by Angel Lawson
Yours,
Ted
A photograph had also been stuffed in the envelope, a compromising picture that I sent to a few of the Sugar Daddies for money. Ted had been one of those Daddies. He was no one special. Just someone to earn some quick cash off of until I could get out of dodge. Back then, I hadn’t really been paying much attention to the people on the screen. They were barely even real people to me. Just a means to an end.
It wasn’t until that first letter, the mention of my stepbrother, that it hit me.
Ted must have been Killian.
Who else would know? Who else would chase me across the country like this just to torment me?
It would have been easier if it were Killian. It’d mean that he and the others were the only ones who knew about what they did to me. Nothing could ever be so simple, though. I quickly realized that this was someone else.
Dear Sweet Cherry,
Did you get my gifts? Did you like the flowers? I know orange is your favorite color.
I must admit that it’s very upsetting that you ran away. I had so many plans for the two of us. Do you not want to see me? Did you give the one thing I asked you to save to someone else? Are you nothing but a common whore?
No. I refuse to believe that. You made a promise and I know you’ll keep it. That’s why I sent you the gifts, to let you know I still believe in you. In us. One day soon I’ll find you and I’ll make you mine.
Until then,
Ted
It, too, was accompanied by photos of me. In class. In my dorm room. Standing in line at the canteen. Laying down in the nurse’s office when I’d come down with the flu. Each photo was progressively more alarming. This wasn’t someone across the country. This was someone local, someone horrifyingly present and persistent. He knew where I slept, what I ate, when I went to class.
That’s when I began doing some of my own stalking.
Killian’s social media is a tribute to narcissism. Back then, he posted up to a dozen times a day. He was easy to keep track of, and among all the photos of him posing with girls, it became obvious that it wasn’t his MO. Killian took girls and tossed them aside. He didn’t chase them. He tormented them, yes, but the letters, the gifts, the teasing, weren’t his style at all. They weren’t nearly interactive enough to be. This isn’t how Killian prefers to hurt people.
Still, I couldn’t stop tracking his profile—all of their profiles. At first it became a sick fascination, watching these guys who’d hurt me so badly. Wondering what makes them tick. Wondering if they felt bad. Wondering if they were doing it to other girls.
But the fascination wasn’t so sick. I realize that now. After what they did to me, there was some comfort in knowing where they were. I couldn’t shake them, even after a year. Even after three years, even from across the country, I could feel their eyes on me, their deep breaths and fingertips. I constantly woke, drenched in sweat, caught in feverish dreams of being choked by a thick cock shoved down my throat, the bitter taste of semen on my tongue. The only thing that made it go away was watching them. Ironic, the stalked became the stalker. I watched their successes, their failures. Much like in high school, they dominated college. Killian has become a superstar in football, Rath is deeply involved in the music scene, and Tristian seems to have a different girl on his arm every night. I knew when they got into Forsyth University, and I knew when they became Lambda Delta Zetas—Lords.
That’s how I heard about the position of Lady.
I shove the letter and photos back in the envelope and hide it back in the pocket of my suitcase. Grabbing my backpack, I exit the room. It’s the first day of classes, and I can’t be late. Daniel probably went out of his way to help me register and get through the admissions process, even though the deadlines had already passed. He has a lot of sway at the University, and getting on the wrong side of it will put a wrench in my plans of avoiding him at all costs.
I close and lock my door, double checking that it’s secure. It’s not a great apartment. When Ted finds me—and I have no doubt that he will—it’ll take almost nothing to get inside.
As I walk toward campus, I’m once again caught with the question: Would he? Would he break in and hurt me? The letters aren’t so sweet anymore. They’re impatient, edged with angry desperation, uncaring. What happened in Colorado is proof enough that he has no limits.
If I don’t make the position of Lady, then I’m not sure what I’ll do. I have no plan B.
Yet again, I check my phone, hoping to see a text from the Lords. There’s nothing. Being on a college campus is both a positive and negative. There are a lot of people around, so it’s easy to blend. But knowing the guys are so close has me on a razor’s edge, shoulders tucked up to my ears, eyes scanning the distance.
I enter the psychology building, anxiously searching for my first class—room 202, second floor. I find the stairwell and head up, traveling with a handful of other students. I’ve only just stepped onto the landing when I jolt to an abrupt stop. Killian leans against the wall, tattooed arms crossed over his chest, dark eyes zeroed in on me.
The other students pass without sensing that anything’s off. Even though I shouldn’t be surprised he knows exactly where to find me, a tingling, alarmed sensation rolls up my spine. His presence is like a startling ache in the universe, something that throbs unavoidably in my awareness. It’s yet another reminder that this thing I’m doing here is dangerous. Trading in one evil for another was never going to be ideal.
His face is completely void of emotion. No expression. He jerks his chin to the side, gesturing for me to follow him. Forcing my legs move toward him is like moving through molasses. Every molecule in my body screams for me to run, but I don’t. I walk two feet behind him, aware that everyone we pass notices him and gives him the same wide berth I feel compelled to give him. He pushes a door open and walks through.
I take a long, unsteady breath before following him in.
The door closes behind us with a click that’s as loud as a gunshot. A glance around reveals that we’re in an empty, dimly lit classroom.
Alone.
I swallow thickly, hand tightening around the strap of my bag. “I have class in ten minutes.”
Eyes tracking the way I remain by the door, the muscle in Killian’s jaw tics. “I came to formally offer you the position of Lady.”
“Oh.” A conflicted shudder runs through me, dread warring with relief. “I figured after I didn’t hear from you…”
Despite this having been his decision, he doesn’t look happy about it, eyebrows drawn low and angry over his eyes. “We had to discuss it and come up with a few…compromises.”
I shift uncomfortably. “…compromises?”
“Guidelines,” he bites out. “Parameters. It’s our business, not yours.”
I nod, practically feeling the hatred rolling off him in waves. “I understand.”
He makes a low, mocking sound. “You’re not as slick as you think, Story.” He leans against the desk at his back, strong arms folded against his chest. “Rath and Tristian might not see the forest for the trees, but I’ve got a pretty nice view. I don’t know what game you’re playing here, but I’m going to tell you now, it won’t fucking fly.”
My voice is weak when I argue, “There’s no game.”
“Of course not. You just came here to submit yourself to our complete control for the hell of it.” He licks his bottom lip, gaze roaming down my body. “It doesn’t matter. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. I tried to tell the others you’d run, first opportunity you got. They’re laboring under the delusion you have any sense of follow-through.”
I meet his gaze, trying to make my voice sound as steely as I feel. “I’m not going to run.”
His eyes narrow. “You did last time.”
“That was different,” I start, but I know it’s useless. Killian doesn’t care what it did to me. He doesn’t care that I’d already been trying to find a way out. He doesn’t care
that I’m agreeing this time—that’s what makes it different. Instead, I say, “You made it very clear that you hated me living in your house. I figured I was doing you a favor by leaving.”
His eyes flash in anger and I stiffen, already backing toward the door when he rears forward. “Doing me a favor?” he growls. My back hits the door just as his palm makes contact with the wood, slamming into the space beside my head. His low, angry hiss is like venom against my ear. “I wasn’t done with you, Story. We weren’t done with you. If you take this position, there’s no running away. You’ll belong to us and no one else. Not until we get tired of you.”
He means it as a threat, and that’s exactly what it is. If I agree to this, I’m giving myself to them, wholly. What he doesn’t realize is just how comforting that promise is—not belonging to anyone else.
Heart pounding, still cringing away from the hard chest in front of me, I breathe, “I know.”
From my periphery, I can see the muscles in his arm shift and flex. “You’d fucking better know, because this is your choice. Not mine.”
Nodding, I stare at my feet, unable to look him in the eye, not without thinking about that night and how he looked pleasuring himself. “I won’t run away again.” I feel his fingertips under my chin. His touch isn’t gentle, and he forces me to look up at him.
“I want to make one thing perfectly clear,” he begins, the lines of his face sharp and hard. “The only reason Rath and Tristian didn’t fuck you raw that night is because I told them not to.”
“I know.” I ask the question I’ve wanted to know the answer to for three years. “Why did you stop them?”
He pins me with his stare, something dark and strangely reluctant lurking there. “Because I could.”
My stomach twists itself in a disgusted knot at my next words. “Thank you.”
His low, raspy chuckle sends an icy chill up my spine. “Oh, Sweet Cherry. Don’t thank me. I’m not your savior, then or now. You need to get that through your pretty little head. I’m not going to stop them from doing what they want to you. Tell me you understand.” The words are a direct command, full of an oddly business-like authority.
I swallow loudly. “I understand.”
He’s so close that it’s getting hard to breathe anything that isn’t the masculine scent of him. “And no more lying. All that shit about you being a virgin? Just how stupid do you think I am?”
My eyebrows pull together. “I am a virgin,” I insist, even as his jaw hardens.
He steps forward, his huge frame towering over me. “You expect me to believe that? On your word alone?”
My mouth falters around several aborted replies. “How else can I prove it?”
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.
His voice is rough from the whiskey when he answers, “She seems to understand.”
Rath snorts, a biography of Jimi Hendrix fanned open in his lap. He thinks we don’t know, but he’s not reading it. “Somehow I doubt that.”
I disagree, “She knows what she’s getting into better than most.” And it’s true. Story’s been under our heel before. She’s felt our anger, our praise, the brutality of our appetite for her. It was only once, but it was more than enough. Story knows us in a way all these other bitches never could. These two underestimate her. “So she’s agreeable?”
Killian scoffs. “A little too agreeable.”
“She wants something,” Rath guesses.
“Wrong,” I say, slipping my phone into my pocket. “She needs something. Her showing up like this could only be out of complete desperation.” Both of them meet my grin with blank faces and I roll my eyes. Fuck, these two have zero imagination sometimes. “Desperation makes a person do just about anything. Don’t you get it? We’re holding all the cards here. Lighten up.”
Martin appears in the doorway, holding a stack of papers. “I have the contracts you requested.”
Martin is a little older than us, but most people couldn’t even tell. He’s a scrawny nerd. He’s also wicked smart. As a junior lawyer with Jackson & Wolfe, he’s been assigned to work with the Lords. Exclusively. It’s part of the legacy—having a connection with the firm. Each set of Lords had one before us, and the ones who follow will, too. The Jackson and Wolfe families were Lord-bred long before the three of us were born.
Killian swallows the rest of his drink and walks over, taking the papers from Martin. He skims the information while handing a set to me and Rath. The top section is a copy of the contract that Story will need to sign before she steps foot in the house. It outlines the expectations very clearly. It’s a lot of legalese, but I’d made sure the language was plain enough to a layperson. It’d be easy to rope this girl into something she doesn’t expect, but that’s the wrong play here. Better to let her see just how much we’re going to own her—every move, every moment, every strand of hair on her pretty little head. Her agreement will seal what I already know.
