by Alley Ciz
I’ve never been a damsel, but being caught off guard doesn’t sit well with me either.
The distinctive ring of a FaceTime call blares from my phone, and I jump like it’s the sudden noise during a horror film. As if choreographed, both Duke and I look down toward my hand, Tessa’s squinting, tongue-out goofy face staring back at us from the screen.
I’m about to hit the button to ignore the call when my hand is smacked from underneath, the phone popping out of it like a game of Perfection, and Duke snatches it in midair. I scramble, hands pawing for it back, but it’s no use.
“Bitchy!” The excited greeting of my bestie rings out. “Can you please tell Charm—” Her words cut off before she can finish the nickname she bestowed on Wes. I don’t have to see her to know her midnight blue eyes are Disney princess-wide and her jaw unhinged like Merlin about to devour his latest meal. “Uhh…”
A wolfish grin blooms across Duke’s face as he takes in my best friend, interest sparking in his gaze. “Well, hello, beautiful.”
I don’t fucking think so.
Thankfully Duke’s dick has him distracted enough at the prospect of a new conquest that it’s easy for me to reclaim my phone before he can get too deep into hitting on Tessa.
“We didn’t do it,” two male voices I recognize as Wes and Leo’s call from somewhere off-screen.
“Lucy, you’ve got some ’splaining to do,” Tessa scolds in a poor attempt at an accent.
“Whatever you say, Ricky,” I reply, pandering to her Ricky Ricardo impression. The way her teeth flash between her glossed lips tells me I better charge my battery because I’m in for a lengthy discussion tonight.
“What didn’t they do?” I ask, seeking a subject change, but then I hold a hand up instead. “You know what…never mind. I’m sure you can charm one of the others into handling it for you. I gotta go. Love you. Bye!” I rush to hang up before things can spiral more.
“Hmm…” Duke strokes his chin in contemplation as I shove my phone into my back pocket.
“Spit it out, Delacourte,” I snap, done with the conversation already. After spending the weekend at my brother’s and Sunday dinner at the Falco’s, I wasn’t looking forward to having to come back here to begin with. Finding Duke Delacourte here when I arrive is the cherry on top of a shit sundae.
“It’s nothing really.” He curls a hand around my hip, holding me in place when I try to step away. “I just figured out how you can pay me back is all.”
Pay him back? And why is he still touching me?
“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t owe you a thing.”
He chuckles and brushes away the hair hanging in front of my shoulder, skimming his fingers down the back of my arm. Again I notice how, unlike with Jasper, no tingles are trailing in their wake. What the hell does that mean?
“That’s where you’re wrong, Princess.” I grind my teeth at both the use of and emphasis on Jasper’s preferred endearment for me. “All weekend I’ve had to listen to my boy bitch about you riding off with one of your precious Royals.”
My association—though incorrect—with the Royals is common knowledge at BA. It’s been weeks. It’s old news. “And it matters who picks me up from school…why?” I make a rolling motion with my hand. Am I the only one who feels like he’s speaking in riddles?
“It’s one thing when it’s one of the others you’re spreading your legs for.” I ignore the misogynistic double standard and the thumb tracing over the jut of my hip bone. “But when it’s the King Royal himself, it’s a horse of a different color.”
I fold my lips between my teeth so as not to smile at his Wizard of Oz reference while simultaneously trying to not throw up in my mouth at the insinuation that I’m fucking my brother. Gross.
“I don’t see how it’s either of your business…” I want so badly to play into the misconception, but I can’t. It’s one thing when it’s Wes I’m using to tease, but the thought of even insinuating the same about Carter gives me the heebie-jeebies. Cersei and Jamie Lannister we are not.
“Haven’t you learned by now?” Duke cups my face, and my nostrils flare at the casual way he strokes the clenched line of my jaw. “You are our business.”
Ugh. The sense of entitlement and propriety is annoying as fuck. I choose to ignore it to hasten an end to this entire exchange.
“Anyway…” I puff out a breath. “Fear not—you can go back to your leader with a guaran-fucking-tee that I’m not now nor will I ever be spreading my legs for Carter King.” The effort it takes to repress a full-body shiver at the prospect makes my muscles fatigued.
Something akin to relief flashes across Duke’s features, and I can’t help but add, “Though the same can’t be said about Wes.”
Momentary shock has Duke’s grip on me slackening the slightest bit, and I use the opportunity to free myself and duck underneath his arm. I make it a few steps into the penthouse before a hand wraps around my wrist and tugs me to a stop.
Planting my feet, I swivel my head around, only to be knocked off balance by the return of Duke’s cocksure grin. Why does the thought of me with Carter bother them more than me being with Wes?
Voices sound from down the hall before I get the chance to ask. If I expected the threat of an audience to force Duke into releasing me, I’m sorely disappointed. Instead, he lowers his hand from my wrist and threads his fingers with mine.
“Oh, good—Samantha, you’re home.” The pleased tone of Natalie’s voice has my attention snapping from the confusing joining of hands to where she’s leading the charge in our direction.
“Hi”—I swallow back a choking amount of sarcasm, indifferent to the audience—“Mom.”
“I hope you weren’t too bored waiting for us, sweetheart,” the beautiful sandy-haired woman Natalie has her arm linked with says to Duke. Upon closer inspection, it’s obvious how closely she resembles him, which can only mean…
“Not at all, Mom.” He gives her the softest, most genuine smile I’ve ever seen grace his face.
Holy shit, I was right. That’s Mrs. Delacourte. Which means one of the men with their heads angled down speaking softly with Mitchell behind our mothers is the governor of New Jersey.
What are they doing here? Who is the other guy?
Maternal affection radiates from Mrs. Delacourte as she gazes at her spawn, one of her perfectly sculpted brows rising as she takes in our linked hands. “Yes, I can see you found a way to entertain yourself.”
I try to shake my hand free, but it only causes Duke to pinch my knuckles tighter between his.
Natalie eyes Duke’s hold on me as well, but unlike Mrs. Delacourte, hers are filled with pure calculation. What she’s calculating, I have no idea, but if the way the hairs on the back of my neck rise is any indication, it can’t be anything good.
“Samantha, you didn’t tell me Duke Delacourte was one of your new friends from school.” To an outsider, Natalie’s statement could be taken as a parental tease. I know better.
“Friends,” I scoff. Duke, the only one close enough to hear me, gives my hand a warning squeeze. He was at the top of her list of Friends Samantha Should Make.
“Don’t be cross with her, Mrs. St. James. She did it for me.” My jaw unhinges at the charm oozing from Duke. Who is this guy? “I have a hard time letting people in, given who my father is.” Duke lifts his free hand in the governor’s direction, the man giving him a subtle nod when he does. “She probably didn’t want me to think she was namedropping or anything.”
“Oh, no. That’s not our Samantha at all,” Natalie confirms. How the hell would she know? She barely knows a thing about me. “Though this development makes me beyond happy.” Natalie claps her hands, clutching them in front of her black heart.
The other man with my stepfather lifts his gaze to my hand still being held in Duke’s. I choke on a startled breath as eyes so closely resembling those that haunt my nightmares rise to meet mine. His voice is pitched too low to hear him when he speaks to M
itchell, but I’m able to read his lips and wonder what the hell he means by “It could work.”
“Afraid I wasn’t making friends, Mother?” This time the sarcasm manages to sneak out.
“Pfft.” She waves the question off as if I’m being ridiculous. “I was concerned about you having a good time at the gala next weekend, but now that I know you are”—again, her gaze flits down to mine and Duke’s hands—“friends with Duke, I don’t have to worry.” She turns around to face Mitchell, snuggling up to my stepfather’s side. “Sweetheart”—she places a hand on his chest, slipping a manicured fingernail under the seam of his dress shirt, running it down the line of buttons securing it—“do you think it’s still possible to rearrange the seating chart to have the Delacourtes sit with us?”
“Frank?” Mitchell directs his inquiry to Governor Delacourte.
“I don’t see why not.” The governor slips an arm around his beaming wife as he answers. “Though I would suggest keeping the Nobles nearby if you do.” He jerks a chin at the other man, confirming my suspicion that he’s Jasper’s father.
Mitchell chuckles and rubs at his jaw. “Should I be worried you would feel excluded, Walter?”
“We’ll make it work,” Mr. Noble confirms.
The camaraderie between the men is clear to see in the easy way they fall into an air of joking. How is it I wasn’t aware my new family was linked with those related to my new nemesis?
Easy…
With the shotgun-esque style of their union, we were never given the opportunity to learn the details of our new stepfather. Though, in his defense, given our turbulent relationship with our mother, Carter and I feel no desire to entangle ourselves in her life more than is explicitly required.
The little I do know about Mitchell St. James is thanks to being forced to live under his roof by his wife’s threats.
For the sake of keeping the peace, I agreed to toe the line. Shockingly, Natalie has let me spend most of my weekends at Carter’s. This upcoming gala—for what, I’m still not completely clear on; such is the theme of my life now—is the first event she has insisted on my presence for.
That being said, I wasn’t necessarily looking forward to it, and even less so now.
CHAPTER 19
I hate having to admit it, but I spent the bulk of the weekend stewing over Samantha St. James—again.
The increased frequency with which she has overtaken my thoughts is both concerning and frustrating as fuck. The fact that I can’t simply excise her from my mind is a complication I neither want nor need.
There was a small part of me that thought maybe we turned a corner, that perhaps by helping her with her friend, things would…
Fuck! I don’t know.
I’ve lost sleep and countless hours trying to wrap my brain around how she could be so set against calling Wesley Prince to be her ride for her little field trip but then goes and gets picked up from school by Carter King.
His reputation may bely his age: only in his early twenties and more respected than most men three times his age. To the best of my knowledge, he’s never once—openly and in the daylight hours—set foot on the BA campus, but his reputation precedes him.
What’s Samantha’s deal with the Royals? What’s her angle?
Duke had enough of my brooding and abandoned me to spend the weekend with his parents. When he did return to the dorms, he had a shit-eating grin I was close to knocking off his face with a well-placed punch until he relayed a particular piece of information—Samantha and Carter King aren’t an item. I’m curious why she felt inclined to make the distinction. Any time I’ve seen her with Prince, it seems like she purposely rubs their connection in my face. Why wouldn’t she do it with the leader of the Royals?
Why is it the mere thought of her with King had me spiraling when witnessing her lips on Prince only drove me to challenge her more?
Needing to silence the incessant questions from my internal voice, I kept my Beats headphones on throughout the team’s morning workout, even going as far as pulling them back over my ears after my shower.
Now I’m the only one still in the locker room; the others have already gone to give me space.
Blackbear’s “do re mi” is the perfect soundtrack for my mood as I stalk the emptying halls of BA. Most students are already in their homerooms, making it easy to spot the small cluster of bodies gathered against the lockers.
I approach, tugging the headphones down until they hang wrapped around my neck, the bass of the track loud enough to be heard by all now that they aren’t pressed against my ears. Casually I lean a shoulder against the metal of the lockers, crossing my feet at the ankles, and settle in to watch Midas lord over whatever freshman has the misfortune of being his target this Monday morning.
“Noble.” Midas acknowledges my presence.
“Abbot.” I buff my nails on my shirt as I return the greeting, already bored with the situation.
Metal clangs from a body jerking against the lockers, and when I look up, deep purple eyes find me over the arm Midas is using to hold her in place. Samantha. A surge of protectiveness floods my system as I reassess the scene in front of me.
Oh fuck no.
“I don’t recall issuing any orders against the princess this morning.” It’s an effort to remain in my casual stance as I wait for Midas to turn his attention from Samantha to me.
“Fuck off, Jasper. I don’t have to listen to you.”
I nod. As a member of the court that reigns supreme, there’s truth to Midas’ statement.
A feminine snort escapes Samantha, and when I glance her way, she’s attempting to hide her amusement behind the back of her hand. “Discord in the kingdom, Noble?” Why am I not surprised she’s giving me shit when I’m trying to help her?
“What did I tell you about that mouth of yours?” It takes everything in me not to audibly groan when her teeth bite into the flesh of her lower lip. Chubbing up while in the midst of a pissing contest will not do me any favors.
“How about I catch up with you later?” Midas attempts to dismiss me, and Samantha tries to take advantage of his attention being on me to slip away. Before she can, he pushes her back into place by the shoulder. I see red. Somebody is about to lose a hand.
“How about you fuck off and take your hands off what’s mine?” I challenge, encroaching into his space until my chest is pushing against his outstretched arm.
“She’s not yours. You never called dibs.”
It’s my turn to snort, and I’m seriously starting to question the effectiveness of the football team’s helmets because there’s no way after four years at this school that Midas is this dense on how things work around here. What is with everyone challenging my authority? I blame Samantha for this shit.
“I may not have said the words, but anyone with eyes can tell I did. Now…” I straighten from my lean and make a shooing motion with my hands. “Run along.”
“And if I don’t?” Midas growls.
Ooo, I’m shaking in my metaphorical boots—but not really. Instead, I lift a shoulder and say, “It’s your funeral.”
My eyes remain locked on Midas, waiting to see what he’ll do. I rise to my full height, my muscles coiled tight and prepared for a fight. With the exception of the woman currently ping-ponging her gaze between the two of us squaring off, disobedience doesn’t go unpunished.
“Whatever, man.” Midas finally drops his arm and jerks his chin at Brad standing nearby. “Let’s go. She’s not worth it.”
My teeth snap together at the insinuation, but I bite my tongue and wait for them to turn the corner.
“Thanks,” Samantha says, bending for the strap of the messenger bag at her feet.
I can’t help but grin at how the word feels like it is being forced from her. This is twice now I’ve come to her aid. I bet it’s eating her up inside.
“No need to thank me. I was never good at sharing my toys. Guess that hasn’t changed much.”
Samantha’s back
snaps straight, and her shoulders pull together. With a squeak of sneaker on marble, she whirls around to face me, fire blazing bright in her eyes. “I am neither your toy. Or. Yours.”
Oh, how wrong she is. She is mine, and I will play with her however I like.
Quick as a whip, I reach out and grab her by the back of her neck, hand squeezing her nape as I pull her close. The white tips of her gray Chucks overlap the rounded toes of my Cole Haan Original Grand Plain Toe Oxfords, the black leather inverting as she’s forced to press up onto her toes as I increase the pressure of my grip until each time I inhale, I breathe in her exhalation.
My forefinger and thumb find the two hard bumps at the base of her skull and press, holding her head at the perfect angle. “Make no mistake, Samantha St. James—” My lips skim hers with each word, the minty hint of toothpaste and sweet coffee tickling my senses as I anchor her to me tighter with an arm banding around her middle.
Not even the Holy Ghost himself could fit between us. Her breasts are pillowed against my chest, the hard buds of her nipples as clear as my erection finding purchase in the V of her legs.
“—you. Are. Mine.” The way she trembles in my hold is magic, and one day—soon, if I have anything to say about it—I’ll get to feel it while she’s naked beneath me.
I wait for her next objection, my eyes bouncing between hers as I do, but none comes. Huh?
Small hands snake their way between us, the muscles of my abdominals going concave as her touch skims over them on the way to the center of my chest.
It’s difficult to make out with us close enough that our vision crosses, but it sure seems like her eyes fall as if trying to look at my mouth.
Underneath the tips of my fingers, I feel her throat work with a swallow.
Breathing her in one last time, the temptation to shift the last fraction of an inch it would take to seal my mouth properly over hers pumping hot through my veins, I ease my grip enough for her to lower down.
