Page 143 of Dukes of Peril

But what makes my stomach tight with unshed tears is the injustice. Saul died so Sy could become King. Nothing more. Maybe Sy looked him in the eye when he pulled that trigger and thought about his friend, but no part of his death was in vengeance for Leticia.

I hear the door shut, feeling the warmth of his presence behind me before he makes contact.

“I’m sorry.” Sy’s hand is heavy and warm on my shoulder. I press my wet cheek into it.

I’m not crying for my sister’s death. We buried her. Whatever morsels of grief I allowed myself to feel for her, I’ve let them go. These tears are for the way this city makes me feel. Empty and hopeless. A couple of dead girls is just another day in Forsyth.

“They deserved more,” I say, thinking about how they must have thought they’d found happiness. An escape. Am I fooling myself, too? Am I stupid to think that what we have in this belfry is enough to survive?

“That’s what we’re trying to do here,” he says, arms wrapping around my waist. “Tonight was just the start.”

I know it’s not fair–Sy has been King for only a few scant hours–but I can’t help the notion that it isn’t enough. He wouldn’t understand. He’s never been a woman in Forsyth. I turn and face him, jolting in surprise at the sight that greets me.

Sy is in nothing but a pair of boxers, his broad, russet chest on full display. His eyes cast down bashfully. “Nick took my clothes, because… uh, well, you know.”

“Evidence. Right.” I wrap my arms around his torso, trying to absorb his warmth. His heartbeat sounds strong and loud beneath my ear when I press it to his sternum, breathing in his scent. “Are you okay?” I ask, eyes fluttering at the sensation of his fingers stroking my hair. “What you had to do...”

Saul deserved to die. Honestly, he probably deserved something worse. But Sy doesn’t deserve to be haunted by it.

He pauses for only a brief moment, winding his arms around my shoulders, careful of my brand. “I thought it’d be strange to kill someone,” he says, voice low and soft, like he’s sharing something unbearably intimate. “Maybe it’s because it was Saul, or maybe it’s because I didn’t really have a choice. But it was… easy. I didn’t feel anything.” I feel his lips brush the top of my head, and then a hesitant question against my scalp. “Do you think that makes me like the rest of them?”

“No.” I don’t let him finish, tilting my head up to meet his blue eyes. “You protected your family. You protected your community–the people who count on you. The only thing that makes you is brave.”

He exhales, tipping his forehead to rest against mine. “It feels like a joke. Like I’m six again, tromping around in my dad’s shoes.”

Reaching up, I touch his cheek. “My father, Ashby, Remy’s dad? They’re the jokes, Sy. You’re the real deal.”

“But–”

I press my finger to his mouth, attempting to look stern. “Don’t badmouth my boyfriend. He’s a King, you know? He’ll totally beat you up.”

From the way his eyes bore into mine, I realize he needs this–a place where he can whisper these awful, untrue things. An ear that doesn’t belong to the men he has to lead and be strong for. “I have to meet with the other Kings,” he says, mouth lined with anxious tension. “What if I fuck it up?”

My answer is instant. “Then we’ll unfuck it. All of us.”

The kiss I push into his lips isn’t just about distracting him. It’s to show him that I can be that–a soft place for him to land. The pad of my thumb rasps over the stubble covering his jaw, and he reacts slowly, licking into my mouth as his hands find my hips, pulling our bodies flush.

I’m not exactly sure when Sy became such a good kisser. There at the beginning, when we were in the motel, he mostly treated it as an afterthought. These days, however…

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss with slick, sensuous licks of his tongue. He kisses with his body just as much as his mouth, curling around me as his palms slide over my hips, down to my ass. When I reach down between us, cupping his hardening cock in my palm, the sound he makes is soft and pained, as if he’s holding something back.

He shudders when I drag the boxers down his hips.

Breaking away, I eye him indulgently. The man. The fighter. The King. For the first time, he lets me–reallylets me–knitting his fingers behind his head as he watches me back. He has less scars than Remy and Nick, his dark skin so enticing that I have to run a fingertip down the ladder of his abs.

They flex the lower I get, dipping into the dark thatch of hair, and then lower, skating over the hot shaft of his cock.

He stops breathing when I reach the swollen head, his dick giving a sudden twitch. “Can I call them in?” he asks, voice rough. When I look up, his eyes are hooded, so dark that they’re almost black.

I bite my lip, knowing perfectly well what he’s asking for.

We don’t fuck without Nick and Remy here.

Wrapping my fingers around his length, I give a flippant, “No.”

“Oh.” He lowers his arms. “Okay.”

I strain up to kiss the disappointed frown from his mouth, backing us slowly towards the bed. “I trust you.”

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