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“Because I mean it.” I see that now. A win for DKS is a loss for us.

All four of us.

The astonishment in his eyes when I strain up on my toes to press our mouths together is seared into my memory long after he finally reacts, his arm winding around my waist. He parts his lips to greet my tongue, licking into my mouth with a slow, sensual abandon. Behind us, the sound of PNZ members cheering swells, but I barely hear it over the rush of blood in my ears. Pace makes a low, hungry sound, yanking me up against his body as the kiss deepens. It’s hard and unhurried, his fingertips digging into my flesh as he crushes me against him.

My eyes flutter open when he tears away, pulling the zipper to his hoodie and shrugging it off. Lex catches it when he tosses it aside, his dark eyes never leaving me.

“I want you ready for me,” he says, “after the match.”

I stare at him for a moment, taking in the hardness of him. Everything is solid, like he’s carved from stone: the muscles lining his stomach and chest. The chiseled curve of his biceps, covered in a mixture of crude and intricate ink. I understand that they’re marks that document his life in days, weeks and years. Much like Da Vinci’s David, Pace Ashby took years to transform into the person before me.

Raising my chin, I reply, “If you win.”

It’s not challenge that sparks in his eyes, but instead, a sharp comprehension. Win or lose, I’m his to fuck tonight. There’s nothing I can do about that.

But only I get to choose what kind of woman they’re fucking.

21

Pace

There’sno anger in the fight for me.

There never has been. The first time Father put me into a room with a man twice my age and ordered me to hit him, I didn’t know what to do. The guy was tied up, already bloody and haggard. He looked at me with a glint of a plea in his eyes. Had nothing against the guy–a banker, if I remember correctly–and I couldn’t call any emotion up to put behind the force of my fist. I tried imagining the man was Father himself, but even back then, I knew that was a dangerous habit to get into.

I was twelve by the time I learned that feeling nothing at all was the most efficient way to hurt.

Wicker could never do it. Too hot-headed, driven by his impulses. Lex could–and does–but he’s not one for the physicality of fists, preferring his hurt to come from the edge of a blade. The void is more effective than anger or hatred or showmanship. The Dukes wouldn’t get that. They think a man needs fire in his chest to inflict violence, but I know the truth of it.

Pain hurts more when it’s empty.

My ears ring with the clang of the bell rattling against metal. It’s loud, reverberating shrilly through the gym, but nothing compared to the roar of the crowd as the referee yanks my arm in the air and calls the fight.

The downside? Coming out of the void is like being thrown into a pit of needles. Every nerve sparks to life, sensation barrelling through my chest in an avalanche of shock. My heart pounds from exertion, my limbs heavy, knuckles burning. The rush of winning—of beating a Duke—is lost in the roar of the crowd.

But they don’t think I’ve won. Not from the cacophony of boos bouncing off the metal rafters.

“Get him the fuck out of here!” someone shouts. From the back comes a loud, outraged accusation: “Cheater!”

I look around, sweat dripping to my eye, the taste of copper on my tongue. There’s nothing but anger, building,pulsing, in the stands as I drop the switchblade. Yeah, I’d brought a knife. So what? Remington Maddox’s palm is pushed into his side as blood sluggishly flows between tattooed fingers.

A red-faced DKS member is ranting, “Princes are pussies! Can’t even fight with their own fists. What’s wrong, worried about ruining your manicure?”

Everyone but the section reserved for PNZ is shouting down my win. Loudest of all is Remy Maddox, who despite having just been slashed, stands on the ropes with a maniacal grin, teeth white with blood, encouraging the crowd.

“Maddox! Maddox! Maddox!” they chant. Beloved even in a loss. I see his blue-haired Duchess rush into the ring with a towel, her eyes wide and concerned as she attempts to triage him. He doesn’t let her get farther than pressing the towel to his wound before he captures her mouth in a bloody kiss.

That’s what greets me when I surface.

The dull, throbbing sense of a loss.

I look up into the glare of lights where I know the Kings are sitting. Father, if he’s still up there, is nothing but a shadow. A shadow that creeps around the edges, judging, because he won’t care that I won the match.

He’ll berate me for losing the war.

My heartbeat shifts, faster as the crowd throbs, crushing against the elevated ring. My hands numb, the only feeling is a tremor running through them.

“Pace,” Lex says, hand on my shoulder. The contact jolts me out of my haze and I turn, squeezing through the ropes and off the mat, escaping the pandemonium.