Page 84 of Dukes of Peril

Remy looks at me from where he’s leaning against the railing, and we share a smirk.

Maybe make that allfourof us.

Seems like I’m not the only one willing to let Bruce get his ass handed to him.

PNZ is notorious for recruiting pretty, rich fuckboys, but despite all the jokes and insults about them being pampered little pussies, they’re more than a nice trust fund. A Princeship might necessitate some form of blood lineage, but getting into the frat is somehow both easier and harder. Their skills run the gamut, because Ashby doesn’t care about specialty like the other houses do.

He’s a collector.

Only the best and brightest for his house. The future surgeons. The law majors with the highest promise. Engineering majors with a focus on security. CS majors who dominate hard enough that their op-sec is absolutely fucking bulletproof–something that used to drive Daniel Payne up the wall. They are undoubtedly the cream of the Forsyth crop, and I’ll give Ashby this much–it’s smart. For all the Princes might be about kicking out more Royals, he’s not building a family. He’s building an empire, and he pulls the brightest stars from the frat right into it. Saul has Neon and Ewing. Lionel Lucia has Cash Mallis. Daniel Payne hadme.

But Ashby doesn't recruit Forsyth’s garden-variety goons, and despite the fact he raised the man in the ring–even gave him his own last name–that’s exactly what Wicker Ashby and his two brothers are.

Recruits.

No one has ever been fooled. These three were chosen not by blood, but because they excel at something. God only knows what. Whatever it is, Wicker has a hunger in his eyes that I haven’t seen since my time in South Side, and it makes me more alert.

His two brothers, hovering just outside the ropes, watching him fight, aren’t much better.

Lavinia leans into me and follows my gaze to the hulking one. He’s got the hood of his sweater pulled up over his head, so I can’t see his face, but I know it’s his brother, Lex. “Is it weird that sometimes I feel better knowing Leticia, and I weren’t the most fucked up sibling group in Forsyth?”

I throw my arm over her shoulders, wondering, “Are you talking about me and Sy, or Ashby’s Powerpuff Boys?”

Her mouth purses in this insanely sexy way that always makes my dick twitch. “I’m talking about the farce of it all.” Loosely, she gestures to them. “The Prince tradition being all about blood links when their own King’s sons are adopted.”

Remy’s head whips around. “Wait. You’re telling me they’re not his real sons?”

“Dude,” Sy says, fixing him with a look. “Pace is half black.”

Remy waves a hand at me. “So? Like you’re as white as your brother?”

My eyebrows rise. “He’s got a point, Brown Bear.”

Sy shakes his head, pinning his gaze back to Bruce’s beatdown. “Let’s face it. He calls them his sons, but they’re really just glorified employees.”

Remy turns to the ring, looking at Wicker a little more thoughtfully. “Princes get so hard about their paternity machine, I guess I just assumed.” And then, “How the fuck did Ashby become King without a blood heir, anyway? What a hypocrite.”

Sy shrugs. “Something nefarious, I’m sure.”

Lavinia looks between them, balking. “You don’t know, do you?” When the two of them just give her blank looks, Lavinia tuts. “Ashbydidhave a son. He died when he was little, just after Ashby became King.”

Already knowing this, I mutter, “Cancer or something.”

“I know he’s a total prick and all,” she says, frowning, “but I always thought it was really sad. Don’t you think?” She adjusts the strap on her top—a drapey thing that covers all the good spots while teasing me with the possibility underneath. There’s plenty of exposed skin, and I can’t keep my hands off her.

I tug her closer, not liking that she’s looking at those three. “Sad for a normal person, sure. For a Prince, it’s catastrophic. And for their King?” I let the silence speak for me.

Peering at her, Remy wonders, “Obviously Nick has a pocket full of Forsyth chatter, but how do you know all this?”

Scowling, she explains, “Oh, my father never missed an opportunity to gloat about that. He drilled our superior lineage into us whenever possible. Sadly, his own Royal spawns didn’t come equipped with dicks.”

Remy raises his beer, saying, “And we thank god for it every day,” and rests his hand on her ass, fingers sliding down to toy with the hem of her skirt. “Not everyone can be pure-bred studs like me and Nicky.” He shoots Sy a look. “No offense, brother.”

Sy, distracted with the fight, answers with a quick, absent-minded, “None taken.” His hands are coiled around the railing with a white-knuckled grip, but he pries one away to gesture angrily toward the ring. “I kept fucking telling him he needed to work on his cardio!” His eyes narrow, assessing every move. No matter the beef between him and Bruce, DKS losing even a single fight is an abomination in his eyes. He leans over the railing and shouts. “Block him! Use your legs!” When Wicker’s left hook lands, Sy drags a palm down his face. “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe he’s getting his ass kicked by an East Ender with manicured fingernails.”

While Sy spits curse after curse, I lean down to brush a kiss beneath Lavinia’s ear. “That shellacking will make my victory even sweeter. Everyone loves a comeback, and I already know how I want to celebrate it.”

A loud shout comes from across the balcony, drawing our attention. Obviously, we’re not the only ones enjoying the beat down. The Kings’ box is across the gym from us, but near enough to hear their ruckus. Tristian Mercer leans over the railing and shouts, “Ashby’s manicurist can fight better than that!” making Sy thrust out a palm, as if to say,See?!

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