novelxo Lords of Mercy: Chapter 33
I don’t want to wake up.
Not completely.
It’s warm here in Dimitri’s bed. Everything, from the smell in the air, to the low hum of music coming from the speakers, to the plush give of the mattress, is comfortably familiar. There’s an arm around my middle, and one beneath my neck, and I can feel their breaths—safe, close, whole—as if they were my own. I don’t want to open my eyes and see the damage that’s been wrought. Facing my mother last night was bad enough, watching the ambulance cart her away, cuffed to the gurney. I think Killian wanted to kill her, and he has every right. She took his father, and if she’s to be believed, his mother, too.
“It’s up to you,” he said last night, right before we called the police. Gun in hand, he kissed my mouth and stroked my jaw, and I knew he was asking for permission.
But I just couldn’t bring myself to give it.
“You’re awake.” Dimitri’s rough murmur comes from behind me—a caress of his breath on the nape of my neck. “You always breathe different when you’re awake.”
I sigh as his hand moves down to the hem of my shirt, wiggling beneath it to rest against my ribs. “It feels late.”
He hums into my skin, fingertips skating over my belly. “Almost dark out. We were fucking beat.”
The police were crawling all over the brownstone for hours after the incident. Dimitri and Tristian had followed Ms. Crane to get checked out at the triage, while Killian dealt with the local authorities. I suspect it was his first flex as King, because when they told him we’d need to find somewhere else to stay for a couple days, he’d flashed them a card and a stiff smile, and then casually ushered me back inside.
‘Beat’ doesn’t even begin to encompass the exhaustion.
“What do you think will happen to her?” I ask, dreading the pause that comes after. I know I shouldn’t care. My mom tormented me for years. She murdered Jack. She wove me into a plot to steal South Side from the men I love, and she hurt them—Killian most of all, but Dimitri and Tristian, too. If things were black and white, I could have let Killian put that bullet into her head.
But they aren’t.
She’s a murderer, but she’s also the woman who used to brush my hair and call me her little storybook. She terrorized me over and over again, but she also sacrificed for me—for my health and safety. Nothing about this is simple or easy.
“I sent the detective the video.” Tristian. He’s on the other side of Killian, reaching over him to feather the tips of his fingers down my closed eyelids. They’re puffy and sore from crying last night, shut up in the downstairs bathroom until I saw the faint shadow of feet beneath the crack of the door.
Killian didn’t ask to be let in. But I did anyway.
Tristian sighs, adding, “That was really smart, you know. Turning on the camera on your dresser?”
I hadn’t known it was my mom at the time. I figured it’d be a Royal woman, or someone from the Hideaway, like Augustine or Lavinia. “It’ll put her away for a long time,” I note, cracking my eyes enough to see Dimitri’s hand moving beneath the fabric of my shirt. After a suspended moment, I bring myself to ask the question that’s filling my head like a rain cloud. “Are you mad that I couldn’t—”
“No.” Killian’s voice rumbles beneath the ear I have pressed to his chest, ringing with finality. “I know how complicated it can be, Story. I could have killed my dad a hundred times, but I didn’t.”
I exhale, finally letting myself look up at them.
Tristian is the first one I see. Even after so many hours of sleep, he still looks sapped, a bruise blooming on his temple. I extend a hand to push my fingers through his hair, straightening it up, but it doesn’t calm this agitated need buzzing in the pit of my chest. This is why I push up, meeting him over Killian’s chest to press a slow, grateful kiss to the bruise. It’s better then, feeling him against me, so warm and alive.
When I turn to look at Killian, I’m relieved to find him mostly uninjured. He has some bruises on his neck, his chest, but his face is perfectly whole, making it easy for me to lean down to brush our mouths together. Killian takes it greedier than Tristian had, tangling his fingers in the back of my hair to hitch me closer, chest vibrating with a ragged, hungry sound.
He doesn’t hold me, though, letting me get an arm beneath me to turn to Dimitri.
My heart twists painfully at the sight of him. His eye is a swollen mass of hurt, and the edge of his jaw has every shade of purple covering it. He took out his piercings last night due to the swelling, so he looks strangely bare, vulnerable. I reach out to touch him, but wince and pull back.
Dimitri stares at me. “That bad, huh?”
Killian glances around my shoulder to say, “You look like you got hit in the face with a dick-shaped hammer.”
“Fuck off.” Dimitri grabs my hip, pulling me flush. “I’ve had worse, baby. Don’t sweat it.”
“It looks painful,” I argue, carefully kissing his jaw.
“Pssh.” He turns to catch my lips with his. “I woke up three hours ago and raided Ms. Crane’s pill stash. I feel like a million bucks.”
I pull back, searching his eyes, and—yeah, now that he mentions it, he is absolutely sporting that lazy, glazed look. Ms. Crane isn’t even here. She’s staying overnight at the hospital for tests, because the hit she took over the head was worrying for someone her age. “She’s probably going to need those, Dimitri.” The chide is half-hearted, but it springs me into action.
All three of them groan in varying degrees of protest when I climb out of the bed. “We’re going to need supplies.” I explain, pointing to Dimitri. “Ice pack,” and then Tristian, “Ice pack and Motrin,” and then Killian, “Caffeine and whatever Dimitri’s stoned off of.” Ms. Crane will understand, and I’m sure the doctor probably already has her high as a kite, too. “All of us are going to need food, hydration, sleep—”
“Blow jobs,” Dimitri coolly adds.
“And beer.” Tristian throws me a wink.
Rolling my eyes, I snatch Killian’s hoodie from the floor. “The only action the three of you are going to be getting is rest. Look at you.” I zip up the hoodie and do exactly that, hands on my hips as I survey the scene in front of me. Dimitri’s still on his side, but he’s propped on an elbow, peering down the bed at me with his one good eye. Tristian is reclined back against the headboard, prodding at the bruise on his temple. Killian is sprawled out on his back between them, looking like he doesn’t know what to do with his arms now that I’m gone. “You look like a defeated group of horny apocalypse survivors,” I note.
Killian finds out what to do with his arm.
He flips me off.
Downstairs, I discover the bottle of pain pills Dimitri had left by the sink, but I pause at the refrigerator. Feeding these guys is never anything but a harrowing task. Between Tristian’s anal retentive culinary preferences, the sheer volume of food Killian can consume, and Dimitri’s total lack of nutrition, I take my time putting something suitable together.
I’m just about to assemble the sandwiches when the phone in my hoodie pocket goes off. I guess Killian must have left his phone in it. When I fish it out, it’s locked. The texts still pop up, though.
Lord Tristian: no mayo, extra tomatoes, and use the whole wheat bread
Lord Tristian: please
My chin drops and I spin, scanning the kitchen. The camera is up in the corner beside the pantry. I don’t even know why I’m surprised. If I could, I’d be watching a screen to make sure they’re okay, too. The text alone is enough to make some of the tightness in my chest ease.
I don’t know if it can capture audio, but I still yell anyway, thrusting my finger toward the lens. “You’ll eat what I make, and you’ll fucking like it!”
I’m rooting through the lettuce when the phone dings again.
Lord Tristian: Ms. Crane has been a terrible influence on you 🙁
Ten minutes later, I’m planning to haul everything up the two flights of stairs to Dimitri’s room, but I discover I don’t have to. Tristian is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, shirtless and distracted. For the split second before he sees me, I catch the look on his face as he stares at the blood stain on the floor. He swears that the stun blast he took didn’t have a lasting effect, but the curve of his shoulders has an odd slackness that I’m not used to seeing. That, plus the caustically somber cast of his eyes, makes my chest clench.
“Hey,” I say, trying not to startle him.
His head snaps up anyway, blue eyes blinking as if he didn’t expect to find me here. It’s gone just as quickly, and he smoothly steps forward, taking the tray out of my hands. “You didn’t really have to go out of your way,” he says, gazing at the sandwiches. “I was just…”
When he trails off, throwing me a wretched look, I strain up to kiss the tension from his mouth. Everyone jokes and complains about Tristian’s fussy food demands, but I think we all know deep down that it’s not always something he can help. “It’s okay,” I assure.
He nods at the stairs. “After you.”
Together we take everything up to the third floor, entering Dimitri’s room to a greeting that’s more enthused than I’m expecting. Dimitri holds out his hands in a ‘gimme’ gesture, deftly catching the ice pack I throw a little off center. Killian goes for the bottled water, downing half of it in three gulps. Between us, we straighten out the bed to hunch around the tray in the middle, picking through everything I’d brought.
“Jesus Christ,” Killian mutters, reading the pill bottle. “Since when is Ms. Crane hoarding Percocet?”
As he’s picking the lettuce out of his sandwich, Dimitri nonchalantly explains, “Oh, I asked her to get some to keep on hand in case Story had those cramps again.”
Tristian snorts. “Those old bridge club bitches sling more weight than the Counts.”
“Pure shit, too. Not even generic.” Dimitri glances up to catch my eye, winking. “Only the best for you, baby.”
“Stop,” I stress, pushing the lettuce back his way, “trying to give me narcotics.”
“Fuck.” Killian’s low, alarmed curse makes all of us go rigid, swinging our gaze to him. He’s looking at the laptop Tristian must have had opened earlier, tracking me through the house on the cameras. Killian stands, grabbing the gun from the bedside table. “Sy and Pretty Nick are coming up to the front door.”
Before I can parse that, he’s already plucking his jeans from the floor and pulling them on, marching out into the hall with the gun gripped in his fist.
Tristian and Dimitri are right behind, wincing and grimacing as they hastily pull on pants. “Stay here,” Dimitri orders, giving me a look that would be a lot more commanding without the swollen eye and pained expression.
Nervously, I watch them file out, and then scramble to the laptop, pulse kicking up as I see Killian appear in one of the little boxes labeled ’05 – Foyer’. The doorbell sounds through the muffled distance of the house, but interestingly, Killian pauses at the front door. I wonder why at first, but then Tristian and Dimitri appear, standing tall behind him, and I realize he was waiting. For his backup. For his court. For his brothers.
When he swings the door open, I get a partial image of Nick on the foyer camera, but a full HD image of both him and his brother on the feed right beside it. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but from the looks of everyone’s posture, things are tense. Nick goes to put his hands in his pockets—casual, like an afterthought—but seems to think better of it, letting them hang at his sides instead. It’s an oddly apprehensive gesture from someone who looks and acts like Nick. He knows he’s outgunned here, even with his brother beside him. He’s trying to look non-threatening.
Killian stands with one hand on the doorknob and the other grasping the jamb, gun visible in the waistband of his pants. His posture, the ink over his muscled upper body rippling with tension, is a clear signal that they’re not welcome in, but perfectly free to try.
I take a few moments to locate the keystroke that cycles through the different audio feeds, but finally, I do, catching Nick in the middle of speaking.
“…and you know I didn’t have anything to do with that,” he’s saying, voice tinny through the speakers.
Sy’s voice rings out next. “He can’t keep hiding out just because your old man stuck his dick into some crazy.”
Nick agrees, “Let’s just hash this shit out.”
Killian seems to think about it, eyes narrowing as he observes him. He glances over his shoulder, and from the foyer camera, I can see him making eye contact with Dimitri, and then Tristian.
Each of them gives a nod.
Killian looks back at Nick and slowly lets his arm drop. “Ten minutes.”
I track them entering the house, through the foyer, and then into the den. But there’s a dead spot in the footage, and all I can make out is Tristian sitting in the armchair closest to the entryway, Dimitri on the sofa beside him. The others must be up by the fireplace.
Nervous yet determined, I leave the room just as I am, clad in nothing but my panties and Killian’s oversized hoodie as I bound down the staircase. I don’t really give it much thought—none of them are wearing much, either—until I get close enough to the den to hear their voices.
“Rath,” Killian’s voice rumbles. “Go upstairs and get her.”
“I’m here,” I say, tugging the sweater closer to my knees before stepping forward into the room.
From the first glance, I see I was right. Sy is standing in front of the fireplace with his arms crossed, his perfectly defined eyebrows furled in annoyance. Nick is stiff at his side, both their eyes instantly jumping to mine. Their similarities are more striking than ever with the two of them side by side, but so are their differences. Sy is well-dressed and just as immaculately groomed as I remember. But Nick is wearing a wife beater, grimy jeans, and his hair is a mess. Their eyes—their features—might be similar, but it stops there.
There’s a pause, and then Sy lets out a begrudging greeting. “Lady.”
Killian, Tristian, and Dimitri are all looking at my state of dress, gazes dropping to my thighs. I don’t miss the possessive flash in Killian’s eyes when he grabs the throw blanket from the couch, nor Tristian’s hand on my wrist, dragging me into his lap. I settle there, flushing as Killian drapes the blanket over my legs.
“What’s going on?” I ask, hoping to divert everyone’s attention.
Thankfully, Killian’s quick to accept it. “Nick wants to make a deal to clear his name.”
“Clear his name?” I adjust the blanket as Tristian pulls me close, arms closing around my middle. “But he had nothing to do with it.” After talking to my mom, I realize that. The fire happening right after Daniel’s murder was just a lucky coincidence. Clearly, everyone was just scheduling around Killian’s award banquet.
Nick thrusts out a palm, exclaiming, “See! She knows that whole shitshow was set up.”
Dimitri ignores him, looking at me. “Baby, your mom could have gotten to him.”
“Who knows who all she had working for her,” Tristian agrees, body solid and warm beneath me. He dips his thumb beneath the sweater to caress my thigh. “If she got to Ugly Nick and Martin, there could be more. We have to start from scratch with this, Killer.” The last part is said to the man looking stony and troubled in the middle of the room.
Killian gives a heavy nod. “I need to know who I can trust. It doesn’t help that another King has it out for me.” He tosses Sy a dark glance, and the man scoffs.
“It’s not my fault you beat the shit out of him over a case of mistaken identity. Go and apologize like a man.”
“Apologize?” Killian’s jaw goes rigid, eyes filling with fire. “Over my dead fucking body.”
“Saul Cartwright forced himself on me.” I glare at Sy, making sure he understands. “He cornered me, attacked me, and tried to rape me. We’re not sorry for any of it.” Beneath me, I can feel Tristian getting hard, which is making it difficult to inject the necessary acid into my voice.
“Whatever.” Sy shrugs, looking unconcerned. “I’m not a Duke yet. I don’t have any loyalty to Saul, and I sure as fuck don’t have any pull with him.”
“It’s not his, anyway,” Dimitri adds, looking up at Nick. “Why are we ignoring the obvious here? The Dukes’ Kingdom belongs to a Bruin.”
Nick makes a short, dismissive sound. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”
“Wait. What does that mean?” I ask, looking between them. “It belongs to a Bruin?”
Killian’s the one who explains. “Remember what I told you before, about Kingdoms being won by blood?” At my nod, he gestures to Nick. “Well, his dad was King, but he left. Walked away from it all.”
“Saul Cartwright took it over,” Tristian goes on. The low tenor of his voice combined with his fingers shoots straight to my center. “But he didn’t win it. Nick still has a legitimate claim.”
“I don’t want it,” Nick says, lifting a shoulder in a loose shrug. “I don’t give a fuck about your dumb frat drama. I just want to take what’s mine and fuck off.”
“What’s yours?” Dimitri’s chest bounces with an ominous laugh. “Even if we helped you get Lavinia, you couldn’t keep her. She doesn’t want anything to do with you.”
“That’s my problem to solve,” Nick says, eyes hard when he turns to Killian. “Our deal’s still good, Killer. I got your boys into the office.”
Too tired to keep up with their bickering, I let myself get distracted by what Tristian’s fingers are doing. They started out doing these idle little sweeps against my thigh, but they’re growing more deliberate now. When I lean back, letting my legs relax, I feel it.
His cock gives a strong, eager twitch.
I’m only half expecting it when he wedges a hand between us. I know Tristian well enough to understand that we’re recovering from a tense situation and he’d absolutely want something like this—exposed yet private. It’s not all fun and games for him. Sometimes I suspect he just needs a connection.
But I’m not expecting the boldness. I feel him take his cock from his boxers, the head dragging against the small of my back, and then reach for the crotch of my panties.
But before he tugs them aside, he stops.
His breath is even and controlled, and I know without glancing over my shoulder that he’s watching them with a perfectly normal expression—concerned when Killian gets too energized with his gestures, annoyed when Nick reacts with amusement, threatening when Sy looks like he might jump in. He’s playing the part, but his attention is fixed to me. I can feel it.
He’s waiting for a signal, I realize.
He’s waiting for me to tell him I want it.
He’s waiting for my answer to his request.
I give it by adjusting, and I try to do him proud, acting like I’m just squirming my way out of a minor discomfort. Swiftly, he tilts his hips and positions his cock, allowing me to slip right onto it.
It’s hardest right here, as his cock is stretching and filling me, to remain impassive and tuned in. But I do, sinking onto his cock in one smooth motion. He holds me there, his forearm locked immovably around my hips, as we secretly revel in it.
Killian’s just made Nick a proposal that’s completely flown by me. “I’m a King now, I can get you in,” he says. Whatever he’s asking for, neither looks particularly happy about it. Killian crosses his arms, bearing down on him with his stare alone. “Come on, Nick, what are you going to do now? My dad’s dead. Are you going to find another King to run the streets for? Because that’s not something I want or need from you.”
Sy looks between them, and even though the irritated crease in his forehead never disappears, I can see a hint of agreement in his eyes. “He has a point, Nick.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Nick snaps, flicking his brother a quick scowl. Lower, to Killian, he says, “I don’t have enough credits to be a senior. I barely have enough to be a sophomore.”
“So?” Killian shrugs, looking over at Tristian. “We made Lords as Juniors. It’s not set in stone.”
“Plus.” Tristian’s cock swells when everyone turns to look at him. They have no idea that he’s buried inside of me right now. “You’re legacy. Exceptions are always made for legacies.”
When everyone looks back at Nick, I rock my hips, unable to curb the impulse. Tristian’s arm tightens, almost painful with the pressure of keeping me still.
“Jesus Christ,” Nick mutters, running his fingers through his hair. “I’ll think about it.”
Dimitri kicks a foot up on the coffee table. “Good choice.”
“It’s late,” Killian agrees, even though the sun only just set. He reaches up to rub his temple, wincing. “We’re still getting our bearings here, dude, could you…?” He gestures to the door.
Sy rolls his eyes, grabbing his brother’s arm. “We’ll be in touch.” Tristian and I watch as Killian follows them out of the room doggedly. Instinctively, I know he won’t return until he’s sure they’ve both gone.
Dimitri remains on the couch, arm slung over his head, all slouched down like he’s halfway to calling it a bed. “I thought none of us were getting any action tonight,” he says, lolling his head to level us with a dark, heavy stare.
I freeze, clenching around Tristian’s cock. “How did you…?”
Tristian puffs a laugh into my neck. “Never could get one over on him. He’s fucking annoyingly perceptive.”
Dimitri’s mouth tugs up into half a smirk. “The tips of your ears get glowing-ass red when you’re fucking, Tris. Not that I’d need it.” His hand goes lazily to his crotch, squeezing. “Story’s got a pretty good poker face these days, but she gnaws on her lip like a bone when she’s trying not to make slutty sex noises.”
My brows crouch down into a glare. “I do not.”
“You really do.” Killian appears from out of nowhere, snatching out to yank the blanket away. He raises an eyebrow at our lap, my panties all twisted and askew. He lifts a palm, saying, “Seriously, Tris? While we’re conducting business?” The words are as stern as his glare, but the tent in his pants and the tick in his jaw as he watches Tristian buck into me are pure sex. “Never fucking make me pop wood in front of Nick again.” I startle when he drops to his knees in front of us, edging close to part my thighs. He looks up at me through thick, dark lashes. “Promise us it’ll always be like this.” He extends his tongue, brushing it over my clit so feather light that I pull away from Tristian to chase it.
“Yes,” I gasp, so laser focused on the wet point of his tongue that I don’t even notice Dimitri appearing beside the chair until he reaches out to tangle his fingers into my hair.
“Promise,” he gently demands, pushing his palms up my sides, “that you’ll always be ours.”
“As much as we are yours,” Dimitri adds in a ragged octave, freeing his cock from his boxers.
I thread my fingers into Killian’s hair, and it’s easy to give him this answer. “I promise.”
Still, I wait until he lowers his mouth to me—until I have the flushed head of Dimitri’s cock on my lips—until Tristian begins sucking a bruise into the junction of my neck—to make the real vow.
“Always.”