“Almost done,” he mutters, wiping away a smear of ink with a clean pad. “You know, the only other face tattoo I’ve done is on Nicky.” The machine finally powers down. The silence afterward is almost disorienting.
Remy wipes the area again, gentler this time, then grabs a handheld mirror from the counter. He holds it out.
“Moment of truth.”
I take it.
The script arcs cleanly across my brow, elegant and ruthless at the same time. Exactly what I wanted. A reminder and a warning.
“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “It’s good.”
Remy nods once, like he expected nothing less. He comes to stand behind me, both of us reflected in the mirror. For a second, he just looks at the tattoo, admiring his own work. The faintest smile tugs at his mouth.
“Thanks,” I say quietly. “For the tattoo and for distracting me from everything going on back there.”
“We’ve known one another for a while,” he says, resting his hands on the back of the chair. “And I’ve got no fucking clue why you’d pledge BRN… but outside the frat, where that girl is concerned–” He glances down the hall toward the office, toward Arianette. “My father doesn’t understand or accept imperfection,” Remy says. “He’s focused on status and reputation. Anything that interferes with that–tradition, Forsyth’s image, his precious position–is a liability. Something to be managed, not helped.”
He moves to the workstation, collecting the used needles, ink caps and wipes into a neat pile for cleaning.
“That girl is a liability,” he says, not unkindly.
“Hernameis Arianette,” I argue, “and your father is committed to her.”
“Maybe, but once upon a time, he was committed to my mother, too, and when things got rough, he couldn’t handle it. Just like he couldn’t handle me after Tate died.” When he looks at me, his eyes are crystal clear. “I can see it with her–the Baroness. She’s like me. Like my mom. And if you give a shit about her, you’re going to have to do everything you can to keep her safe.”
There’s no doubt in my mind that Remy has it bad for Lavinia Lucia. That girl has him by the balls and heart. The Dukes are all in with their Duchess. But that’s the difference between them and me. I didn’t grow up with best friends to get me through the hard times. I don’t evenhavea father to rebel against.
“I’m not like you, Rem,” I tell him. “I don’t have a bloodline or a legacy. Your father saw something in me that he needed, and in return, I get shelter and an education. The guys are fine, but I’m never going to walk out of Forsyth U with a found family to build a future with. I’ve been in and out of enough group homes and residential programs to see this life for what it is.”
“That’s big talk for someone who just let me permanently tattoo the Baron code on his face.”
“Protection goes a long way.” I don’t know why I’m telling him all of this, but I keep talking. “As for the Baroness? Well, she’s just a sexy little perk that comes with the job. A girl who’s there to serve my needs. Who will give me a blow job in the parking lot before class and can’t say no when I want to pierce her clit. That’s all she is, and that’s all she’ll ever be.”
He studies me for so long that I glance over my shoulder to see if someone else is there. There isn’t.
“If that’s how you see it, Kemp, then all I can say is good fucking luck.”
15
Arianette
The door slamsacross the room–Damon’s gone.
The absence feels loud, like pressure suddenly released and leaving me unbalanced in its wake.
“Arianette,” Sy’s voice is calm, steady. Anchoring. “Do you want to stop?”
I shake my head. My hands come up automatically, wiping at my cheeks, fingers damp. “No.”
“All right,” he says gently. “Take a deep breath for me. Slow it down.”
I inhale, shakily at first, then again. The air feels thick, heavy, like I’m pushing through it instead of breathing it.
“That’s good,” Sy murmurs. “Let’s get back to the street. You’re outside again. You just left dance class and you feel good about it and yourself. You can feel the pavement under your feet. The noise. The lateafternoon air.”
The street comes back in pieces.
Sunlight too bright. Heat bouncing off concrete. Music leaking from a passing car–muffled bass. Students pass me heading to and from campus, talking and laughing. My chest aches. I want that kind of friendship too, but I’m on the route I take back to the Manor. I’m expected home. Two blocks. Five minutes.
