Page 57 of Dukes of Peril

I peer up at him, knocked off course at the outburst. His fists are flexing, shoulders high and tense. He looks like a man being hunted.

It’s not often I see Sy feeling guilty about something.

More carefully, I say, “You caused that, but she’s practically forgiven you.”

His eyebrows crash together. “And?”

I gesture between us, hesitant to say the words aloud. “You hurt her worse than me.”

Sy laughs, the sound low and joyless. “Is that what you think?” At my shrug, he crouches down to where I'm tying a strap. “Remy, come on. Lavinia’s practically been genetically modified to have the biggest inferiority complex in Forsyth. Her whole childhood was probably built around it.”

My face twists in confusion. “What do you mean?”

He rolls his eyes heavenward, as if he’s praying for patience. “I… hurt her, but I did it because I wanted her too much.” He glances around before adding, “You hurt her because you didn’t want her enough.”

I straighten, eyes flying wide. “That’s a fucking lie.”

“Hey, I know.” Sy holds his hands up, palms out, like I’ve got a gun pointed at him. “I’m not saying it’s true. I’m just saying that’s how she sees it.”

My chest feels like it’s been carved out, bit by bit. “She told you that?!”

He sighs, long and beleaguered. “She didn’t have to. I mean, dude. She got jealous because you said her sister’s skull was pretty. Think about how she grew up, always in her big sister’s shadow.” He shakes his head, looking tired. “Lavinia’s insecure and probably almost as possessive as Nick. I broke her body.” He arches an eyebrow. “You broke her heart.”

I claw my fingers through my hair, wishing I could feel something other than all this goddamngray. “So fucking tell me how to make it right. What’s the secret?”

For the first time in weeks I see empathy on his face. “There is no secret, Remy, and until you figure that out, I don’t see anything changing.” He feels sorry for me. And Jesus Christ that just makes me fucking furiousandlights a fire under my ass.

“Strap those down,” I tell him, pointing to the edges of the mat.

He whips his head around. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Marching away, I answer, “To make sure the Duchess is ready.”

I leave him there. I mean, this was his idea. He can set up the fucking ring. I cross the room, pushing the door to the training room open. Vinny is sitting on the table, no longer wearing her dress, but instead, a Friday Night Fury tank and a pair of tight red shorts. She only spares me a brief glance, body stiffening, before she tears her eyes away.

It’s been hard to look at her this past week. To see her skin and know I can’t mark it. To stare at her lips and know I can’t take them in a kiss. To watch her walk, that half finished snake tattoo on her leg taunting me.

I haven’t seen color in so long.

Nick is rummaging through a drawer, pulling out a roll of tape. He looks over his shoulder, eyebrow quirking, drawing the tattoo beneath his eye up.

“I’ll do that.” I hold out my hand.

Tonelessly, Vinny argues, “Nick can do it.” The lines of her face are set, hardened in a way I think I’d like to see under better circumstances, and her shoulders squared. A woman preparing for battle.

“I’m sure he can,” I reply. “But he’s not going to. I am.”

It’s forceful. Unapologetic. But that’s what we are. Vinny and I have never been nice to one another. We’ve just been real.

Nick tosses the tape to me and I catch it in the air. “I’ll be outside,” he says, bending to press a kiss to her temple. The glare he passes me on the way out lacks much heat, but I get the message.

Fix this shit.

I saunter over to the table, yanking off a long strip of tape as I search her averted eyes. “Hand?”

The soft, blue vein beneath her collarbone pulses. “Come to tell me not to beat up your cutslut?” she asks, fingers coiled tight by her side.

Ouch.Right in the heart.

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