Page 130 of Dukes of Peril

It’s not until the fifth second that she finally screams.

It’s a horrific sound, gnarled and muffled against the belt. I watch helplessly as her back contracts with the force of it, her lungs emptying themselves of the cry that claws from her throat.

“Stay,” Saul commands, his voice barking into my ear. “Hold it!”

My shoulders tremble with the impulse to pull it away, to throw it at Saul’s face, to feed it to Bruce through his fucking teeth. Baring my teeth, I count through gritted teeth, “...seven, eight, nine, ten.”

The iron falls to the floor with a resounding clatter.

I’d like to be the kind of guy who stays. The kind of guy who gathers Vinny up in my arms and soothes her through the hurt, the sting, the agony, the tears. I want nothing more than to be the one who presses a kiss against her brow and whispers to her about how strong she was. How fierce.

Instead, I bolt to the bathroom, barely reaching the toilet in time for the first retch to hit me. The bile burns–not hot enough–as everything I just ate comes back up. I grip the basin with trembling hands, taking in gulps of air that just get forced back out on the next back-aching heave.

I don’t know how long it takes to expel all the green and the orange, my body exorcising it like a demon. By the time the heaves grow dry, my abs twinge from the pressure, hand trembling as I lift it to flush everything away.

Collapsing on the floor, I spend a long moment catching my breath, too cowardly to go out there and face her.

In the end, Sy finds me there, head in my hands.

I don’t hear him come in, too distracted with the colors of her hurt to notice him until he’s kneeling beside me. I flinch at the feel of his palm on my back, but he doesn’t pull away.

He speaks in a detached tone that grips at me, drawing my gaze up. “They’re gone. They left.”

Nodding, I drag my wrist over my mouth. “Is she…?”

“She’s okay,” he says, but his eyes are hard and dark, full of a coldness I’m not used to seeing on him. I take his hand when he extends it, lifting me up off the floor. “She needs you,” is all he says, tipping his head toward the door.

That’s the only reason I leave, catching a glance of my ashen face in the mirror as I pass. I want nothing more than to lose myself in a bottle of booze–or shit, a bottle of pills–but I take one look at her and know I won’t.

She’s on her knees, back curled as she rests against Nick, panting. One tear-filled, gray eye peeks out at me through limp strands of her blue hair.

I fall to my knees beside them, voice wrecked. “I’m sorry.”

Her expression collapses as she pivots away from Nick, clutching for me. “Don’t,” she cries, winding her arms around my neck. “Remy, it’s not your fault.”

She smells like panic and pain, green and yellow, ozone and smoke.

Burnt flesh and salt.

I cradle her head, too scared to touch any part of her below the neck. When I look at Nick, he’s staring at the mark I left on her back, his body clenched so tightly in anger that he’s shaking.

From above us comes Sy’s even voice. “Looks like it’s time we have that talk, Nicky.”

Nick glances up, locking eyes with his brother. “Which talk would that be?”

“The one where we kill Saul Cartwright,” Sy says, “and make you King.”

23

Lavinia

I wakeup on my side, with Archie curled into the warm curve of my neck.

From the light pouring in through the tall window, it must be past noon already. My throat is dry, my eyes are sticky, and strangely enough, the first hint of pain I feel is on the edge of my jaw where Brice Oakfield’s palm struck me.

It only takes one deep breath to remember the wound on my back, though.

The flare of hurt is instant and nagging, throbbing in time to my pulse, making me hiss. Archie responds with a twitched ear, shifting only enough to give my chin an investigative sniff.

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