow my lead.”

My first steps are tentative, but soon he has me sweeping along, caught in the rhythm of music and his arms. I ignore everyone else, all the music and dark looks, the threats outside of this house and the drama that awaits, and simply revel that, for now, and forever, Tristian Mercer is mine just as much as I am his.