Lords of Pain (The Royals of Forsyth University #1)(10)

When we’re alone again, I look at Red and D, smiling sweetly back at them. “Oh, I’m willing to do what it takes.”

I know what I look like compared to these girls. They’re all in heels and tight skirts, low-cut tops, breasts hanging out, hair teased and shiny, lips stained a whole palette of glossy reds. They look ready. Prepared. Eager.

By contrast, I’m wearing a simple sundress and flats, my hair up in a clean ponytail. Just a touch of foundation and blush, nothing more. I must look cute and innocent next to them, like someone who doesn’t know what she’s agreeing to. I look like someone who’ll be scared away. Someone who’ll have to be chased. Someone who’d say no.

“Better than that,” I add, looking away. “I know exactly what it takes.”





“Mary McBeth…”

It takes me a minute to realize the man is talking to me, even though I’m the only one left in the room. The two other girls had both gone in and left—each looking a little numb on their way out the door. I’d given a false name. I couldn’t tip them off that I’m coming in for the interview.

“That’s me,” I say, standing up. He gestures for me to follow him down the hall, stopping before a pair of closed wooden doors. I take a deep, steeling breath. He gives me a final sympathetic look before turning the knob.

They pay us no attention as he crosses the threshold, each too caught up in themselves to notice who’s entering. I peer around him, getting a good look at the guys who nearly destroyed me. It’s been over three years since I laid an eye on any of them.

All three look a little older. Rath has a leather journal in his lap, scribbling notes inside. Wireless headphones are plugged in his ears. The lines of his jaw are sharper than before, more defined by the dark scruff of his beard, and he has a new nose piercing to go with the two in his bottom lip. His hair is a bit longer, shaggier around the ears, and his body is long, taking up the entire leather loveseat. He still has the same presence I remember from high school, like the light bends around him, making his aura just a touch darker than everything else.

Tristian sits across from him, and time has served him just as well. His cheekbones are sharper than I remember, hair still an immaculate sweep of pale gold. He has a man’s face, now. Full lips and long, dark eyelashes that oppose his fair hair. He’s scrolling through his phone, smirking at whatever he’s perusing. He almost looks nice.

Almost.

If it weren’t for the red handprint blooming across his cheek.

Either Red or D must have slapped him. Internally, I’m impressed. They’d both seemed completely down for this. It’s good to know that even these boys’—these Lords’—biggest fans still have their limits.

I shift my gaze to the third man in the room. Killian, my stepbrother. I almost don’t recognize him. His eyes are cast down at the floor, jaw flexing around something that looks frustrated and impatient. He’s bigger than before, probably a half a foot taller, wider across the shoulders and chest. His shirt looks handmade, fitted perfectly to accentuate the bulging muscles in his arms and chest. Below that is the sprawling canvas of ink that his skin has become. His arms are absolutely covered in tattoos. No single one stands out more than the others, but I can clearly see the word ‘KILL’ spelled out across his rough knuckles. If the boy I once knew looked strong and intimidating, then I don’t even have words for the man standing before me right now.

Killian looks like a gangster.

When his eyes first find mine, it feels like my heart wants to beat itself from my own chest. His body might be different, but that face and those eyes…

I’d know them anywhere. I’ve seen them in my nightmares for years now. Always watching, looming, observing me.

Despite that, I can’t help but notice the similarity between his face and his father’s. This sharper, harder, more mature version of Killian is still devoid of any sort of emotion. Even as he takes me in—even as his eyes flash in realization—that doesn’t change.

“Your final appointment is here,” the guy says. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”

“Shut the door,” is all Killian says, eyes still pinning me in place, and their lackey steps back, encouraging me to enter. I step into the room and feel their gazes on me all at once. Now it’s my stomach’s turn to feel like it wants to exit my body. Every hair on my body stands on end, and for a moment, I feel like I might run.

I’d practiced what I wanted to say a million times over the last week, but now that I’m here facing them down, it’s caught in my throat like a boulder. The way they all stare at me, silent and still, makes me wonder if they’re feeling the same thing. Maybe they’re not used to being confronted with their past crimes. Maybe they expect their trash to stay gone once they’ve thrown it away.

It’s Tristian who shakes out of it first. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Sweet Cherry,” he drawls, my nickname like honey on his tongue. He leans back, throwing his arms over the back of the seats. His gaze fixes itself to my mouth. “This is an unexpected surprise.”

Rath pulls the buds from his ears slowly, one by one, dark eyes assessing me. Apart from the tight line of his lips, his face is expressionless, that cold gaze making me shiver under its inspection.

With the two of them looking at me, it’s like I’m back in that laundry room all over again. They’re the predators. I’m the prey. I have to curl my hands into fists to stop them from trembling under the intensity of the memory. The sharp taste of semen. Fingers sliding through my folds. The sound of their harsh, excited breaths as they used me like a cheap toy. No. I won’t tremble and cower before these men.