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Nick gives him an unimpressed look. “I’ve seen mom beat you over her knee.”

“When I was nine,” Sy snaps.

Nick shrugs. “Point stands.”

“Okay, this is stupid.” Reaching for me, Sy says, “Lavinia, you’ve beaten me in a hundred different ways since the first night I met you. Why can’t that be enough?”

I use the pipe to nudge him back before he can distract me with his scent and rippling muscles. “Because only one way matters to West End.”

He blinks down at the pipe, jaw tightening. “You can’t actually be serious about this.” He meets my gaze, and for a flash of a moment, he looks absolutely miserable. “Baby, I’d fucking demolish you.”

My jaw drops. “Big words coming from the guy who’s backing down from a challenge.”

Nick and Remy suck in a unison, sharp inhale, and I don’t need to ask why. Sy’s eyes go all flinty and hard, because he can be accused of a lot of things, but backing down from a challenge? Not one of them.

Until now.

He raises his chin, gazing down at me. “What challenge would that be? The challenge of pummeling a girl?”

Looking into his eyes, I realize the whole idea was genius. Whoever made these rules, however long ago it may have been, knew exactly what the King of West End should be. A rock-hard protector, obstinate and unyielding, who’d fight for every win as if his life depended on it. But they also knew who its Queen should be.

His fury.

“Not the challenge of beating a girl, Big Bear,” I say, gentle as I reach up to cup his cheek. “The challenge of losing to one.”

An hour later,I can tell it’s still getting to him.

Every now and then, his back will… flex beneath his jacket. Almost like he’s angering himself over it internally, in dribs and drabs.

Remy’s too distracted to notice. “We can put a door here to the boutique,” he says, inspecting the hole in the plaster he’d just jubilantly created. The chill of the room doesn’t seem to bother him. He’s in a tight tee, dirty gray jeans, and heavy black boots, anddamn. The whole manly laborer vibe looks surprisingly good on him, his tattoos shifting with every tug of his muscles.

The idea of turning this place into his own studio has him completely obsessed. We’d spent some time renovating the loft upstairs before we moved in. Even beforeVeritycame to stay here every month, seeking a little West End refuge from the East End coldness. But we’ve spent far longer on the downstairs, knocking out walls and refinishing everything from the bones up. Each day, Remy’s feet hit the ground running, the intense focus turning him into this whirling dervish of spirit that’s almost too fast to catch.

Nick isn’t dressed to work, though.

He’s in a leather jacket, the collar pulled up to hide the scar on his neck beneath. He’s also painfully restless. “Should be out there,” he mutters, squinting as he peeks out the frosty window. This will be our third holiday spent together, and it’s difficult not to let my memories wander back to our first, all locked up in the Crane Motor Inn.

He scratches at the puckered scar on his neck almost absentmindedly. I wonder if he even realizes he fidgets with it every time he feels cooped up. “I heard Ashby—I mean, Sinclaire—is going to see Ballsy today.”

None of us need to ask which newly annointed Sinclaire he’s referring to. Ballsack and Pace have formed an odd friendship. Him and Sy are the only visitors Ballsy will see these days. His trial is looming on the horizon, and although Sy and the Princes combined could probably make his bail, he keeps refusing to take it. Verity and I have no idea why.

He won’t call us, either.

“Hey, Vinny,” Remy grunts, his arm buried in the plaster of the office’s wall. “Go grab me that mallet from the toolbox, would ya? This stud needs some serious percussive maintenance.”

Resigned to another night of us all washing plaster off each other in the shower, I get up and walk out to the front lobby, crouching to root around in the large toolbox. I’m not sure when it happens. I don’t hearanything. Not the door. Not footsteps. Not even a breath.

But when I stand up and turn, a loud gasp escapes me.

A man is leaning against the column right in fucking front of me.

At first, all I see is the dark shape of him, but then I register his finely tailored ensemble. He’s wearing an overcoat—long, black, double-breasted—that offers only a peek at the waistcoat beneath. The slender curve of his posture is casual yet intentional. Pale skin, stormy eyes, and his styled, inky hair should be enough to clue me in, but there’s also the gleam of silver in his lip and nose, and the sharp, spiky script tattooed above his eyebrow.

Mori.

Baron.

Flinching back, my foot knocks the toolbox into the wall.Loudly. But I still have the mallet in my hand, so I grip it tight, raising it.