Lords of Pain Read online

  There are three loud bangs on the door before it opens, a rusty-haired man poking his head in. “Hey, we might have some trouble out front.”

  Perez growls, hand halfway down my pants. “I don’t even have her naked yet!”

  The guy glares back at him. “It’s not my fault you need three hours of foreplay. We need to make sure this location’s secure.”

  “We’re in South Side, you moron,” he snaps, levering himself up. “Nothing around here is secure. But if you’re going to be such massive pussies about everything, then—” The door slams behind him and I’m left alone, breathless and lightheaded.

  I know I don’t have much time until someone returns. I check my surroundings, noting how derelict everything looks. The house is obviously old—probably even abandoned. There’s graffiti on one of the walls and a cloudy window beside the bed with three jaggedly shattered panes.

  That’s where he appears.

  Startled, I almost cry out again, but he puts a finger to his lips, eyes hard and urgent. I obey more out of instinctual fear than anything else, mashing my lips together. I watch as he searches the window frame, fingers running along the bottom. He must find purchase because suddenly the window makes an awful screeching sound.

  He pauses, shoulders tense.

  Fuck your orders, I think, opening my mouth and releasing another bloodcurdling shriek.

  Killian’s eyes grow wide and angry—a flash of betrayed discontent—but I nod at him encouragingly. He must finally understand because he shoves the window up in a single, swift, commanding thrust, his muscular shoulders jerking with the motion. The screech of wood on metal is swallowed by my wail. I quiet, panting as he climbs through the window.

  When he does, he leans out, looking left and then right, before finally turning to me, plucking the knife from his pocket. I watch in a panicked stupor as the blade slices through the rope. “We have to hurry,” he says, face set into a grim expression. “My buddy isn’t going to keep them occupied for long.”

  When my wrists are free, I hastily cover myself, cringing away when Killian reaches out for me. He gives me a look—something both surprised and accepting—and reaches over his shoulder instead. He tugs his shirt over his head, baring his broad, tattooed chest.

  “Put this on,” he says, moving immediately to my ankles, carving easily through the rope. When he releases the last one, he lingers there for a moment, fingers soothing the red-raw skin. His dark eyes hold mine. “Can you run?”

  At first, I nod, but as soon as I sit up to put on the shirt, my head spins. I moan, clutching my forehead, but do my best to power through, shedding the torn shirt and pulling Killian’s over my head.

  He turns to check the door, and that’s when I see it.

  There’s a pistol tucked into the waist of his jeans.

  My first frenzied attempt at standing does not go well. Killian lurches forward to catch me, grunting a curse. “The drugs,” I explain, vision swimming in and out of focus. “It’s got me all dizzy.”

  “This is a problem,” he grinds out, winding an arm around my waist. “I can’t just pitch you out the goddamn window. We’re on the second floor. Fuck.” He holds me there for a moment, arm clutching me against his warm chest. “I really didn’t want to do it this way,” he mutters, bending down to sweep me up, sending my head into another whirling spin as he cradles me. He gives me a jostle, securing me against him. “I’ll have to try to sneak.” He sounds really grim about it, which makes sense.

  Killian isn’t a stealthy kind of guy even when he isn’t carrying someone down a shabby, creaking staircase.

  Every step he takes makes the muscles against me tense more and more. The stairs are squeaky and obviously rotting, but he manages a safe—if not altogether silent—path down to the landing. I train my eyes to his throat, to the pulse jumping beneath the skin, and remember the words he said to me that day I was offered the position.

  “I’m not your savior, then or now. You need to get that through your pretty little head.”

  Everything is muddled and confusing, and I think that if I get out of this, I might have time to sift through it all and untangle the irony of me being constantly shuffled back and forth between greater and lesser evils. But right now, I don’t.

  So I hold on tighter.

  He looks down at me, surprise clear on his face, but just as quickly returns to the task of sneaking us out of here.

  It all falls apart feet from the back door.

  “Drop the girl, Payne.”

  I go more rigid than Killian, my heartbeat spiking. When I swing my wide, terrified eyes to his, I notice that he looks more annoyed than afraid.

  “Perez.” Killian turns slowly, mouth set into a tight, flat line. Perez is joined by two other men, all of them still dressed in the same black clothes as before. “Should have known you were teaming up. Your houses are all too fucking stupid to pull something like this off alone. Not that you’ve actually managed to now.” Gently, he lowers my legs, letting me slide to my feet. “Sending Gonzo to get me drunk last night might have worked, except I had shit to see to this morning.”

  One of other guys shrugs. “Worked on the others just fine.”

  Perez scoffs. “You aren’t taking all three of us.”

  “You sound pretty confident for a guy who needed three people to take down one girl.”

  I clutch at Killian’s arm as I watch them go back and forth, and I’m taken by a moment of perfect clarity. It’s aided by the angry, wild thing in my chest, desperate to break loose.

  Desperate to fight.

  I speak through clenched teeth, voice as raw as my throat. “I wanted to do this nice and gentle.” I reach behind Killian, pulling the gun from his waistband. “But now you’re really starting to piss me off.”

  Perez ducks when I point the gun at him, screeching, “Holy shit!”

  The other two are no braver, one diving behind the counter, the other fleeing from the kitchen altogether.

  Even Killian flinches back, and really, he should. “Story. Chill, okay.”

  I keep Perez in the gun’s sight. “Go fuck yourself, Killian.”

  He touches my shoulder and I jerk away. He doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t even seem afraid. In a low voice, he says, “I get you want to shoot this asshole, but that brings cops. That’s a paper trail. That’s exposure and attention, and a whole shitload of drama you don’t want.”

  “No,” I snap, not moving the gun, “that’s attention you don’t want. This piece of shit was going to rape me. I don’t care anymore!”

  “You don’t mean that,” he says, cupping my elbow. “Do you know what it means to kill someone? Are you a killer, Story? Because I don’t think you are.”

  I shrug one shoulder, not even needing to think about it. I tell Perez, “I feel pretty good about taking out a kneecap. But whatever you guys drugged me with is making me kind of dizzy, so I might miss.”

  Perez’s eyes squeeze shut.

  Killian mutters, “Enough of this,” and, quicker than I can react, snatches the gun from my hand. “Someday, you and I are going to have a talk about these not being a toy,” he says, tucking it back into his waistband. “And also about how guns are a lot less scary when you don’t take off the safety.”

  I deflate, stumbling to the side, but Killian catches me again. Jesus. I’d forgotten about the safety.

  When Perez jumps back up, face clenched in anger, Killian snaps, “Get down, fuckface! She might not know how to work a safety, but I sure as fuck do. And that whole kneecap plan is sounding pretty goddamn good to me.”

  Perez doesn’t stop us from leaving, grinding out a sharp, “Fucking psychos,” as Killian scoops me back up into his arms.

  I start hyperventilating the second the truck is in motion.

  My lungs feel like they’re on fire and I can’t stop shaking. All of the adrenaline, the panic, the terror, comes crashing into me like a freight train. It’s not just from this afternoon. It’s from all o
f it. Last night with Killian. The package from Ted. The night of the party. It’s all stacked up to a leaning tower of trauma that’s finally crashing down inside of my chest.

  Killian reaches out to cup the back of my head, pushing me down. “Put your head between your knees.”

  Like before, I obey instinctually, ducking down to gasp at the floorboard. I don’t need Killian, of all people, to talk me through a panic attack.

  I spend the whole ride like that. It never goes away—I know that better than anyone. But it gets less enormous. Easier to pick parts from, to be tucked away and never thought about again. By the time he pulls into the garage at the brownstone, I’m already being hit with the numbing exhaustion that always follows.

  Killian cuts the ignition and we stay there for a long moment, listening to the clicks of his cooling engine. He clutches the keys, sighing. “You weren’t fucking around on us.”

  I slide my gaze to him slowly, knowing that it’s full of everything I can’t say. That I hate him. That the only thing he’s ever been to me is another abuser. That I know I’ll spend the next few days—maybe even weeks or months—concocting fantasy scenarios in my mind of him being on the other side of that gun. That he’s not really much better than Perez and those other guys.

  He sees it. He sees all of it. He watches me back, expression shuttered, and eventually gives a quiet, “Yeah.”

  And then he helps me from the truck, leading me inside the brownstone.

  30

  Killian

  * * *

  Tristian looks back at me, his jaw flexing like he’s gnashing his teeth. “Where is she?”

  “Upstairs,” I say, jerking my chin toward the staircase. “Ms. Crane’s been in and out, but I haven’t...” I don’t say the truth, even though we all know it. Story doesn’t want to see me.

  Dimitri doesn’t look any less pissed off, pacing the den with slow but hard steps. “Those motherfuckers.” He pauses by the fireplace, hand shooting out to grab something off the mantle. He throws it across the room. “Those motherfuckers!”

  I don’t roll my eyes, but it’s a near thing. Wouldn’t be fair, anyway. I was trashing the steering wheel the whole way to that abandoned house in South Side. “They didn’t get the chance to do anything,” I reiterate, sick of watching him pace around. “She was just a little drugged up.” I don’t tell them about her ripped shirt. I figure the fire is hot enough without gasoline.

  Tristian thrusts a finger at me, eyes ablaze. “This is your fault. You threw that goddamn fit about the package, which was obviously from the Counts, and then you punished her for it and stormed off like a fucking toddler.” His laugh is completely without humor. “It did exactly what they wanted it to do. If there’d been a third Lord to watch her while we were tied up in other shit, this never would have happened.”

  “They planned it like that,” I argue, trying to quell the anger rising in my head. “Your group project, Rath’s peer review...they were making sure you were both out of the way. They tried it on me too, it just wasn’t as effective.”

  “We need to retaliate,” Rath decides, finally coming to a stop. “We can’t let them get away with—”

  Tristian raises a hand. “Retaliation will come. Right now, we need to clean shit up.” He looks at me. “What kind of damage are we talking here? Witnesses? Injuries?”

  I shrug, picking listlessly at the label on my beer bottle. “She got a little roughed up, but nothing too bad. Bruise on her cheek. Her wrists and ankles are a little raw. She’s probably up there sleeping off whatever they drugged her with.” Sighing, I set my bottle on the table. “I paid one of the corner guys to run diversion so I could get in there. Perez and the others caught us just before we escaped, so Story pulled my gun on them and—”

  Tristian’s head rears back. “I’m sorry, she fucking what?”

  “I had it in my pants,” I explain, leveling him with a look. “The safety was on; it was never a danger. But you can bet your ass that they shit their pants.” For the first time in days, I’m able to crack a smile. “That shit was priceless. You should have seen Perez, cowering like a damn baby.”

  Tristian isn’t smiling. At all. “They know about our contract, which means that this won’t stop.”

  “They’ll keep gunning for her,” Rath agrees, face grim. “I don’t know about you guys, but we’re burning a candle at both fucking ends here, between LDZ and South Side. I know the two of you get off on being glorified babysitters, but we don’t have time to be bodyguards.”

  I give a heavy nod. “So what do we do? Release her from the contract?”

  Neither of them seem to like that idea.

  Tristian props his elbows on the bar, taking a calming breath. “No. We have to end the game. Tally shit up, and get it over with.”

  Rath pauses, looking between us. “That’d be me, then.” At least he has the good grace not to smirk while saying it.

  Tristian nods in agreement, but even though he has to be disappointed, he doesn’t look it. “You’re up by eleven. Give her some time, though. She should take the day off from classes tomorrow. We should get her used to the idea first. She might be a little—”

  I down the last of my beer before saying, “Rath wouldn’t win. It’d be me.”

  Rath scoffs. “No, it wouldn’t, you’re down by almost eighty points.”

  My stomach churns in displeasure at what I’m about to say—almost as badly as the thought of not being the one to have her first. Almost. “Blow job, exhibition, multiplied by forty five.” Looking up at Rath, I add, “That’s over three hundred.”

  They stare at me for a tense beat.

  It’s Tristian who speaks first, his voice a low hiss. “You cannot be fucking serious.”

  Rath holds my stare, his eyes dark and threatening. “That’s the real reason you did it, isn’t it?”

  I give a firm, certain, “No.” Sweeping my hair back, I lock my jaw, remembering. “I did it because the thought of her fucking around with someone else made me fucking crazy. It got in my head. It got me all twisted up, because this is what I do. Are you even surprised? It’s like I see red and nothing else—not until it burns itself out. I won’t defend it. You were right before,” I tell Tristian. “I gave them exactly what they wanted. I see that now. But Story?” I give a harsh laugh, shaking my head. “She’s done with me. She’s mine by rights, you both know it. But she’ll never...” I curl my fist, unable to say the words aloud.

  Her voice has been banging around in my head ever since she got to her knees and spoke. They’re what I heard when I peeled out of the driveway. They mocked me when I got to my suite in the dorms. They hissed themselves at me as I drank myself into a toxic stupor until two in the morning. They were still there when I woke up, hungover and nauseous. Even when I was breaking into that house to rescue her, all it took was her cringing away from my touch to tell me everything I needed to know.

  Story will never be mine.

  “I blew it.” The words come out simple, matter-of-fact. There’s no sugar-coating this shit. I’m the only one to blame. “This is all I’ll ever have.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Rath says, voice low and dangerous. “You know she’ll never want you, so you’re going to make her fuck you. That’s some pure romance shit, right there. It’s a wonder she wasn’t falling at your feet years ago, you goddamn lunatic.”

  I spring to my feet, feeling the red pulsing at the edges of my mind. “Like you’re so fucking above it? You think what the two of you have done—have been doing—is any better?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Rath answers, eyes narrowing. “Because she actually fucking likes me. Maybe it’s not all based on truth, but at least she can suck my dick without vomiting.”

  I lurch over the table, fully prepared to shove this asshole into the fireplace, but Tristian suddenly appears between us, pushing me back.

  “We’re not doing this shit again,” he says, giving us both a warning look. “There’s only one way
to settle this in a way that’s fair to everyone here—including Story.”

  Rath raises a skeptical eyebrow. “And how the hell do we manage that?”

  “Easy. The Golden Snitch of the game.” Tristian lets go of my shirt, sending me a smirk. “We let her choose.”

  I spend the whole night stewing.

  Golden fucking Snitch.

  They just as good as counted me out, just like that. It’s not like I could argue. It’s the best way to handle it. Logically, I understand it. Still pisses me off, though.

  The guys are both quiet and focused on other shit for the rest of the night, leaving me at odds. Ms. Crane is, if possible, even colder to me than usual, so I suppose she’s heard all about the punishment that went down last night. It’s not enough that I spent my whole morning hunting down anyone with the video—and I knew they existed. Maybe Tristian and Rath weren’t paying attention to the crowd last night, but I sure as fuck was. I could see every single guy who had their phone out, and I was taking notes.

  It’s also apparently not enough that all my interrogations were what led me to finding her in the first place. It doesn’t matter that I saved her. Everyone thinks I’m the bad guy.

  And the worst part is, I’m pretty sure they’re right.

  The guys both go up to see Story in shifts. I’m not there when they tell her to choose, but I know it’s been done by the nod I’m given after one of Tristian’s visits. He goes out to buy food, then carries it upstairs to her. He’s gone for a long while, probably eating it with her.

  The only time I see her is later that night, when she comes downstairs and warily enters the den. Her cheek has the kind of bruise that’s more red than blue—sure to heal quickly. She’s wearing a pair of loose pajamas that I didn’t even think she owned. We’d culled all of her ugly, ratty clothing when we settled her in, replaced it with sexier, more expensive things.