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

The house is dark when I get home, tired and cold and limping. This Lavinia chick sucks, and not in the wet and sloppy way we all know and love. Saying she’s a kicker is the understatement of the goddamn century. My shin is going to be throbbing for days.

I climb the stairs, wincing with each hobbled step but too impatient for what’s waiting for me to take it slow. I know she’s there the second I open my door, sensing her in some indistinct, primal way. Sure enough, she’s nestled beneath my covers, her dark hair fanned out over the pillows.

I kick off my shoes, dropping my keys, wallet, and pistol on the dresser before crossing the room to her. I’m not like Killer. Although I’m sure it’s nice, I don’t get off on the thought of her unconscious and pliant. This is why I climb right on top of her, still fully dressed, and cover her mouth with mine.

If she’s asleep, then it’s not a very deep one. She responds instantly, spreading her legs for me to settle between, hands fisting into my jacket.

“You smell cold,” she murmurs, dragging me closer.

“Yeah?” I pull the blanket back, shoving it down between us. “You can warm me up.”

When her eyes blink open, soft and heavy, I can tell there’s a question forming in her mind. But since the thought of talking about Nick and Lavinia would definitely make my dick soft, I distract her by plunging my tongue into her mouth.

She’s wearing nothing but a tank top and panties, so much warm, bare, soft skin laid out beneath me. I don’t even bother undressing. I get my hand between us and shove it down the front of her panties, swallowing down her moan when I find her clit.

The second I bury two fingers into her, I pause, pulling back. “Which one?” I ask. She’s slick. Someone got to her first.

She blinks up at me, chest swelling and caving with heavy breaths, but it isn’t until I raise an eyebrow, giving my fingers a pointed thrust, that comprehension sparks in her eyes. “Killian.”

I give a low chuckle, pressing a kiss to her heated cheek. “Was wondering who’d crack first. Tristian owes me a tenner.”

She rolls her eyes, saying, “Stop betting with him,” but all it takes is me ripping those panties off and settling my face between her legs to shut her up. I eat her pussy slowly, taking the time to painstakingly lick the remnants of Killer from her well-fucked hole as she bucks and gasps. There’s a subtle, metallic edge to the taste of her, like he nailed her fast and a little too hard, but if it hurts, then she doesn’t seem to mind. Story spreads her legs for me—thighs outstretched like she’s welcoming a good friend inside—and pulls my hair so hard that I forget about the throb in my shin.

I wait until I have her right at the edge, muscles taut, thighs quivering, to pull my cock from my jeans. Before she even has a chance to miss the warmth of my mouth, I’m entering her, bottoming out with one smooth thrust.

She stares up at me with those wide, gorgeous eyes, mouth agape. “Don’t tease me,” she begs, shoving at my jacket. “Not tonight.”

I fuck her as she undresses me in fits and starts, getting my jacket halfway off before winding her legs around my hips. It’s good—it draws it out, without it being my fault. She goes to peel my shirt off, but we won’t stop kissing long enough for her to get it over my head. Her heels drag against my jeans, pushing them down my thighs, but even that’s half-assed, her attention diverted by the rock of my hips into her. I take it easy. Killian probably fucked her within an inch of her life, which is hot to think about, but that’s not what she needs.

She needs me to kiss down her neck and tug down the strap of her top, baring her tits to me. She needs the way I hook her thighs over my arms, bending her in half as I fuck into her. She needs slow and gentle, and the dirty things I whisper into her ear. Our hips rise and fall, until hers take on a frenetic rhythm of their own, muscles quivering and clenching around me. She cries out, biting down on her bottom lip, squirming with release. I don’t slow, picking up my pace, cock full from the feel of her orgasm.

“Were you gonna keep his cum in you all night, baby?” I ask, watching her tits bounce as my hips fall into hers.

She clutches me to her, hand fisted in the back of my hair. “Yes.”

I nip at her jaw, panting, “Guess I’ll need to replace it.”

When I do, crushing her into the mattress as I come, it feels like a bolt of lightning that’s been gaining energy for days. In some ways, it has. I don’t know the first thing about having a girlfriend. Not the kind I’d find waiting in my bed when I got home at night, and certainly not the kind I tuck against my side afterward, sweaty and breathless and so fucking indulgent. Her thigh is soft beneath my fingers when I drag it up, across my spent erection. I think I like that, feeling her drenched pussy against my hip as she snuggles closer. It’s the nasty kind of thing Tristian or Killian might object to, despite loving the thought of their cum leaking out of her. I don’t have an issue with it. Stain my sheets, girl.

It takes her upwards of three minutes to finally speak the question I’d seen in her eyes before. For that, I feel reluctantly impressed with my skills. “How’d it go?”

My arm is wedged beneath her shoulders, and I use it to curl her closer, enjoying her tits against my ribs and the hot wash of breath against my neck. “Went fine. Got her settled in.”

Story’s fingers worry at the hair below my navel, plucking and stroking in a way that makes my stomach cave. “Did he… put her in the pit?”

“What?” It takes me a second, too come-brained to realize she’s asking about the living arrangements. I snort a laugh. “No, she has this whole, like, suite. Real boujee shit. She’s comfortable, trust me.”

She stiffens. “Yes, I’m sure she’s a very comfortable sex trafficking victim, Dimitri.”

Her saying my name still grabs at my spine, pulling every fiber of my attention to the way it rolls off her lips. I thought it’d wear off after so long, but it hasn’t, and I have to take a moment to face it down, look it in the eye, and stroke my thumb over her flushed cheek.

Fuck, I’d do anything for this girl.

“I haven’t told the guys yet,” I begin, and even though I can keep my voice quiet, I can’t keep it light. “We’re going to make a deal with Nick.”

I watch from my periphery as she frowns. “A deal with Nick? Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Not even a little.” My fingers trail from her shoulder to her back, tracing her spine, and she gives a small, delicate shiver. “But he’ll help us tomorrow night, if we can find him a way into the Hideaway somewhere down the line.”

She looks up me, cheek dragging along my shoulder. “Why does Nick want into the Hideaway?”

The thing about Story is that she can be dirty. I saw the sort of things Daniel has on her. Hard things. Dark things. Story Austin has seen some shit, and she’s contributed to plenty of it. I understand about survival. Fuck, no one here understands that better than me. But even though she’d probably have trouble admitting it, she attracts the necessity of survival a whole hell of a lot.

But sometimes, she’ll look at me—a lot like she is right now—and there’s nothing there but pure, unadulterated naiveté. I can’t speak for the others, but it’s those moments that make her so hard to walk away from, because she can be dirty, but goddamn. She can also be so clean. A patch of light in a pitch black room.

It’s not as easy as having a dark side, because not everyone can be as tidy as Tristian. Story is made up of bits and pieces—black, gray, white, red—and sometimes you just have to get close enough to find their edges.

I’m looking at one right now.

“I think…” I choose my words carefully, thoughtfully. “I think he’s got a thing for Lavinia.”

It’s kind of bullshit. I’ve seen him with her twice, and ‘a thing’ is just as understated as calling that bitch a kicker. Nicholas Bruin isn’t the kind of guy who develops ‘things’ for girls. He probably has an effigy of her crammed beneath his bed, and I bet he pulls it out at night and fucks its eye socket. The only pretty thing about Nick is his face. I doubt he’s acted on it yet, because the Kings would geld him, but the fact of the matter is, Daniel made Nick her jailor, and that’s not something you give a guy who has two settings: ‘Off’ and ‘demented infatuation’. At least Lavinia seems aware enough to sense it, her eyes always tracking him suspiciously.

But Story doesn’t need to know that, and from the spark of excitement in her eyes, I’m smart to leave it out. “He’s going to break her out.”

“Maybe,” I stress, not wanting to get her hopes up. “Nick is good at throwing fists and being hired muscle, but he’s about as subtle as a sledgehammer.” I roll my eyes. “You know, in case the face tattoos haven’t made that obvious.”

“I have access to the office building,” he said an hour ago. “He makes me lock it up every night. He trusts me there. But he doesn’t trust anyone with his whorehouse.” He gave me a meaningful look. “No one but baby Payne.”

Fuck, Killer is going to bitch me the hell out.

“But he wants to try, and we can help,” she says, draping herself over my chest, and there’s a lightness to her eyes that I don’t have it in me to extinguish.

“Sure.” I don’t know how true it is, but as I run my fingers through her silky hair, I know I’ll try to make it as true as possible. “But we need to get through tomorrow first. Put some time between us and a solid plan. Avoid suspicion. One fucked up psycho at a time.”

I wince, expecting to see that light in her eyes extinguished anyway at the mention of Ted.

Instead, it just sparks brighter. “Killian asked me to the banquet tomorrow. As his date.”

My head snaps back in shock. “Seriously?”

She nods, her chin digging into my sternum. “That’ll help, won’t it? It’s a solid alibi?”

“Well…yeah.” We’d already had a plan for him, but it was shaky, at best. “I just thought he’d cut off his own dick before showing up to that thing.”

Killer has this way about him. When he commits himself to something, he goes one-hundred-percent. It’s part of what made him so good at The Game. He has discipline in spades. But the second he makes a choice to drop it? That’s it. It’s done. He doesn’t want to waste one more iota of energy on it.

Story must sense my skepticism, because she sighs, turning to lay her cheek on my chest. “I think he’s wanting to make a statement.” Quieter, she clarifies, “About me.”

Ah.

“You’re his date,” I say, understanding. Twirling a lock of her hair around my finger, I muse, “He must have it pretty bad.”

Don’t we all.

“Do you think it’s dumb?” she asks, rubbing our thighs together. “Since we’re…you know. Step-siblings.”

I scoff. “Baby, this is Forsyth. By the time you find your table, there’ll be a much juicier scandal than some guy banging his stepsister. Have you noticed that Nick is white as fuck?”

She meets my gaze again, frowning. “Yes?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Sy isn’t.”

“So?” She shrugs, making her nipples drag against my chest. “I assume they’re half-brothers.”

I tilt my hand in a so-so gesture. “Technically, but it’s mostly because their mom has two husbands.” Her face goes slack, making me laugh. “Like I said, this is Forsyth. Does it really surprise you that a system like this—” I gesture vaguely to the house at large. “—attracts and breeds the unconventional? Trust me, you and Killer will be nothing.”

She looks floored at first, and then fascinated, but before she can pull me too deep into the subject, I cup her cheek.

“Tomorrow’s going to be a bitch of a day, baby girl. Let’s get some sleep.”

She curls into me, her warm breath fanning across my chest. She feels safe here, which is more than I could ask for. It’s a shitty world outside these walls and she’s barely scratched the surface. I’ll protect her as long as I can, the only way I know how; by taking out anyone that threatens to harm her.

“Where’d you find this place?” I ask, eying the dark building as Tristian puts our rental car in park. It’s a shitty sedan, and we found out pretty early on that the heat doesn’t work, so our breaths billow clouds into the chilled air, making the deserted alley seem even more sinister. We’re tucked away behind an old strip mall far away from the Avenue, but still in South Side proper, which makes me twitchy. I scan around, looking for cameras, which is when I realize Tristian’s attention is fixed on his phone. “Hey,” I hiss, snapping my fingers. “Are you even listening to me?”

Tristian drags his eyes from the phone, finally looking at the drawing I’ve made of Daniel’s office. It’s a crude diagram I scrawled on the drive over with nothing but an old marker someone had abandoned in the glove compartment, and an abundance of imagination. Pure fucking art here.

A list of supplies is jotted down the side.

“I’m listening.” Still, he looks back down at the phone.

“Dude, what’s distracting you?” I yank the phone out of his hand, impatient and annoyed. In no universe should Pretty Nick Bruin be a better crime accomplice than my boy, but compared to last night, Tristian is looking slack as hell. I lower my gaze to the screen, trying to keep my face impassive at what I see there. “She’d better fucking know you’re doing this.”

On the screen, Story is crossing her room, zipping from her closet to her bed, and she’s wearing nothing but a bra and panties. She’s obviously getting dressed for the banquet, and from the flushed sheen on her face, is harried about it. Her hair is pinned up in wide rollers, and when she bends over to reach for something in the nightstand, I can almost see where the string of that thong is going.

“We have an agreement.” Tristian snatches the phone from my hand, a defensive crease forming between his brows. “She turns on the camera when she feels like it. I get an automated alert.”

“Fucking sloppy” I mutter. She can’t possibly expect Tristian to remain focused when she’s flouncing around her bedroom looking all cute and sexy and flustered. “Now’s not the time.”

Tristian rolls his eyes, but they return right to the screen. “Well, you hogged her all night. Always keeping her all closed up in your room.”

“You could have come in,” I point out, unable to help myself from watching Story carefully step into her green dress.

“Could I?” He gives me a skeptical look.

“Well, yeah.” I reach up to scratch my jaw, nails rasping over a day’s worth of stubble. “I don’t keep her in there because I’m a controlling douchebag, you know. She just really likes sleeping in my room.” After a beat, I muse, “She’d probably like it more if you and Killer were in it. You know, if the two of you could get over it not being a sterile icebox.”

Tristian’s eyebrows hike up. “I’ll consider that an open invitation, then.”

“Okay.” I stare at him. “Good?”

We share an uncertain look, but it’s Tristian who calls it out for what it is. “Sharing a chick is kind of weird.”

“But,” I add, head tilting as I watch her methodically remove the rollers from her hair, “also strangely not weird?”

“Yeah, that about sums it up,” he agrees, frowning. “Just, like, fucking logistics, man.”

I give a series of fast blinks, trying to remain focused. “Okay, that’s enough,” I say, swiping the phone back and shutting it down. “We can’t afford to make any mistakes tonight. Work now, logistics later.”

He won’t admit it, but he knows I’m right, which is why he stuffs his phone in his pocket and visibly writhes into his second skin. Like me, he’s already wearing the uniform. Black jeans, black shirts, black gloves, and black ski masks pushed up to our foreheads—for now.

“My dad bought this shithole a few years back,” he says, jerking his chin at the strip of empty shops. “He mostly uses it for storage—something off the books.”

We leave our rental car parked, but still running, as Tristian leads me to the back door of the end-cap shop. If memory serves, this used to be a trashy hookah joint. Before my time, though.

It’s dark inside, but Tristian immediately finds a switch illuminating a squat store room. The air smells like stale tobacco, rat poison, and diesel fuel. My nose wrinkles as he crosses to the far wall, rifling through a deep shelf I recognize the contents of.

“Jesus,” I mutter, getting a good look at the stockpile of weird pyro shit. “How long have you been hoarding all this stuff?”

“You mean my fire-starter kit?” I try to hand him the list, but he ignores it, deftly plucking things from the shelves. “Since that night with Perez’s truck. Daniel wasn’t pleased I used his materials, so I said fuck it. Started collecting my own.”

“What are those for?” I ask, nodding to a pile of weird fabric-looking scraps.

“Fabric softener strips.” He picks up a container next. “I’ve also got smokeless gunpowder, newspaper, a bag of dryer lint, and three types of accelerant. Just depends on conditions.”

“Is all this shit really necessary?” I ask, glancing at the list he’d made me write on the way over. “How hard can it be to set a fire? Douse it in gasoline and light the match.”

Tristian turns to me with a disbelieving look. “We have approximately thirty minutes to send a four-story brick office building up in flames. That means rigging an ignition point in a vulnerable location, analyzing the air flow, and hoping like hell it can catch the asbestos-riddled, 1960s-era, toxic insulation before someone can call the dispatchers.” Without breaking my gaze, he pushes a canister into my chest, ranting, “I don’t question how you play Mozart, do I? No. Because when it comes to music, you know your shit. But when it comes to fires?” He shoves a box of scrap fabric at me next, flashing a wicked grin. “Brother, this is my symphony.”

I sigh, “Fair enough,” and let him load me up like a pack mule.

Just then, my burner phone rings.

Cursing, I balance the box of fabric and a jug of something wet and pungent to pull it from my pocket. I instantly recognize the number, answering it with a low, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Killian says, muttering under his breath. “About to leave for this fucking bullshit award ceremony.” There’s a loud, hard huff, and then, “Are you guys set?”

I flap my hand at Tristian’s worried expression. “Tris checked us into his dad’s penthouse suite at the Maddox towers. I ordered room service, and the girls Auggy sent us from the Hideaway are already shit-faced. I doubt they’ve even realized we left.” The lack of reply tells me Killian is either impressed or thinks this is a terrible idea, and it’s not that I don’t appreciate the reluctance, it’s just that… “It’s time to end this Killer. I’m fucking sick of waiting around and doing fuck-all, and you know you are, too. It’s not us. It’s not what we do.”

There’s a brief pause, and then, “I know.”

Tonight is Killer Payne’s last hurrah as Forsyth University’s celebrity athlete. It’s also the night we burn our bridge with his father. This isn’t just a move we’re making. These are the moves that are going to make us.

“Just try to have a nice night,” I tell him, following Tristian out of the building and to the car. “Show her a good time. She was excited about this, you know.” I think of her on that stream on Tristian’s phone, all harried and rushed—can still hear her voice from last night, soft and so reluctantly hopeful. “I know it’s a shit night for you, but channel your inner Prince for a bit. Hold the doors for her. Get her drunk. Eat her pussy in the parking lot. You know.” I shrug. “Romance.”

“Romance,” he repeats in a numb, flat voice.

Tristian gets close enough to say into the phone, “Don’t fight with her.”

I wrestle the phone back. “Happy birthday, man. We’ve got this under control. See you on the other side.” I hang up and shoot Tristian a look. “Fucking logistics.” This dance Killer and Story have been doing is making shit a lot more complicated than it really needs to be.

“Maybe this will be good.” He shakes his head, opening the trunk. “I can’t referee everything.”

We’re silent as we pack away all the supplies, our focus slowly redirecting to the matter at hand. Killian can romance our Lady—maybe make some goddamn headway with her—and we’ll take care of the hard stuff.

Before the night is over, we’ll be one step closer to dismantling a King.

We watch from the car as Nick exits the office across the street.

It’s late enough that the office looks deserted. There are no cars around, and almost zero traffic. South Side has a way of getting empty at night, everyone either huddling up in their homes or congregating to the more exciting places. The seedy motels. The busy back alleys. The smoky gambling dens. Whatever dark corners the vampires around here are dealing dope out of.

Daniel’s office isn’t one of them.

We watch, coiled to strike, as Nick raises his arm to scratch at his shoulder.

The signal.

My knee jiggles restlessly as I watch him walk away, hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking as casual as can be. One of the perks of living around here is that people just aren’t noticed. Poor people are invisible people. It works in our favor.

“Got it,” Tristian says, holding up the device to prove the cameras are off. Daniel’s security system isn’t as high tech as the stuff the Mercers have at their disposal. “We’ve got ten minutes.”

I set the alarm on my watch and I can’t help but think it doesn’t seem like enough time. Tristian is wired, though, amped up on adrenaline as we hop out of the car, lower our ski masks, and grab the supplies. I have a moment of panic when we reach the door that Nick fucked up and it’ll be locked, or that when we open it, Daniel and his goons will be inside. But it goes off smoothly. The first floor is empty and eerily quiet.

“Spread this around,” Tristian says, handing me the gunpowder. “Get it under the curtains and on the floor. This shit is synthetic and will go up quick.”

I do as I’m told, while Tristian stashes wads of lint and accelerant-soaked fabric into various spots. Under couches, in a desk drawer, inside a lampshade, in the ceiling tiles. He’s methodical and humming, his whole body vibrating. When I’m out of gunpowder, I walk over to where he’s building a small bonfire, filled with combustible material, and tell him, “Three minutes.”

“Perfect.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out a box of matches. I admit it. I’m fucking mesmerized when he removes a single match and strikes it on the outside of the box. The match catches and sizzles, the scent of sulfur filling the air. Tristian flicks it toward the bonfire. It ignites quickly and a slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face as the fire flickers its reflection in his eyes.

With the bright gleam sparking in his gaze he looks like a fucking fiend. I’d never say it to his face, but I thought that scene with Story at his parents’ party was a mistake. Tristian has the kind of wealth and privilege that South Side kids like me have dreamed of our entire lives. Secretly, I’ve been rubbed a bit raw at his willingness to risk losing it all. It’s not that Story isn’t worth it, because she is. It’s that he can never really understand the magnitude. It’s not even his fault.

But looking at him now, I come to this realization.

The life the Mercers want for Tristian isn’t him. He’d blow his goddamn brains out. Tristian was born for a life of menace, the danger of the flame, the heat of the blaze, the tenacity of the ember. Probably the thought of leaving all this behind for crisp suits and glass walls is as unbearable to him as slinking back down into a South Side gutter is to me.

The heat builds and I grab his arm. “Come on, dude. Time’s up.”

At the door, he takes one last look, whistling appreciatively. “Fuck, man, she’s a beauty. My finest work yet.”

I glance back at the fire. He’s not wrong. The licking flames, the way it zips from one spot to the next, up the curtain and across the ceiling… “I see it.”

“What?”

“The symphony,” I answer. It’s a living thing, riled and writhing, reaching its spindly fingers toward the ceiling.

We step out into the cool, quiet night, the door shutting behind us. The first window shatters by the time we reach the car. The flames are on the second floor when we’re pulling out of the parking lot. Sirens echo through South Side as I shift the car into third and hit the highway, but we’ll be long gone by the time they arrive.

Two fiends vanishing in the night.