Page 117 of Dukes of Peril

How could I possibly forget?

“You don’t need to save me all the time…”

I exhale, knowing he’s right. Remy might need a doctor, but it’s not going to be me. Letting the tension fall off my shoulders, I try on a coy grin, fluttering my eyelashes. “That you wanted Sy or Nick to fuck me at the same time you did?”

His eyes darken, a smirk flirting at the corner of his mouth. “That,” he says, leaning down to brush his lips against my ear, “and that I love you.”

Lucias have never been the type for sentimentality. Before I came to West End, I’d never heard those words said to me before. For a long time, they made me feel uncomfortable, panicked, and maybe deep down, painfully unworthy of them. Now, they warm me from within, an odd sense of calm soothing over the tight boulder of alarm in my gut.

I turn to brush a kiss against his clean-shaven jaw, whispering, “I love you, too.”

He pauses just short of pressing his mouth to mine, eyes zeroed in on my lips. I understand why. It’d be easy to get lost in each other right now. To forget what we have to do. To let our guards down and indulge in this feeling, so raw and enticing.

Sighing, he links our fingers together and jerks his head toward the tent. “Whenever you’re ready, Duchess.”

Taking a bracing inhale, I nod, leading us to the looming tent. I scowl at Saul’s goons, Neon and Ewing–the guy who took me out of class. Neon opens the flap to the tent when we approach, but he’s stone-faced, impervious to our arrival. Even when Remy empties the last bit of his beer an inch from Ewing’s feet, and says, “My bad,” neither of them blink.

We step inside and I’m shocked at the size of the room. It’s an elaborate set up of professional gaming tables, a full bar, and a stage along the back wall. I don’t miss the stripper pole affixed to the center of the stage, all looming and gross.

We had nothing to do with his part of the setup. It was spearheaded by someone in Saul’s office. He made it clear what our roles are tonight: hosts and their sacrificial lamb.

We cross the room, to the flap that leads backstage—the dressing area. I’d already put my things here earlier. Remy bends and gives me a kiss, tongue slipping between my lips, hot and possessive. “Just a few hours,” he whispers, eyes intense as they hold mine, “and we’ll be out of here.”

He’d agreed to tend the bar. Sy will act as general security. And Nick, if he shows, will be the host to match my hostess, socializing and networking. My stomach flips with apprehension.

What if he doesn’t show?

Remy turns his gaze toward the back of the tent. “I should probably go get behind the bar and learn how to make douchey drinks.” He dips his fingers under my waistband, giving the star a reassuring little rub before reluctantly dragging himself away.

It takes everything in me not to clutch for him.

We’ve all got a part to play tonight, I need to go get ready for mine.

I spend the whole time getting dressed lost in a stupor of worry. Nancy, one of the older cutsluts, wordlessly steps up to lace my corset for me. While I gather her hair into a tight, high ponytail, Laura kneels down to snap the back of my garter belt into my thigh highs. It’s an odd unity here, each of us helping the other without even having to ask. There’s a station for hair straightening, and then a station for hair curling. Greta and Lucy are the two cutsluts who make a circuit around the room, painting a glittery card suit below each girl’s left eye. Laura is the Ace of Diamonds. Greta is the Nine of Hearts. Nancy is the Jack of Spades.

I’m the Queen of Clubs.

None of us miss that the symbol looks like a bear's paw printed on my cheek.

I save my hair for last, gathering it into a high bun, and then reach into my bag to pull out the hair pin Sarah had given me. The nervousness in my belly flares up at the thought of bringing a snake into this place, but when Laura watches me stick it through the center of my bun, she grins.

“Dope pin, Lavvy.”

Shrugging into my short satin robe, I say, “Thanks,” some of the tension falling away.

It helps that the first person I see when I step out of the dressing room is Sy. He’s across the room, changed into a black suit with a white button down. His eyes find me like a magnet, sweeping across the room and coming to a hard stop on mine. His jaw goes tight as he looks down, getting a good look at my outfit before I close the robe. His hands are shoved too deeply in his pockets for me to see it, but I can perfectly imagine how tightly he’s curling his fists right now.

It’s at that moment I realize that we’ve been put in an impossible situation. It’s not just me that’s on display. It’s my men, hot-blooded and possessive, short-fused and cornered. Seeing me like this? It’ll take a miracle for the four of us to get out of here alive.

I tug at the satin trim on the robe, my throat suddenly tight.

“Don’t fidget.” A hand falls over mine and I look down. The fingers have the letters D-U-K-E inked across them, a heavy gold ring glinting from the ambient light. “Don’t ever let them see you squirm.” My movements still under his touch, but when I look beside me, my breath gets caught somewhere in my chest.

Nick is in a suit, just like Remy and Sy, the top three buttons on his shirt hanging open, revealing the tattoos inked on his muscular chest. Clean-shaven. Hair slicked back. Blue eyes flick to mine, but I don’t see anything in them, the patented mask firmly in place. Nick, the soldier, has always been expressionless, cold, and lethally mechanical. I’ve been dreading the return of this part of him ever since he killed Perez.

“Nick,” I start, but before I finish, he removes his hand.

“Come on,” he says, voice smooth and measured. “Let’s get this over with.”

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