Page 42 of Dukes of Peril

I grimace. “Sorry to interrupt.” All the drama with the Barons, plus the ensuing fallout, not to even mention the fact he was away for a week before that…

I know he’s fallen behind.

“No, no.” He instantly grabs my wrist, steering me closer. “Trust me, I needed it. What’s up?”

I perch on the edge of his desk, ignoring that his blue eyes dip down to my thighs, right below my shorts, and open up the journal. “This.”

He blinks at the notebook like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Oh.”

I have the page open to Remy’s color chart. It’s not actually in color, which isn’t a surprise. Sy isn’t exactly the craft project type. But the colors–the words–still correspond to emotions. I hand it to Sy. “You should have this back.”

He frowns, glancing into my eyes as he hesitantly takes it. “Alright?”

“No, I mean…” There’s a thread of confused hurt in his eyes, and I struggle to explain. “I’ve already read all of it anyway. You should use it. You should change his pill bottles.”

He stares back, confusion capturing his features. “His pill bottles?”

“They’re orange, Sy.”

He looks down at the chart, comprehension dawning. “You think that makes him, like… reluctant?”

Shrugging awkwardly, I wager, “It’s Remy. Lesser things have made him reluctant.”

After a pause, eyes scanning the page, he says, “Huh,” and then, “Blue bottles, you think? A pill organizer?”

I shift uncomfortably under the weight of his eyes, as if my opinion is important here. “White? Clear? I don’t know, just… not orange.”

“Or yellow,” he muses, reading. It’s a while before his eyes wander back up to me, arm reaching out to set the journal on his desk. “You’re still mad at him.”

I grimace, watching as Archie shifts on the bed. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“Any idea how long that’s going to last?”

Ducking my head, I answer, “I don’t think there’s a shelf life on this, Sy.” It’s hard enough to even put a name to it. Betrayal? Grief? Heartbreak? All of them fit, but none of them tell me what I need from Remy. Something tangible and real. Not skies, or stars, or colors. I can’t be Remy’s anchor if there’s nothing to hold on to.

Sy slips his palm onto my leg, just above my knee. The warmth is light and testing, blue eyes holding mine. “I’m not going to tell you to forgive him, because that’s not my place. But I wouldn’t be a very good friend if I didn’t say this.” My stomach sinks, because the last thing I want to hear right now is how it wasn’t Remy’s fault. “That night I came to save you–when I stole you back from your father–I didn’t do that for you.”

“You did it because you knew I helped Remy.” Maybe the thought should sting, but it doesn’t.

“A little,” he admits, thumb caressing a soothing circuit into my inner thigh. “But mostly, I did it because I knew if I didn’t, he would have gotten himself killed doing it on his own. Because there was no other option for him.” Sy nods at the journal. “I’ve gotten to know you a little bit now, and I’m guessing… maybe after what he did with Haley, you don’t feel… special anymore. To him.” He ducks into my line of vision, catching my eye. “But Lavinia, that was the real lie–not everything else he showed you. If you can’t forgive him for it, then that’s your choice to make.” Shaking his head, he pulls away, palm dragging over my knee. “Just make sure you’re not forgiving the right thing. That’s all I’m going to say about it.”

He looks frayed around the edges. I’m not sure how much of that is school, or DKS business, or family stuff, or Remy and his problems. He pointedly drags the journal into his lap, covering the growing hardness I catch a glimpse of, and know that some of it is me.

Clearing my throat, I push off the desk, promising, “I’ll think about it.”

But before I can leave, he swivels in his chair, asking, “Are you going to your loft? To sleep?”

I pause, fingers twisting in the hem of my oversized shirt. It’s his. Sy’s. A screen print of a longhorn skull is flaked and faded across the front, and as Sy tilts back in his chair, his eyes fall to it. “Yes.”

His mouth purses wryly. “Meaning Nick will find his way up there.”

My face heats at the acknowledgement. It’s been like this all week, Nick coming up to my loft after they’ve gone to bed, taking off my clothes and fucking me on the mattress. Sometimes slow and gentle, drawing it out. Sometimes fast and loud, like he’s been waiting all day, even though I know for a fact he hasn’t.

“Probably,” I concede, beginning to feel that way myself. Impatient. Anticipating. Excited.

Nick Bruin is a lot of things, and plenty of them aren’t good. But this? The way he makes love to me is so damn easy to get addicted to.

I can already feel myself getting wet.

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