Page 115 of Dukes of Peril

She produces a pair of thigh-highs, saying offhandedly, “Saul wasn’t Tate’s King. He was her employer.” Catching the look on my face, she explains, “The kids in West End do that sometimes. He pays well for certain jobs, and while I’m sure you can’t relate, financial desperation has a way of making anyone reevaluate their stance on the Royalty.”

I roll this over in my head as I try on the outfit, barely seeing it. “Do the guys know about this?” I finally ask, standing still as she assesses the bustier.

“Ask them,” is all she says, holding up the garter belt to my hips. She nods in approval. “This is the one. Not too sweet, not too trashy. It suits your personality.” From the sly smile she gives me, it’s hard to believe I’d ever seen that split-moment of dread in her eyes. “Your Dukes will love it.”

Forsyth goes allin for homecoming weekend. Orange and purple are blanketed over every column and staircase. There are events and activities across campus, but it seems like it’s all just preliminary for the final party on Saturday night.

On the outside, homecoming feels like wholesome fun: the parade, the football game, concerts, and parties. But in the bright glare of the carnival rides and games, under the squeal of children stuffing their faces with cotton candy, it’s impossible to forget what’s coming later tonight.

“So this is what living in a parallel universe looks like,” I say, handing Story the money from the beer truck.

She jots the amount down on a receipt and zips up the money bag, securing the built-in lock. “What do you mean?”

“Killian and Sy have been competing in some kind of strong man contest for the past thirty minutes.” From what I can tell, the challenge is to see who can hold the most weight on their body for the longest period of time. They’re each standing on a massive, novelty-sized scale up on a stage, and every five minutes one of the volunteers hangs another weight over their taut biceps. They’re currently breaching the hundred-pound mark. “And no one has pulled out a knife yet.”

“Killian doesn’t use knives,” she says absently. “That’d be Dimitri. But yeah, somehow, one night of the year, they manage to play nice.”

The crowd growing around the two guys gets bigger the more weight is added. Kids seem to love the display the most, cheering on the guys when another five pounds is added.

“Who’s ready for the final test?” the volunteer asks the crowd.

“I’m ready,” Killian says, his grin smug. The Lords’ King is massive. Fit as fuck.

But there’s no one in this world more competitive than Simon Perilini.

“You got this, baby!” Story shouts. He hears her, looking up and over the heads of the spectators, winking at his Queen.

The whole crowd, Sy included, watches as the volunteer adds more weight, the scale inching up another twenty pounds. That’s when my Sy jerks his chin. “Keep going.”

Killian rolls his eyes, but Sy takes on the extra weight. Ten, fifteen, twenty more pounds. The increase is evident when Sy’s face turns red, and the tendons in his neck bulge.

He won’t just last the longest, he’ll have the most weight.

“Hey, beautiful. What’cha looking at?” Remy appears at my side, grabbing a beer off the cart. When he spots the competition, he shakes his head. “There is literally no such thing as a challenge he’ll pass up, is there?”

I take in his outfit. With his normal attire of worn jeans and T-shirts, Remy is the kind of man you forget is wealthy, until he shows up like this. A pale green shirt that pulls the color from his eyes, black jacket and pants that look like they were sewn to fit his body. Even the tattoos peeking out of his collar and shirt cuffs aren't enough to dampen the masculine elegance of the look.

A tremor shoots through my body at the memory of him taking me up in the bell tower last night.

“That beer isn’t free, you know,” Story says, interrupting my ogling and shooting him a glare.

His eyes narrow in return, and he takes a long, slow sip. “Hey, don’t get bitchy at me because your man is about to lose.”

“He’s not going to lo—”

Remy tips his cup at the stage and Killian explodes in a loud groan before dumping the weights to the ground. A bell rings and Sy, with a cheering crowd of delighted observers, is confirmed the last man standing.

“Hell yeah, brother!” Remy shouts, raising his beer in the air. “To the victor!” It’s as much to congratulate his best friend as it is to rub it in Story’s nose.

Story sighs. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an ego to patch up. Later, Lav.” She rolls her eyes and walks off, money bag tucked safely under her arm.

“And that’s how you suck in a new generation of DKS,” Remy says proudly.

I see that he’s right. A slew of kids crowded around both Sy and Killian are eagerly demanding autographs and fist bumps. Fuck. Are we in a cult?

But as the excitement dies down, Remy and I grow quiet, unable to avoid the tick of the clock. The game starts in an hour.

Drawing my eyes from the spectacle, I ask, “Have you seen Nick?”

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