Page 32 of Dukes of Peril

“Sorry,” I mutter. “That was harsh.”

We both let out a nervous laugh.

I pretend like I’m not remembering what she looked like riding my brother’s dick.

“No. You’re right. I’m finished.” She toys with the beaded fringe on the bottom of her skirt. It hangs like a curtain, shouting, ‘pull me up and come to the show.’

The hostess arrives, giving me a nod. “Your table is ready, Mr. Perilini.”

“Thank God,” I mumble, gesturing for Lavinia to go ahead of me. It’s a mistake. Every step sends that fringe swaying back and forth and my cock reacts predictably. Like a feral animal trying to escape a cage. I place my palm on the small of her back, not leading so much as allowing myself one small indulgence of her heat.

Accept. Acknowledge. Let it pass.

When I step in front of her to pull out her chair, she pauses, an odd look coming over her face. It’s gone just as quickly as it came. “So how’d you score a last-minute reservation at Stock and Barrel?” she asks, lowering herself into the seat.

“I have my ways.” Carefully, I push the chair back to the table. So far, despite the utter humiliation and the fact I want to rut her like a goddamn dog, I’ve managed to tick off every box in the gentleman playbook. Flowers. Holding the door for her. Taking her hand to help her out of the SUV. Walking closer to the street.

“I hear the waiting list is months long.” She freezes, eyes snapping to mine. “Wait. Unless it wasn’t last minute. Have you been planning this for a long time?”

I take a second to interpret the confusion in her eyes. I could lie. If I’d planned this during my week away, then it would have been a statement. A gesture. An apology. She might appreciate knowing I’d had the forethought, because yeah, of-fucking-course that’s what a guy does when he’s messed up.

I tell the truth instead.

“My mom is the owner’s therapist,” I explain, draping my coat over the back of the chair and taking the seat across from her. The table is next to the wide windows that overlook the water. It’s small, suffocatingly intimate, and with my large frame, not at all unlike sitting at a child's play table. I tuck my limbs in close to avoid knocking anything over. One wrong move and my shirt cuff could catch fire on the centerpiece candle. “He told her that whenever she wanted a table, it was waiting.”

She reaches for the menu. It’s narrow, on thick cardstock, and offers a limited selection. According to my mother, that’s how fancy places work. “It’s cool that your mom has her own career,” Lavinia says, eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “It’s very non-Royal. For a woman, I mean.”

I pick my menu up more for something to do with my hands than anything. My pops already told me what to order. “It’s one of the reasons my fathers decided to get out. Mom wanted to be a psychologist, not a Queen. They didn’t want to hold her back from her dream.”

Not that the comment from Remy’s father hasn’t taken root inside my mind.

“…for those two, it’s the secret. It’s the shame.”

My parents almost never talk about their time in West End, but I’ve never gotten the impression that there’s shame in their past. That my Pops lost the loyalty of his men. That my dad and him left not because they wanted to, but because they didn’t have a choice.

Then again, it wasn’t a week ago that Remy thought his father was just a lame, boring old real estate developer.

She stares at the menu, but sensing that she’s not really reading, I wonder, “Are you thinking about your own mom?”

She blinks up at me, the fog clearing from her eyes as she shrugs. “Or what our lives might have been like if my father had sacrificed his ambition the way yours did.”

Reasonably, I offer, “Abdicating has its own issues. My parents have had to look over their shoulders their entire lives. Career opportunities–the good ones–are hard to come by in Forsyth for an ex-Royal.” I take a sip of water. “And it’s one reason the Dukes are viewed as the lowest tier frat. Saul hasn’t been a failure as King, but he doesn’t have the bloodline. He has no heir, and it gives us weaker positioning. Like Nick said. It’s all about leverage.” My eyes meet hers. “We don’t have the luxury of losing. Ever.”

She tilts her head, something soft and pensive in her eyes. “It’s a shame, isn’t it? That people from good, strong, loving families are never the ones who take the crowns. It’s always the snakes and the rats.”

“Snakes eat rats,” I point out.

Lavinia’s red lips curl into a slow, knowing grin. “Bears eat both.”

My dick is instantly, unavoidably, fuckingagonizinglyhard. “Can I kiss you?” The request tumbles out with all the grace of a boulder, my voice dropping two octaves. I don’t actually mean to. It’s just the thought of Lavinia being on our side, becoming one of us, acknowledging our superiority–

My blood turns to hot fucking lava.

Accept. Acknowledge. Let it pass!

It’s only when she jolts back, smirk vanishing, that I realize how close we’ve been leaning over the table. Clearing her throat, she looks away. “No.”

Before I can do much more than stare at her dismally, the waiter arrives to take our drink order. “Whisky,” I say, voice a touch too gruff.

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