Page 103 of Dukes of Peril

She gives a slow, heavy nod. “I was afraid of that. Maybe I’ve always been afraid of that.”

“Would it be so bad?” I wonder, searching her expression. Pretty Nick Bruin, King of West End, the way it should be. Yeah, Nick has issues, but he’s no Saul Cartwright. He’d do right by our house. “To the victor go the spoils,” I remind her. Nick would have power, prominence, opportunity. There’s not a lot of that out there for a guy with his background. Men with facial tattoos don’t become CEOs.

She gives me a slow, sad smile. “And to the defeated go the casket.”

I feel my face harden. “My Dukes don’t lose.”

“I hope you’re right,” she says, eyes tired and damp as she reaches for the bundle of blue silk beside her. “But just in case you’re not…” She flips the fabric up, revealing a curvy, silver spike. No–not a spike.

Asnake.

It’s about ten inches long, and I’m so enthralled by the glint of the fire catching on the scales that it takes me a long moment to recognize what it is.

A hair pin.

“It was your mother’s.”

My eyes fly to hers, heart skipping a beat. “What?”

Sarah extends it to me, explaining, “I guess you can say she loaned it to me. It was after one of Davis’ matches.”

I reach out, fingers hovering over the pin, before plucking it from the satin. It’s heavy and solid, shiny and– “Shit,” I hiss, pricking the pad of my fingertip on the spiked edge.

Sarah nods. “It’s a weapon just as much as an ornament.” She gestures to my hair, which I’d pulled up into a loose bun for the night. “She wore her hair like that a lot.”

I’ve seen photos, my mother’s long, blonde hair twisted up into a bun, usually with one of these stabbed through it. The hair pinisan ornament, delicate and feminine, and I feel my world reorient itself as I imagine her having held this in her hand.

“She loaned it to you?” I press, trying not to sound accusatory.

She winces. “I meant to give it back, but it wasn’t too long after that we left the belfry for good.” Sarah nods at the pin. “The night she gave it to me, Davis was fighting her Count. Not your father,” she’s quick to add. “But it was a rowdy crowd and some of the Kappas were out for blood. I’m sure you can appreciate that the wardrobe of a Royal woman isn’t always conducive to concealed weaponry.” She smirks at the comprehension dawning on my face.

“This is a weapon a woman can wear with anything,” I realize.

“Yes,” she agrees, watching me intensely. “Or nothing.”

I shudder to imagine the situations my mother–or even Sarah herself–must have found herself in back then.

I guess I won’t have to imagine for long.

Reluctantly, I confess, “I’ve… never had anything of my mother’s before. Anything worth handing down went to my sister, and Lucias… well, we aren’t much for sharing.” Tearing my eyes away from the silver, I look up, meeting Sarah’s gaze as I spear the pin through my hair. “Thank you.”

She responds with a tight smile. “I know my boys would do anything to protect you. I also know they’ve been one of the things you’ve needed protection from.”

Frowning, I say, “Things are different now.”

“I’ve seen.” She doesn’t look relieved. If anything, the crease of worry in her forehead deepens. “But Lavinia, some things about my sons will never change. I promise you, I’ve tried. These… personality traits might make them good Dukes, but I suspect they don’t make them easy to love.”

I hesitate, unsure I can tell her what she wants to hear. The way I am with my Dukes… it’s still new. “What are you getting at?”

“I just hope,” she says, eyes dipping down to her wringing hands, “if you’re ever put in the position, you’ll protect my sons the same way they’d protect you.”

When it finally hits me, I jolt. “Of course I would.” As much as I want to feel insulted by the implication I’d let them die, I know Sarah couldn’t understand. She looks at me and sees the same broken, bitter girl who was sitting in the clock tower before the Baron’s equinox party.

“I can’t help them, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t want to.” I looked her in the eye that day, telling her nothing but the bare truth of it. “You seem like a nice woman, but you need to know this. Your sons are fucking terrible.”

In the glint of the string lights, I can almost imagine Sarah as she used to be. Young and commanding, beautiful and strong–just like my mother. Her eyes sparkle as she smiles. “You really are the perfect Duchess,” she muses, the praise warming me in a way I’m not expecting. “Sometimes I think that’s why they keep the families competing, you know. A Lucia girl in West End? No one would have entertained it, but here you are, getting ready.”

I blink. “Getting ready for what?”

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