Page 167 of Dukes of Peril

The buzz of the tattoo gun suddenly stops, drawing our gazes to the table. Remy purses his lips as he inspects his work, wiping down her finger before tilting the hand from side to side. She watches with him, but I already know she’s pleased with it when she looks up to catch my eye.

In a tone that’s clearly meant to convey her thoughts on my earlier whining, she says, “It wasn’t so bad.”

I scoff. “Fingers hurt like a bitch. You’re all fronting.”

Sy fidgets with the gauze around his own finger. “Pretty easy, as far as victory tats go.”

Remy looks Lavinia straight in the eye as he raises her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. She flushes under the intensity, because it’s notjusta victory tattoo. The sad fact of the matter is that three men can’t marry the same woman. It doesn’t really mean much in a place like Forsyth, where relationships like ours aren’t exactly a rarity.

The rings tattooed on each of our fingers aren’t legally binding in any way.

But they’re still a promise.

He pulls Lavinia from the table with his hands on her hips, giving her ass a little slap. “Nicky will do the ointment.”

She climbs into the bed, moving to sit between me and Sy. Archie gives a little squawk when he sees her, and she reaches out, running her finger over his nose.

“Give me your hand,” I tell her, and she rests it on my knee. I look down at the delicate design–four narrow lines–creating one band. “You sure that didn’t hurt?”

“I know pain, Nick,” she touches my chin, “and this isn’t it.”

There’s no accusation in her tone, just facts. Lavinia proved one thing in her time as Duchess, she doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want. And this tattoo–this ring—proves one thing for certain.

She wants us.

The next morning,she hauls us all out of bed and up the stairs to the clock room, eyes alight as she directs us back down with the supplies and components. At some point over the last few decades, a group of Dukes clearly decided this godforsaken clock was never going to work again, and took down the mechanisms that connected it to all the guts upstairs.

“You’re not lifting it high enough,” she says as she stares up at me, hands on her hips. She’s wearing this teeny little tank top that isn’t exactly helping me stay focused, especially given that I’m looking right down the neck of it, but I try.

Goodgod, I try.

The last time I climbed up into these rafters, it was to spy on her. This time, it’s because she bullied my brother and I up here to be the muscle to lift the pinion, or shaft, or whatever-the-fuck it’s called. It’s more like an enormous metal rod that weighs a metric shit-ton. We have it rigged with ropes so all we have to do is pull, and about twenty feet down the rafter, my brother fixes me with the most insincere look of concern he can manage.

“You need to do more bench presses, Nicky.” He wraps the rope around his fists, looking cool as a cucumber. “It’s not really that heavy.”

My eye twitches, jaw clenching. “On three.”

I’ll show this asshole who needs to do bench presses.

Remy, who’s on a ladder in front of the clock, is holding the end of the pinion, attempting to guide it into the threads in the center of the clock face. Apparently, this monstrosity will be responsible for turning the hands on the clock.

Who knows if it actually will.

“One, two, three.” Grunting, I pull. Sy is careful to keep pace, making sure the shaft doesn’t just slide right out of the rope cradle and crash into the living room.

“Almost there,” she calls out, tipping her head back to watch Remy. He directs it a little to the right, arms straining, and then– “There!” I can feel it locking into place, Remy rushing to slide the threaded bolt to it, tightening it hastily. Lavinia brings her hands together in a victorious clap. “Now we need to attach the–”

“I’m on it,” Sy says, tying the rope off on the beam he’s straddling. It holds the shaft steady as Remy hauls the ladder back down to where the coffee table used to be, climbing until he’s teetering at the very top.

Lavinia watches this all while grasping the ladder from the ground, gasping every time the ladder shifts. Fortunately, Remy’s never been sketchy about heights–even when he really fucking should be–and he easily catches the rod that emerges through the ceiling, affixing the transmission joint to the monstrosity that’s currently making my arms ache.

He gives it a testing shake, Lavinia on the edge of having a stroke as she watches the ladder wobble, but he had all the parts right.

It’s solid as fuck.

I let the rope go slowly, more for her sake than mine, watching as her face goes from panicked, to cautious, to bright enough to light up the room.

“You did it!” she yells, catching Remy in a celebratory embrace the second his feet touch the floor. To us, she orders, “Text me if it moves!” and drags him by the hand up the staircase to the loft, disappearing through the door that leads to the clock room.

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