Page 172 of Dukes of Peril

“And a new Princess, too,” she adds, eyeing me over her mug. “I guess that’s one less Royal to worry about for Screw Year’s Eve.”

I snort. “Please. I don’t think any Princess has ever gotten into the ring. They’re always pregnant by the time New Year’s rolls around.”

“Vinny!” My name is shouted across the yard. “You’ve got to come see this.”

“I’m being summoned.” I stand, gathering the blanket around my shoulders. “Let’s make sure everyone is playing nice.”

I’m not surprised when I see a group of guys surrounding the flat sheet of ice. Competition is contagious, and now it’s not just the Dukes battling it out for whatever the hell curling is… rock sliding? Ice scrubbing? Winter bowling?

“How is this an Olympic sport?” Story asks, easing against Rath’s side as his arm comes around her.

Killian Payne is beside Nick, who’s propped against his broom handle. “You hear about this shit with the Princes?” he asks.

Nick dips his chin in a nod. “Never a shortage of drama in the purple palace.”

“There are rumors,” Killian says, ducking closer to keep his voice low, “that Ashby’s going to put his sons in the palace.”

Nick’s eyebrows knit together. “He can’t do that. Lex is graduating this year, and Pace just got out of prison for that stuff over spring break.”

Shrugging, Killian notes, “It’s what I’ve been hearing, and Ashby might just be nervous enough to buck tradition. My father’s dead. Saul’s dead. Lionel’s dead.” Killian glances up, catching my frozen eye for a split second. “Three out of five, Nick. The old generation is pissing their pants.”

Sy strolls up, having obviously heard some of this. “I say let them. Better off with Ashby’s spoiled little misfits than someone who poses a real threat. None of them are even real Royalty, anyway.” Pausing with a beer halfway to his mouth, Sy glances at Rath. “No offense. I obviously don’t buy into the bloodline bullshit.”

Nick says, “Ashby does, though.” I don’t like the look in his eyes, as if he’s struggling to come to a decision. The seed of something dark grows, turning his gaze on Killian. “Did your dad ever tell you Wicker’s real last name?”

Killian frowns, watching as an LDZ stokes the fire across the yard. “No. I didn’t even think he knew anything.”

“It’s Kayes,” Nick says, keeping his voice low. “Wicker Kayes.”

I jolt forward, eyes wide. “You mean like Clive Kayes?” I look at Remy, who’s currently crouched down on the ice, sliding a rock.

Story tips her head to the side. “Who’s Clive Kayes?”

I clutch my mug close, swallowing. “He’s the Baron legacy.” It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth, either.

Rath asks the question we’re all thinking. “What the fuck is a relation to the Baron King doing in East End?”

But that’s the thing. Clive Kayes isn’t the King of the Barons.

And we’re the only ones who know it.

Nick locks eyes with me, a silent understanding passing between us. “And what’s he doing with Ashby’s last name?”

The question hangs in the air, enticing but full of worry. If Wicker is a Kayes, and Ashby is a collector, then who are the other two,really?

Over the heaviness of my thoughts, I hear Tristian Mercer and Remy approaching. It’s an odd tableau, the eight of us. North and West. Lord and Duke.

“So,” Tristan says, cleaving through the tense silence. “Have you ever heard of a game called Candy Cocks?”

“Is this really necessary?”

Remy’s pupils are blown wide as they fix on my nipples. “Babe, you have to be slippery as fuck out there. Can’t let her get a hand on you.”

Remy’s been massaging oil onto my tits for a solid three minutes under the guise of covering me in what he claims is ‘absolutely necessary’ baby oil. The tenting in his jeans reveals an unmistakable erection.

“That’s gonna leave a mark!”Nick’s voice echoes into the lounge as he calls the match before mine.

“Rem,” I say, growing both exasperated and completely horny, “please finish up so I can get dressed.”

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