Fallen Heirs (Windsor Academy 3)

“Damn, ladies, you’re looking mighty fuckable tonight.”

Bentley sidles up to us while Kingston glares at him. I know Bent’s comment was absolutely harmless—especially because Ainsley was also included in that statement—but it still pushes my boyfriend’s buttons. It’s not like that’s a hard thing to do, though. Kingston has become even more in touch with his inner Neanderthal lately. Come to think of it, Bentley probably needles his bestie because it irritates him.

I playfully jab my elbow into Bentley’s stomach. “Yeah? Well, I suppose you look a’ight, too.”

Bentley scoffs. “Please, woman. I look fly as hell, and you know it.”

He really does. Kingston, Bentley, and Reed have panty-melting features on any given day, but in a tux, we’re talking volcanic-explosion-in-your-pants good-looking. I thought they couldn’t get any hotter than when they wore their finely tailored suits for homecoming, but clearly, I was wrong. This is upper echelon shit right here.

I glance around, raising my brows as I spot several recognizable faces. Man, Kingston wasn’t kidding when he said there’d be some famous people in attendance. It’s not like a celebrity sighting is a rare occurrence in LA, but I can’t say I ever thought I’d be in the same room as one of Hollywood’s hottest leading men.

I point to the actor and whisper, “Please don’t ruin it for me and tell me he’s on your list of suspected perverts.”

Kingston’s low growl rumbles in my ear. “I’m half tempted to lie to you, to wipe that thirsty look off your face.”

“Oh, stop. You’d have to be blind to miss how pretty that man is.” I lift up on my toes to nip Kingston’s jaw. “Don’t worry, big guy, I’m not going anywhere.”

His fingers flex around the side of my waist. “If you tried, you’d best believe I’d hunt your ass down.”

I ignore the sudden throbbing between my thighs and, instead, give him a wry look. “I have no doubt, Caveman.”

I continue scanning the ballroom until I stumble upon Charles and Preston, chatting with a couple of people. Mr. Davenport’s attention wanders as if he can sense someone watching him. My skin crawls when our gazes collide, and his eyes take a leisurely stroll down my body and back up again. Preston smirks when he comes back to my face and sees the shade I’m throwing. If I didn’t already know he prefers submissive women, I’d swear the bastard actually likes my attitude. Like, legit gets off on it. Thankfully, only a moment passes before his notice returns to the people in front of him.

Kingston’s hand tightens around mine when he sees what’s snagged my attention. Or who, rather.

“Relax, Jazz. He can’t touch you.”

“Cool as a cucumber over here,” I bluff.

“What are we talking about?” Ainsley asks, her confused gaze flicking between her father and us. “Who can’t touch you?”

Fuck. I forget there’s one person in our party of five who has no idea what’s going on.

Kingston answers before I get the chance. “There’s a good chance the guy who attacked Jazz is here tonight. I was reminding her that he won’t have a chance to get to her because one of us will be with her at all times.”

Shit. Is that true? I don’t know why I didn’t think about it before, but it’s absolutely possible. We already know he’s a student at Windsor, and he knows Peyton, which means he’s part of a wealthy family who runs in the same circles. Why did I agree to come to this thing again? Oh yeah, nailing sick fucks to the ground. That thought helps strengthen my resolve.

I straighten my spine, jerking my head to the patriarchs. “Any idea who they’re talking to?”

“My parents.” Bentley inclines his head toward the couple.

I startle, not expecting that answer, although now that I’m really looking at them, I can see the resemblance. Bentley’s dad is a light-skinned African American man, and his mom looks kinda like a Polynesian Heidi Klum. Both are absolutely stunning, which is no surprise considering how attractive their son is.

“Well, that solves the race equation. Sort of.”

“What?” Bentley laughs.

“You’re racially ambiguous, like Dwayne Johnson,” I explain. “Surely that’s not the first time you’ve heard that.”

“Never in those exact words,” Bentley says. “If people want to know, they usually just ask.”

“Eh.” I shrug. “It doesn’t really matter—I was just curious. I’ve always known I was biracial, but I think never meeting my father until recently made me naturally inquisitive about other mixed-race people. I know how annoying that question can be, though, so I would’ve never asked.”

Bentley swings his arm over my shoulder, much to Kingston’s annoyance. “Well, to satisfy your curiosity, my little kitty cat, my dad’s half Irish—hence, the Fitzgerald—and half Black, and my mom’s half German, half Hawaiian.”

All four parents look like they’re discussing something serious. “What do you think they’re talking about?”

Bent shrugs. “Probably VC stuff. My dad owns a firm.”