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Damon doesn’t release me from his grip when the man turns, squaring his broad shoulders to the three of us.

“Nick Bruin.” His piercing blue eyes pin on me. He crosses his arms over his chest and says, “We need to talk.”

12

Damon

“Welcome to my office.”Spreading his arms wide, Bruin enters the student center like some kind of god. Or really, a fucking royal.

A few students scurry out of his way as he and the girl stride toward a table on the other side of the open space. At least a couple assess me and Hunter, probably wondering who the fuck we are, but the majority of the attention is on his woman and her tight jeans and low-cut tank and the strappy hot pink bra showing underneath. Spread across her chest is a massive tattoo, intricate wings spread from shoulder to shoulder, a skull for the insect's head. Between that, and her sturdy boots, I have no doubt she’d be fierce in the ring.

But the attention is short-lived, all eyes glued to the Baroness. There’s an attempt to be discreet, whispers and subtle glances. More than one of the guys gives her legs a longer than necessary appreciative look, and my hands curl at my sides.

I’d never spent much time in this building for one simple reason: Royals. They seemed to congregate here during theday, staking out different corners of the room. Even now there are cliques representing every frat. The LDZ linger in a sitting area near the entrance. They carry themselves with the vibe of unwavering popularity, their members having both deep legacies and pockets. A few of the guys are in football letter jackets but most just have that frat boy look that makes me want to punch them in the face. The sorority girls with them are attractive–respectable–an irony since it's widely known that their main source of income comes from a brothel.

Hypocrites.

Over by the windows, PNZ occupies a set of tables pushed together. The cluster of men and women look like they should be in a perfume ad. Maybe luxury cars. They look like a bunch of pussies, but the shake up in East End is well known. Recently, their King, Rufus Ashby, was overthrown by his own sonsanddaughter. The bloodlines of this group are so pristine their family tree doesn’t branch so much as twist into a single, complicated and perverted vine.

Hunter pulls out the chair for Arianette, who seems like she’s not fully with us. Her eyes are wide like a deer in headlights, and before she sits, I slide underneath her, grabbing her by the waist, and pull her into my lap. Her body is warm and soft, and I wrap my arm around her waist, anchoring her down.

“Remember,” I murmur in her ear, “be a good girl.”

She’s stiff in my lap, clearly overwhelmed from what happened outside. That kind of ambush was bullshit, and I have no doubt the King will be pissed when he finds out. That’s an issue for later, because across from us, the blue-haired girl gives Arianette a sympathetic look that I don’t appreciate. As Bruin takes the final seat, I instinctively tighten my grip.

Mine.

Hunter looks over at a DKS leaning against a column a few feet away and says, “Who’s that?”

Without looking, Bruin replies, “That’s Kaz, current Duke.”

I lift my chin and he nods back, but he makes no effort to move closer.

“You’re DK, right?” Bruin asks. “Remy says you’re the only guy he recommends for piercings in Forsyth.”

I shrug. “Talent recognizes talent, I guess.”

“He’s opening up a new shop,” Nick says, tapping his ink-covered fingers on the table. They’ve got the letters D. U. K. E. across his hard, worn knuckles. “Down at the old Royal Gazette building.”

“Royal Ink,” I comment. “I heard Maddox was opening up a spot.”

“Guess news travels fast.”

“Among our shared clientele, I suppose it does.”

“How long is this going to take,” Hunter blurts suddenly, checking his watch for the time. “I’ve got a presentation across campus in–”

“You’re a Baron now,” Bruin interrupts, “fuckpresentations.”

“But it’s my–” Hunter begins, but he’s cut off again.

“You tell your professor frat business came up. He’ll chill.” He smirks. “Or better yet, he’ll just give you the fucking A.”

Hunter's expression seems to convey both horror at the idea and curiosity. At the very least he stops arguing.

The girl clears her throat and says, “Since no one introduced me,” her eyes shift to Bruin, “I’m Lavinia, the Duchess.”

“Lavinia Lucia?” Hunter asks, eyebrow lifting.