Lords of Pain (The Royals of Forsyth University #1)(16)
Suddenly, his hand is on my thigh, yanking the bottom of my dress up. “You can stand still, keep your mouth shut, and let me judge for myself.” I jerk back, away from the feel of his hand forcing its way up my dress, but the door stops me. Regardless, I can see the flicker of irritation on his face at my flinch. “Look at that, you’re already terrible at taking direction. I don’t think this bodes well for you.”
At his words, I force myself to still, even as his fingers find the edge of my panties and pull them roughly aside. Even when he shoves his fingers between my legs, invading my most private area, I try to remain like stone, closing my eyes against the coming intrusion.
I inhale sharply at the way he prods, the tip of his finger burying itself inside me. I can’t hold back the wince, the way my cheeks blaze in humiliation, the sting of tears behind my eyes as he mechanically inserts his finger to the knuckle. I squeeze my eyes shut, hands forming fists in the fabric of my skirt.
“Relax,” he says, his deep voice full of annoyance. “If you stopped being such a frigid bitch for five seconds, it might even feel good.” Teeth gnashed, I shake my head, willing it to be over before anything like that can happen. With a rough sound, he thrusts his finger, pulling it out just to push it back inside. After a moment, he pauses there, the warmth of his exhale washing across my face.
When he remains frozen, I hesitantly open my eyes.
His dark gaze is fixed on my lips, mouth parted, watching me as his finger remains there, deep inside my core, warming itself in my heat. His finger moves and he blinks, a slow, heavy motion as he pumps it into me, canting forward.
He’s going to kiss me.
The realization hits me like a sledgehammer.
I suck in a panicked breath just as he stiffens, yanking his hand roughly from my skirt. His face is shuttered now, all harsh lines and stony glare. Any trace of…whatever that was—fixation, curiosity, want—is wiped away.
“Be at the house tonight by six. Bring your shit. You’ll be living there for the duration of the school year.”
I nod, squeezing my thighs together against the phantom pang of his invading touch, willing the tears not to fall. I won’t let him see me cry again. My trembling hand is already wrapped around the knob of the door when his voice rings out.
“We don’t like hairy cunts,” he says. “Come shaved.”
I find the courage to turn the knob, to turn my back to him, moving so quickly I almost trip over my feet. My heart pounds as I burst into the hall, still feeling the malice of his presence against my spine, watching, waiting. Nevertheless, he doesn’t chase me.
That’s why it has to be him.
That’s why it has to be them.
5
Tristian
Rath is ruled by his emotions.
He’s always been a moody little bitch, quick to hold a grudge, slow to cool his head. On anyone else, it’d be juvenile, but Rath is also ruthless and filled with conviction. It just makes him a scary son of a bitch. I used to think it put him at a disadvantage, always so quick to lose his shit about something, but now I know better. Despite being hotheaded and vicious, he’s also calculating and patient. Always spicy.
By contrast, most people think Killian is a robot.
He’s a pro when it comes to hiding a weakness, a little too good at coming off unaffected. His ability to set aside all emotion, to get a job done, is a big part of what makes him dominate on the field. It’s also why we’re so good at what we do down in South Side, able to hold this town in the palm of our hands. People are scared of him precisely because they can’t tell what’s going on under that hard, blank exterior.
I’m better at harnessing both.
I might be pissed, but you’ll never know it. Not unless I want you to. The ability to read people—to understand their desires, their fears—and use it to my advantage is a classic Mercer trait. My dad is a master at it, owning any room he enters. Manipulative, my mom would always call it. But to us, people are putty, easily out-maneuvered. All it takes is some good, old-fashioned bullshitting.
It rarely works on Killer and Rath. They know me too well, for one. But mostly, their personalities are just the worst for it. Neither of them bend. Everyone knows it. If you took one of us away, the whole pyramid would probably crumble. It’s not easy being Lords of the school, and even less easy being three north side elites. There are responsibilities, obligations.
That’s why, despite his perfectly still expression, I know the instant Killian walks through the door that he’s in a tangle.
“What’d she say?” I ask, knowing he’d gone to talk to Story.
To the other houses, having a girl is probably nothing but fun. That’s how it was always meant to be—a display of mastery to the campus and alumni, a way to let off steam, having a little pet to come home to, to bring to parties, to parade around like a prize. There’s a lot more riding on it for the three of us. We can’t afford to just let anyone in, and it takes a special kind of girl to handle our brand of ownership.
Killian strides across the library, straight to the bar to pour a drink. Rath and I share a look. Killer isn’t a huge drinker—especially not during the playing season—but it’s not unexpected. Story showing back up was a shock to all of us, but it’s hit him harder than us.