Duke glances at Baron. Baron doesn’t move.
I tap my toe and wait.
“You’re going to sit with us this year?” Duke asks at last. “Because I thought since Royal wasn’t here…”
“That I’d disappear?” I ask. “Wouldn’t that be convenient?”
“Kinda,” he mutters.
“I’m sure sorry I can’t make things easier for you,” I say. “But I’ll be sitting at the head of the table this year, so be a doll and pull up a chair for me, would you? Right between you two.”
“But… That’s where Royal sat.”
“And Royal was the king,” I say. “Since he’s gone, that leaves me on the throne all by myself, doesn’t it?”
“We’re the kings,” Baron says quietly. Everyone is watching. The café is silent as a cemetery, even though probably only the adjoining table can hear us.
“Are you, though?” I ask.
I hear an audible intake of breath from around the table. No one has challenged their kings for years. And here I am, a girl who started out getting thrown in dumpsters, demanding the best seat in the room. I stand straight, my chin up, but inside, my stomach is in knots and my pulse is trembling. This is all a gamble that depends on too many variables I don’t know, things that happened between Royal and the twins before and after he brought me to the Slaughterpen. That may have been the main event, but there were days of planning that went into that, fights that happened off stage between the Dolce brothers to get them into those chairs.
Duke shares a look with his brother, and some unspoken knowledge passes between them. And then Duke pushes out his seat. I fight to keep from closing my eyes and sighing in relief or whooping with joy. Instead, I consciously focus on keeping my face unchanged, like there was never any doubt in my mind that the twins would obey my command. But inside, I’m silently thanking Royal like he’s a fucking god.
I want to throw my arms around him and kiss him for this, because Duke has sauntered over to a nearby table and snagged an empty chair. I remind myself this is only the barest edge of the beginning. But it could have all come to a screeching halt or blown up in my face. They could have laughed at me or worse. Instead, I gambled on Royal Dolce. And just like he always wins, I win when I bet on him.
“Your majesty,” Duke says, spinning the chair around with a flourish and a mock bow. “Your throne.”
I set my plate down, and Baron scoots over a few inches. It’s not much, but it feels like the sweetest triumph. Duke pulls his chair over and drops into it, but I’m not done.
“Thank you,” I say. “Now, do you remember what you had me do the first time I came to your table?”
“What?” Duke asks, glancing at Baron, his eyes widening in alarm.
“Don’t look at him,” I say, taking his chin in my hand and tugging it toward me. “I’m talking to you.”
Duke swallows and raises his gaze to mine. I see him, the real boy behind all the jokes and laughter, the easygoing, dirty-mouthed asshole. He’s scared. He loves his position of power, but he knows it isn’t guaranteed. He knows his time is limited, and he’s just met his match.
“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t remember.”
“Oh, come on, Duke,” I say with a smile. “You don’t get wasted and forget your evil deeds until after school. What did you make me do when you called me to your table?”
He darts a glance at Baron again, but I nudge his chin back to me, forcing his gaze to mine.
“Bow,” he grits out.
“That’s right,” I say as if I’ve just remembered. “You made me bow and kiss your feet like your loyal subjects. I think it’s time for you to return the favor.”
“Are you fucking kidding?” Baron asks from behind me.
“Not even a little.”
“No way,” he snaps.
I quirk a brow at his words, but I’m still facing Duke. “Are you saying you don’t owe me this much?”
“Okay,” Duke says, a grin spreading across his face. “But if you’re into some dominatrix shit like making me bow down, surely I should kiss something a lot more exciting than your feet.”
He reaches out and slides his hands around the back of my thighs under my skirt, pulling me closer. I tense, my body rebelling at the sensation of his hot hands on my bare skin. I clench my teeth and swallow, fighting the urge to knock him the fuck out for his presumptuousness.