Dukes of Ruin: The Royals of Forsyth U by Lawson Angel & Rue Samantha

Author:Lawson, Angel & Rue, Samantha
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-02-13T00:00:00+00:00

The next afternoon, I’m standing awkwardly outside of Remy’s door. The never-ending, pulsing music vibrates from the room, and I’m hesitant to interrupt him on account of it being impossible to know which version of the guy is going to open the door. The rich, entitled Duke? The rapey, artistic prodigy? Or the brain scrambled maniac that rambles on about stars and colors and forces me to be his canvas.

Inhaling deeply, I lift my fist and rap on the wood, hoping it’s loud enough for him to hear over the thudding bass. The music lowers a beat before the door flies open, making me take an instinctive step back. He stands there in a dark gray button-down shirt, although the actual buttons are conspicuously missing, revealing a swath of his tattooed torso. My eyes drop to a pair of black leather pants molded to fit his lithe, long body like a glove.

A gust of weed hits me in the face like a physical force.

He looks me up and down with heavy, bloodshot eyes. “Did you come to yell at me for not catching you?” The question is asked with a sour tilt of his mouth, as if such a motive were plausible but inconvenient.

I blink at him for a second. It’s ten in the morning and after what happened between me and Sy twelve hours ago, I’m too exhausted to bother untangling Remy’s enigmatic comments. I cut to the chase. “Do you have a paintbrush I can borrow?”

His head snaps upright, some of that weed-fog draining from his expression. “Type?”

Blankly, I repeat, “Type?”

“Round? Flat? Fan? Mop? Filbert?” he asks, eyebrows rising with each word. “There are a dozen different styles. Glaze? Angle?”

I shuffle my feet uncertainly. “Uh, something that I can use for dusting in tight spaces? I won’t be painting with it.”

Even though he doesn’t look away from me, his eyes go unfocused again. I think it might be whatever passes for pensive when it comes to Remy. Without answering, he abruptly turns on his heel and crosses to his worktable, picking through cups of brushes. He plucks one out and stares at it pensively, running his thumb over the bristles.

He returns with a slow gait. “This work?”

“Yeah, it should.” I reach for it, but he holds it up, out of my reach, nodding to my hip.

“Let me see it.”

Pausing for only a moment at the unexpected request, I hook my thumb in the waistband of my leggings and tug it down on one side, revealing the star. It’s still red, irritated at what happened last night with Sy, and coated in a thick sheen of ointment. But the lines are stark and clean.

Frowning, he reaches out to graze his thumb over the northernmost point, counting them in a clockwise motion. His touch is gentle, sending an unwanted shock down to my core. My goal had been to give him a literal touch point—something to help him navigate the lines of reality—but now I’m wondering if that was such a good idea.

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