Page 166 of Dukes of Peril

“We’re not through,” mom says, as much to him as to me.

“Of course not,” he says, standing and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

Remy walks into the room, having linked up with Lavinia at some point. The two of them have been wound around each other a little intensely these past few days, and right now is no different, their fingers tangled together loosely between them as they filter in.

Remy looks hopefully at the dishes. “Any leftovers?”

Mom smiles up at him. “Already packed up.”

He touches his chest with a solemn expression. “You never fail me, Sarah.”

With our mom distracted, Sy gives me a hard, annoyed look. “Thanks for taking your time saving me,” he quietly hisses.

Sniffing dismissively, I say, “I was busy.”

“Yes,” he rolls his eyes, “we all heard.”

If he wants me to be embarrassed that people could hear my fuck-rhythm when the dresser hit the wall, he’s out of luck. I pat his shoulder. “Jealousy is a bad shade on you, big brother.”

He shakes his head. “You’re a fuckwit.”

“A well-fucked fuckwit.”

Piled with leftovers and two additional pies, the drive back to West End is spent in a quiet sort of anticipation. At the main intersection, Sy flips on the signal to the left—toward the gym.

Lavinia leans between the seats, looking between us. “Hey, guys? I know the game is a tradition, but…”

She doesn’t need to finish the sentence.

We’ve spent the week following the explosion living out of a hotel–a nice one next to the university, paid for out of the King’s coffers, while the tower was methodically swept for additional signs of explosives. Turns out, being a King in Forsyth comes with a heavy stipend, and since Saul didn’t have an heir, he’d left everything to his successor. His accounts and real estate, including his penthouse, all belong to Simon Perilini now.

But none of us have an interest in moving into Saul’s property. At least not yet. We just want the tower and its staircase, the belfry and its open sky, the floors and walls that Remy swears are living, breathing things.

Our eyes all meet in the rearview mirror and Sy flips the blinker again, turning toward the towering structure in the distance. The clock’s hands are still frozen in time, but the building is safe. “Let’s go home,” he agrees.

Most of the time,I know just who I am and exactly what I want. Pops used to tell me I’m a manifester– and then Dad said if I ever want to get a conventional job, I should use the term ‘motivated self-starter’. Really, it’s not often I surprise myself.

But sometimes I do.

I’m sitting on Remy’s bed, bringing a beer to my mouth as I watch the way he curls over Lavinia’s hand. She’s on his weird table-chair-bed thing, but only perched on the edge. Her palm is flat against the table and Remy has this look on his face, all focused and soft. I’ve seen him give dozens, maybe even hundreds of tattoos by now–a lot of them on me directly–and he’s always methodical and precise.

But I’ve never seen him work like he does with Lavinia. He keeps tucking his hair behind his ear, but it’s not quite long enough to hold, so it springs back, and he does it again, and again, not even looking frustrated. He’s too distracted for all that. His green eyes hone in on her skin like it’s something religious–something worth worshiping.

The surprise is that I like it. The way they look together. How Remy treats her so reverently. The adoration in Lavinia’s eyes when she takes over the task of holding his hair back, the fingers of her free hand curling it behind his ear.

Something clinks against the neck of my bottle and I look over, my brother pulling his own beer back. “Yeah,” he says, eyes moving back to Remy and Lavinia. “I feel that.”

The Archduke, having been returned to us by Verity an hour ago, is currently nestled in Sy’s lap, aggressively cleaning his tail. Despite being the one to put his foot down about a hotel room not being a fit place for a cat, he’s monopolizing Archie’s affection like he’s missed him.

“You look ridiculous,” I say, taking another pull from my bottle.

Sy’s eyebrows snap into a glare as he assesses himself. A hulk of a man, a skilled fighter, a killer, the reigning King of West End.

And his fluffy white kitten.

Sy shrugs, raising his beer to his lips. “He’s the Archduke,” he replies, as if this is a perfectly valid explanation.

I suppose it is.

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