Walking inside, I’m greeted with the muffled, distant sound of an argument. Rolling my eyes, I follow the source to the den, dropping my bag in the foyer.
“I just want to be sure,” Tristian is saying as I approach. “Not all inks are vegan. I read it online.”
Oh, right. Tristian is vegan this month. I’m getting better at seeing his cycles. The vegan thing comes and goes. He must have a meeting with his dad coming up, or a test or something.
“What’s going on?” I ask, entering the room. They all turn to look at me, and my brows hike all the way up at the scene. Tristian and Killian are shirtless—nice view—while Dimitri lazes back on the couch, looking on with amusement. There’s a strange guy doing something to Killian’s back. He’s tall, with messy, platinum blond hair, and almost as full of tattoos as Killian, and green eyes that somehow still feel dark.
“This here is Remy,” Dimitri explains, noticing my discomfort. “Remington Maddox. Don’t worry, he’s Sy’s friend. Another Delta Kappa.” Oh, I know the name Maddox. It’s as well-known around here as Mercer. Tristian and Dimitri had used Maddox towers as their alibi.
Remy plants those piercing green eyes on me, making me squirm. “I think you met my uncle recently.”
I nod, remembering the call Killian had made. “He was the officer guarding my mom in the hospital.”
“Real stand-up guy.” The smile Remy gives me is cold and embittered, but doesn’t feel directed at me.
I suspect we’re all still a little twitchy about having people in the house, but they know as well I do that we have to work past it. A King can’t do business in isolation. Dimitri explains, “Remy’s the best artist on campus. He’s giving Killer some new ink.”
“Really?” I take off my jacket and get closer. “Can I see?”
Remy backs off so Killian can twist, showing me the design. I’ve seen it before, tattooed on Pretty Nick Bruin, tagged up and down the Avenue, even in bathroom stalls sometimes. It’s two ‘S’s in an old-fashioned, spiky style. South Side.
I reach up to touch his arm, getting a better look. It’s been slathered with something shiny and thick, and the edges are red, a bit raised. “Does it hurt?”
Killian’s intense eyes are staring back at me when I raise my gaze to his. “Not anymore.”
Before my hand can fall away, he catches it in his own, pulling me into his chest to brush our lips together. “How was the study group?” he asks, as Remy bandages the area.
“Fine,” I assure, giving the ‘S’ scar on his chest a little caress. “No problems.” There’s a Baron in my group, but aside from an initial nasty comment—“Lord's trash.”—he hasn’t paid me much mind.
Dimitri’s still smarting from the original comment, though. “Jackoff’s just salty the Barons are losing The Game.”
Tristian wryly points out, “We’re losing The Game.”
“First of all, we’re doing fuckloads better than the Barons, and second…” Dimitri thrusts a hand toward Killian. “He’s a King now. That’s the ultimate win. Points don’t matter.”
“Tell that to the LDZ guys,” Killian grumbles, gently pulling a shirt over his head. I give him a hand, easing it over the bandaged portion of his shoulder. “They really want to kick it up these next few months. Try to get the lead.” His tone clarifies that he’s ready to facilitate this, and I understand why. We’ve been so shut up and isolated from the frat since the holidays. It’s easy to forget we’re leading something here, other than ourselves.
Tristian clears his throat, nodding at Remy. “Come on, guys. We’re hosting the opposition here.” It’s not said super seriously. It’s almost like after all the drama with the Kings, the frats’ big ‘Game’ seems laughably low-stakes.
That’s when I notice Remy is pulling out more plastic-sealed, sterile supplies. Tristian is sitting on the stool in the middle of the room. The one Killian had been occupying. And he’s still suspiciously shirtless.
“Uh, Tris?” I mosey over to him, eyes glued to his deliciously toned abs.
“Yes, sweetheart?” He gives me a cocky grin, like he knows just how hard it is to tear my eyes away from his perfect body. He’s definitely flexing his pecs.
Somehow, I manage to lift my eyes to his face. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it kind of looks like you’re about to get a tattoo.”