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“It’s the Fury! Everyone will think I’m a pussy if I don’t have at least one beer.”

There is not one person in the city limits of Forsyth that would ever call Nick Bruin a pussy. Especially now.

“There’s some homemade kombucha down in the kitchen,” Sy says. “Ifyou want to grab him a bottle.”

“Kombucha?” Nick’s nose wrinkles. “That’s bullshit.”

“It’s one percent alcohol and good for your gut-biome,” his brother retorts.

Remy and Nick both glare at Sy. The former says, “What happened to you, man?” while shaking his head.

“I’ll peel off the wrapper so everyone will just think it’s a beer.” I lean down and press a kiss on his neck. “Behave.”

After helping Kathleen detangle her hair from the curling brush, and grabbing the kombucha from the refrigerator, I fight my way through the crowd and back upstairs. At the landing, I spot Story’s cute little butt sticking out as she leans over the guardrail and assesses the crowd below.

“Hey.” I move next to her and look down. “It seems more crowded than usual, doesn’t it?”

“They’re definitely fired up about the fight, but that’s not the only reason people showed up,” she tells me. “They came to see him.”

She nods across the space to where Nick sits in the DKS King box, Remy and Sy at his side. The guys look casual. Pumped for the fight, but Story is right. Nick being here, walking in on his own, even with the bandage on his neck, is the real show. Being here tonight is about way more than curing some boredom. It’s proof of life. Of victory.

“How’s he doing?”

“It was touch and go for a minute, and he’s stubborn as fuck, but he’s going to be okay.” I look down at the bottle in my hand. Finally, I admit, “I’ve never been so fucking scared in my life.”

She looks over at me with those big eyes and says, “Oh, Lav,” before throwing her arms around my neck. She hugs me tight before releasing me. “I remember when Nick shot Killian–UglyNick,” she clarifies before glancing over to where her King sits across the balcony. His eyes have been on her the whole time we’ve been up here. “It changed everything for me. I realized I had to stop fighting so much and just accept who we were together.”

I laugh. “We’re DKS, I don’t know if any of us can ever stop fighting. It’s in our nature.”

“You don’t have to tell me, Duchess. I still have bruises from Screw Year’s Eve.”

I roll my eyes but we both laugh and it feels good–just letting go for a second. We split apart and I go back to my men, pressing the unwrapped brown bottle into my Duke’s hand.

“Thanks, Little Bird,” he says, pulling me into his lap. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I settle in against him, taking a quick moment to look over at Story, who is now sitting with her Lords, and I know one thing for certain. I’ll fight with,and for, Nick Bruin all the way to the end.

7

QUEENMAKER

“Not happening,” Sy says, passing me with another stack of steel pipes. It’s not just Sy’s answer, but morehowhe says it, throwing me this look that’s somehow both amused and annoyed. Like I’m Archie.

Like I’m his pet.

My jaw tightens. “Excuse me?”

Pausing in his struggle to lever the rusty valve from the wall, Remy glances at me. “Come on, Vinny. That rule is older than their parents. Hell, it’s older than their parents’ parents.”

I hold up the DKS pledge book, which—yes, okay, halfway falls to tatters because it’s ancient. I found it buried among a stack of administrative paperwork and crude doodles in the basement storeroom. It’s a few rubs from being hamster bedding.

But still, I point to the page. “It says here that for atrueQueen of West End to earn her crown, she has to prove herself in public, physical combat against her King. To the victor go the spoils. It’s very clear.”

Perched on the old metal desk beside me, Nick grasps one of the pipes, testing it in his grip like it’s a weapon. “You and Sy in the ring together? I think it’s a good idea.”

Outside the doorway to the little office that’s going to eventually become Remy’s private inking room, the clatter of steel pipes hitting the floor rings out. Sy stomps back into the office with a glare. “That is fucking ridiculous,” he says, yanking off his heavy gloves. It’s mid-December, and given that Royal Ink’s future new furnace install is on backorder, Sy’s huff emerges in a vapor cloud. “No Duchess has ever bested her King in the ring. You do realize if that’s ever actually happened, he just let her win.”