Lords of Pain (The Royals of Forsyth University #1)(8)
Two weeks ago, an announcement was made for this year’s Lady. Martin collected the applications and set up the interviews. All we have to do is sit through them and make a selection, which, according to last year’s residents, is supposed to be a fucking blast.
For them, it probably was. But for us? Well, let’s just say the three of us haven’t had the best luck when it comes to branding a girl as our own. We’ve always fucked discriminately, but these days it’s one-and-done, and it’s easier like that.
Look at what happened our senior year of high school, Tristian finally falling for someone he deemed worthy of the title only to find out she’d been fucking the softball coach behind his back. He plays it off pretty well these days, but Rath and I know how deep that cut goes. Rath has never let any girl close enough to deduce the scent of his deodorant, let alone live under the same roof. And then there’s me, still obsessing about the one who got away. Instinctively, my gaze moves down to the inside of my bicep, to the tattoo I’d gotten Freshman year; a girl with dark hair and big eyes.
If we find a good Lady, it’ll be hard to set her free. If we pick a bad one, then we’ll have to live with substandard pussy for the next nine months. There’s no great outcome here.
“At least we can make them do anything we want,” Rath says, echoing my thoughts as we enter the parlor. That’d be a silver lining if it weren’t already our usual MO. “Whittaker made every applicant give him a blow job last year.”
Tristian and I nod, knowing all too well. The ones who didn’t get on their knees were instantly cut.
“Yes,” Martin says, looking relieved to see us ready for interviews. “They’ve all signed waivers. They’re well aware of the position they’re applying for.”
We each take our seats and Martin escorts the first girl in. She’s blonde, sexy, and wearing six-inch fuck me heels.
I barely glance up before saying, “Next.”
2
Story
I stand in front of the brownstone, checking and rechecking the address. It’s unnecessary. Everyone knows this place. For a house that’s indistinguishable from the others on first glance, it only takes a moment of scrutiny to feel that this one has a strange presence. Regal. Looming. A little colder. It’s hard not to think about what’s behind this door. Right this second, they’re in there, waiting, so close that my pulse is racing against the truth of it.
I know from my research that the house has four stories in all, including the basement, with the fourth floor probably overlooking the park. The location is perfect for students, coveted, a quick walk or bike ride to the University half a mile away. It’s not a surprise that the most powerful club at the school has this for their residence.
After reconfirming the address one last time, I climb the front steps and approach the door. The brass knocker is a huge, heavy skull with Greek letters carved into the forehead. The Lambda Delta Zetas, or Lords, are a century-old exclusive club that has dominated Forsyth University for just as long. There’s no doubt I’m in the right place.
After taking one last look over my shoulder, I wrench open the door and let myself in. Three other girls are already waiting in the front room—a formal parlor. Each, I assume, is here to apply for the same position. My stomach twists in anxiety as I look around, half expecting one of the guys to appear in a doorway.
I give a tight smile to the girl closest to me and take a seat in one of the armchairs. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve prepared to be here, under the same roof as them. It still feels like I’m jabbing a knife into a light socket, waiting to get zapped.
I try not to compare myself to the other applicants, but it’s hard. It’s obvious from their hair, clothes, and physical beauty that a certain type of girl is expected here, one that doesn’t surprise me in the least. I know instantly that I don’t fit the mold. The pitying looks they give me in return confirms that they know it, too.
Save it, I think bitterly. I’m not here to be some show poodle for a bunch of frat boys. I wouldn’t be here at all if I had other options, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
And that’s exactly what I am.
Desperate.
Why else would I come here, to these three men who have already hurt me, shamed me, violated me? It’d have to be bad, to seek them out, to put myself beneath their heels again, but willingly this time. Once again, my stomach turns at the thought. Even though I’ve faced it down and accepted what must be done, it doesn’t make it easy.
I never told on Killian and his friends for what they did to me, which is funny, in a horrific sort of way. I’d ended up shutting down my sugar baby account anyway. Obeying their disgusting orders was all for nothing, in the end. I didn’t leave my room for a week, faking sick, and falling into a deep depression. Something about the three of them knowing about my sugar baby account bothered me almost as much as what’d happened in the laundry room. As a result, I’d deleted all traces of my online activities.
The Plan was dead in the water. There’d be no getting out—not on my own, not without help. After a week of hiding in my room and cleaning up my past, I begged my mother to let me apply to boarding school. She and Daniel argued about it for days, until eventually the word came. He’d agreed to pay for me to go to an all-girls school across the country. It wasn’t ideal. My plan had been to run away. To be on my own and free. But sometimes you have to make compromises.