Page 5 of The Kings
The city lights streak by, a hazy ribbon of gold and crimson against the night. Empty streets become my playground as I push the Porsche to its limits, the purr of the engine a low growl in the silence. My mind’s racing faster than the car, every thought drenched in memories of Eliza—her skin, her scent, the way she came all over my cock from only a few thrusts.
She thinks she’s seen the world, but she’s barely skimmed the surface. Next week, when she steps into our domain, I’ll show her depths she never knew existed. It’s an addictive surge of power, knowing I’ll be the one to unravel her first.
“Fuck,” I mutter, shifting gears as I imagine the ways I’ll torment her—the challenge in her eyes when I push her too far, the defiance that’ll break into desire. It’ll be a sweet display of discipline and disorder.
Two hours peel away as the city is left behind, and the quaint town of CastleGate, where the University is situated, swims into view. The three-storey townhouse where we live, looms ahead, a modern fortress at the edge of Castle University’s campus. I kill the engine and step out.
They’re waiting for me.
I stride into the living room, where they lounge like kings in their casual court—each with a dangerous glint in their eye. But that’s what we are. We are The Kings of Castle, and Eliza will be our Queen.
“Raph,” my twin brother, Tarquin, murmurs. “We expected you back a while ago.”
“Got caught up. Aww, you missed me, you fucking prick.”
“Fuck you, asshole,” he grumbles, making me, Oliver and James laugh.
My eyes lock with Tarquin’s across the room, and with a subtle tilt of my head, I signal him. It’s the silent twin language we’ve honed since birth—no words needed when a glance suffices. His posture straightens, the irritated mask falling away to something more akin to the stone-cold lieutenant he is underneath.
“Here’s the deal,” I say. “Eliza needs to prove she can rule this place, carve out her own kingdom among the cutthroats and charmers.”
They all know what Castle University means—our turf, our rules, and throwing Eliza into the mix? That’s lighting a match near gunpowder.
“We watch her back, but we don’t help her. She stumbles, she picks herself up. She makes enemies, she fights them alone. We are here to make sure she doesn’t die, or Damon will have our nuts to wear as a hat. Got it? She is going to rip that crown off its pedestal and wear it with the blood of her enemies dripping down it.” My gaze drills into each of theirs, ensuring the message hits home hard and clear. “Let her rise or fall on her own, but she stays alive.”
“Then let the games begin,” Tarquin declares with a wicked smirk.
I turn away from these men, my brother and friends, hiding the truth of the fucking I gave Eliza only a couple of hours ago.
No one will know about this. Not yet—not even Tarquin, who shares my face, my blood. The secret is a weapon; in this world, and this can be used to torment and test Eliza.
Entering my bedroom on the top floor, I strip off to the waist, and my reflection stares back at me in the mirror—hard edges and inked skin, a roadmap of the life I’ve led.
I hit the floor, palms flat, body taut, and start knocking out press-ups with the precision of a machine. With each raise and fall, a silent count echoes in my head. This body is my fortress, my temple, my weapon—sharpened and ready for whatever shitstorm is coming our way. With every flex and clench of muscle, the image of Eliza flashes before my eyes—her sharp wit, those piercing green eyes that saw too much, and that damn tongue that could cut you to ribbons or bring you to your knees.
She’s under my skin, a constant itch I can’t scratch away. But in the game of thrones we play, love isn’t a luxury—it’s a liability.
One hundred turns to two hundred, the burn a reminder that pain is a small price to pay for power. It’s what keeps me razor-sharp, always one step ahead.
“Eliza Hughes, you don’t know what’s coming,” I whisper into the quiet of my room.
4
ELIZA
Two daysafter the one-nighter that has left me panting at the thought of that guy, my black Mercedes SLK purrs like a panther as I glide past the imposing iron gates of Castle University. The prestige of the place screams elite. Oxford was just the overture; now comes the crescendo.
“Welcome to your new hunting ground,” I murmur, pulling up curb side to give it a raking once-over. “You’re pretty, I’ll give you that, but I wonder how much more beautiful we can make you bathed in blood, hmm?”
My gaze lingers on the contours of ancient stone and ivy that cling to the university buildings. Each one whispers tales of power, secrets, and the kind of cutthroat ambition that would make Machiavelli sit up in his grave and take notes.
Castle will forge you, Eliza. It’s time you stood among peers who understand the weight of empires on their shoulders.
Well, Daddy dearest, challenge accepted.
This is all part of the game, and I’m fully aware that I’m going to have to earn my place here. Well, take it by force if it comes down to that. Which I assume it will. Dad has kept all this underwraps, sending me instead to Oxford for my first two years and then throwing in the deep end with the great whites.
Fun? Oh yes.
