Page 114 of Dukes of Peril

“You’re pissed about the show, aren’t you?” she asks, tapping her long nails on the edge of her desk.

“It’s humiliating,” I admit. I gave the cutsluts an out. They don’t have to participate if they don’t want to. But I don’t have that choice. Duchess’ duty. “Saul’s only making me do it because—” But I clamp my mouth shut.

Mama B’s eyes narrow enough for me to know she sees through my silence. She may not know about the video orwhythe video is a powerful piece on the chessboard between my Dukes and their King, but she doesn’t need details. She understands this world.

“You’re right,” she says, filling in the gap. “It doesn’t matter if it’s humiliating, demeaning, or degrading. Your King gave you a command.” She tilts her head, a calculating look crossing her features. “And you’re actually going to do it, aren’t you? You’re going to parade that prissy ass around the stage for a bunch of stuffy bruisers who’d give their left nutsacks to leave a handprint on it, and you’re not even going to put up a fuss.” I stiffen, expecting her to ridicule me for it, maybe even rub my face in it. Instead, she gives me a small, but no less severe grin. “I respect that, Lucia.” She stands from the chair and rounds the desk, walking to the door. “Come on.”

She strides past me on boots with five-inch heels, heading toward the cutslut’s lounge. None of the other girls are around, just a few guys working out in the gym. In the lounge, she passes the lockers and vanities, pulling out a ring of keys from her jacket pocket, which she uses to unlock a closet against the back wall.

“I’m sure we can find you something in here.” She glances at me over her shoulder. “No need to spend your own money for one night. Mama always does her girls up right.”

In the closet is a row filled with outfits, although the descriptor seems like a stretch. Nothing in that array of lace and silk could be described as actual clothing.

Lingerie is the better word.

“This is forundermy costume, right?” I ask, shifting anxiously.

Mama B rolls her eyes. “Jesus, girl, stop acting like you’re some kind of delicate flower. We all know you’ve got three rowdy Dukes railing you balls-deep every night.” My jaw drops, but quickly snaps shut. Mama B notices, though, putting a hand on her hip. “Listen, Lavinia, you’re a beautiful woman. Hot. Sexy. And you’re being asked to flaunt that for the DKS alumni for a couple hours. Yes, it’ll be demeaning, and maybe a lot of these assholes have got it out for you on account of your last name. But you’ve got three protective daddy bears to keep you safe.” She gestures to my body, voice flippant. “All you need to do is show a little skin, make your father’s enemies horny, take a little of their shit, and then you can go home and take your frustration out on your men.”

“I’m not a prude—”

“Good.” She pulls out a red lace bodysuit and holds it up to me, turning her head in assessment. “Try that on.”

I look around, but there’s no partition for privacy. I know the other girls always just change in front of their lockers, but still. Like a prude, I blurt, “Here?”

She gives me a wry look. “Honey, you think I’ve never seen a pair of tits before?” Reaching up, she gives her own breasts an embellished squeeze. “Try it on. Let me get an idea of what will look best.”

Boundaries. None of these people have them. I rest the lingerie on a chair and quickly undress. Mama B flips through the rack while she waits, the scrape of the metal hangers against the bar the only sound in the small room. I get the bodysuit on—I mean, if you can call it that. It’s made of sheer netting that does little to hide anything. The majority of the fabric is around my neck and the long row of buttons lining the back.

“A little help?” I ask, turning my back to her.

Mama B faces me and nods approvingly. “Good. You’ve filled out since you first got here.”

I clamp down on a rush of embarrassment. “Being out of captivity will do that to a girl.”

Her long nails graze my skin as she fusses with the buttons. “You saying Delores didn’t feed you?”

“She did.” God, the last thing I need is for Mrs. Crane to catch some gossip that I’m badmouthing her. Although, to be perfectly frank, her cooking left a lot to be desired. “I just didn’t have much of an appetite back then. But the boys like me a little meatier.”

She snorts and spins me around. “I bet.” Instantly, however, her nose wrinkles. “Aw, hell. Makes your tits look flat. Take that off.”

Irritation, along with the humiliation of being treated like a Barbie doll, flares in my chest. “Would you be so blasé about all of this if Saul was making Verity entertain these assholes?”

Her jaw tightens, and I can see that I’ve struck a nerve. She plays it off well enough, turning to pull out another set—this one leopard print with fur trim. “Lucky for her, she’s not a daughter of Royalty. Saul Cartwright wants nothing to do with her.”

I can’t tell if she’s pissed about this or not, but I think back to what Sarah said about Saul not being interested in her either. I remove the red number and reach for the leopard print. Jesus. “Well, she’s a virgin, so she’s halfway there.” Mama B throws me a wide-eyed look, and I explain, “Verity told me she saved herself for the Dukes—if they chose her for Duchess.” I wiggle into the leopard lingerie, which I realize makes me look like I’m cosplaying as a cat. “Nope. Can’t do it,” I say, peeling it right back off. I’ve just handed Mama B the outfit when a thought pops into my mind. “Wait, is Verity Saul’s daughter?”

Her head snaps back in shock, face twisted in outrage. “Hell no! Him and I might fuck occasionally, but that’s just gravity, Lucia. Even a snob like Saul has basic needs. Sometimes I’m able to meet them, but Saul would sooner lop his own dick off than stick it in a woman who wants a baby.” She gives me another surly look. “Verity’s father was a useless deadbeat who’s currently dead as a doornail.”

“Okay,” I concede, raising my palms, “all of that is beside the point. If Verity was asked to do this, would you be in here playing dress up with her?”

She levels me with a look that’s both hard and convicted. “Sweetheart, I don’t know how it’s done in North Side, but around here? If your King calls your daughter into service, you better have her waxed, trimmed, buffed, shined, and her asshole bleached to the heavens before personally delivering her to his doorstep, wrapped up in a bow.” Her eyebrow arches. “But why would Saul be interested in my girl when there’s a Lucia sitting right in front of him?”

I tense, taking a frilly black babydoll number from her outstretched hand. It’s not a good feeling, knowing that no matter what I do or who I become, the last name of the man I hate most will always define me. “That doesn’t repel you?” I mutter bitterly, slipping the sheer fabric over my head, my shoulders, my tits. “A King is only interested in daughters from other Kingdoms for one reason. He’s obviously looking for some poor girl to abuse, like that’s the ultimate shame to her father, not to mention–”

“Stop,” she snaps, and for a moment I see a crack in her finely honed armor, eyes ringed with panic. After a pause, she looks me up and down, quickly composing herself. “That’s… far too cute for you. These men will be expecting a Duchess, not a Princess. Take it off.” I keep my mouth shut as she cards through the rack in search of something less cute. “Around here,” she says, not turning to look at me, “we like to give our girls a purpose that isn’t just spreading their thighs. Saul has a position ready and waiting for any West End girl.” She plucks something off the rack, staring down at it for a suspended moment. “Just look at Tatum.”

My head snaps up. “Tate? The guys’ Tate?” Mama B looks flippant when she hands over a black corset, too distracted with rifling through a box of garter belts to notice the doubt on my face. “Because from what I hear, she didn’t seem like the type to buy into all this King stuff.”

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