Stuck With The Four Hotties

When I walk into the gym, I find Creed and Windsor fencing.

They’re both soaked in sweat, dressed in that padded white gear, but lacking any helmets. My practical side wars briefly with my fascination, and I end up sitting quietly on a bench in the back, just admiring their forms as they square off.

With the tips of their swords-rapiers? I don’t know, sorry, just not a fencing expert-crossed, the boys stare at each other across the mat. Creed’s blue eyes bore into Windsor’s hazel ones. The prince looks as prepared and on top of things as he always does, but Creed’s shed his sexy sloth persona, dropping into that fierce fighting style of his that I’ve only seen on a few occasions.

“You’re bloody good,” Windsor tells him, a bead of sweat running down the side of his face. His eyes flick briefly over Creed’s shoulder and land on mine before bouncing right back to his opponent’s. “Honestly, your form is better than mine, but when you get mad, you get impulsive.”

“Enough of your bullshit. I’m here to kick your ass, not take lessons from you.”

Windsor shrugs his shoulders. “Fine by me. It’s your funeral.”

The two boys take up crouched stances, bouncing slightly as they prepare for the round to start. When it does, there’s this flurry of motion from Creed

as he throws himself at Windsor, his weapon moving so fast I can hardly see it. Windsor moves nimbly out of his way, and Creed stumbles, recovering just as fast and spinning on a dime.

Their swords clash with the clang of metal, and I realize they’re not really fencing at all.

Fencing is … well, first off, the swords they’re holding are far too big for a true fencing match. That, and they’re definitely both a bit more aggressive and wild with their approach. Steel flies and clatters together, the two boys pushing in with all their strength.

Creed’s teeth are gritted in frustration, and he pushes back with a growl, swinging his weapon around and going in for Windsor’s midsection. The prince sidesteps the move with ease, and then whacks Creed right in the lower back with his sword.

“My friend, you have just suffered a severed spine,” he announces, but Creed’s so worked up and frustrated that he spins around and goes for Windsor again. There’s this wild flurry of dancing blades before Windsor knocks Creed’s aside and puts the tip to his throat. “And now you’ve lost your vocal chords. Are you done yet? I told you: your form is superior, but you’re too rash. Calm yourself a little, and you’d be a worthy opponent.”

Creed Cabot makes a frustrated sound under his breath and then chucks his weapon to the ground in irritation before he notices me sitting there, his cheeks flushing with red.

“Marnye,” he says cautiously, throwing on that lazy, drawling affectation of his. “I didn’t realize you were sitting there …”

“Would you have fought any differently if you’d known?” I ask, standing up and finding my eyes drawn to Windsor’s fingers as he pulls down the zipper on the front of his uniform and shows off a little bare chest. My gaze snaps back to Creed, waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, maybe,” he says, reaching up to push sweaty blond hair off of his forehead.

“Why?” I ask, moving over to stand between them.

“Because … I’d be fighting for someone other than myself?” Creed says, but almost like it’s a question he’s asking himself. Windsor smiles at us both. “Come back to my room. I’ll make you both a proper cup of English tea.

It’s the cure for everything you know: depression, fatigue, anger, sadness, war.”

“Keep calm and carry on, right?” I ask, and Wind grins.

“Precisely.” He leads the way back to the locker room, and I wait outside as the boys change back into their uniforms. We head over to Tower Three, take the elevator up-or the lift as Wind calls it-and then Creed and I snuggle a bit while Windsor makes us all a cup of tea, and even sets up these three-tiered silver trays with tiny sandwiches and colorful macarons on them. “You didn’t actually make all of this stuff, did you?” I ask, and Windsor

gives me a weird look.

“Why not? What else do I have to do? I’m a prince, for fuck’s sake.” Oh, well, okay.

I suppose that makes sense.

I look down at my tea, lifting the delicate saucer to my lips for a sip. It’s never too hot when Wind makes it; it’s always just right.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

“What are your guys’ plans for fall break?” I ask, feeling this tenuous emotion inside of me tear like tissue paper. I’m so worried about Charlie, I feel sick. If I don’t actively work to not think about him, then he’s the only thing on my mind most days. “I want to be with my dad, but …” I’m almost afraid to finish that sentence, but I make myself lift my gaze, looking between Creed and Windsor and wondering how long they’ve been working on the sword fighting thing together. “I kind of …” Fuck, this is hard. “I’d like some company.”

“It’s hard, to watch someone you love suffer, isn’t it?” Windsor asks, and I remember that his dad passed away a long time ago. I’ve never asked why. It seemed too personal of a question. Maybe … I could ask in private sometime? “Come to my family’s estate in Napa. We’ll be celebrating … what is that grisly American holiday that celebrates genocide and racism, Thanksgiving is it? … yes, we’ll be celebrating Thanksgiving there. Mother will be attendance, if stuffy princesses are your sort of thing.”

My brows go up, and I blink several times to clear my surprise. “You’re okay if I come up there with Charlie?”

“Okay? I’d love to have you.” Windsor pauses and sets his teacup down. His red hair is sweaty and sticking up all over the place. Creed is leaning on one elbow, resting his head in his palm, and stuffing a finger-sandwich into his mouth with the opposite hand as he watches me and Wind. “It’s on a vineyard, quite lovely. But we won’t have any wine on the premises, I can promise you that.”

“I think …” I start, exhaling sharply and putting my own teacup aside to keep the boys from seeing how badly my hands are shaking. “That alcohol isn’t as big of a worry now as it was. I think a vineyard would be nice. I’ll check with Dad.”

“We have our own polo field,” Windsor adds, glancing over at Creed. “We could put on a show. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“You’re addicted to winning, you know,” Creed whispers, eating another sandwich. I swear, that boy can put food away like nobody else but Zack. They could probably have an eating competition, and it’d be a close bet. The thing is, Zack probably weighs like fifty percent more than Creed. At least. He’s huge, my own big, sexy football playing teddy bear … “But sure, why not?” Creed sits up and narrows his eyes on his tea. “Fucking boiled plant water with milk and sugar in it. Forgive me if I’m not overly impressed.”

Windsor’s nostrils flare and his own hazel eyes narrow.

“Would you like me to rescind my invitation?” he whispers, his voice edging on dangerous. “Insult the queen’s beverage again, and I’ll be forced to defend the drink of my country.”

Creed looks up at him, and then tilts his head to one side.

“Question: is Lizzie Walton invited?” he asks, and then both boys turn to look at me. I pretend to be too busy sipping my tea to answer that. I want to know their opinions on the matter … “Oh come on, Marnye, don’t tell me her constant hounding of Tristan doesn’t piss you off.”

“I, well …” I’m in polite company, so I may as well … “Okay, yeah, it frustrates me. I can’t get a second alone with him. She’s literally always there.”

“We’ll make sure her invitation gets lost in the mail then,” Windsor says, standing up and then smiling at the pair of us. “Take your time finishing the tea. I’m in desperate need of a shower.” He starts toward his room and disappears inside, leaving the door cracked. I can hear the water when he turns it on, but I can’t see anything.

“Come back to my room with me,” Creed whispers, and the sound makes me shiver all over. Doubly so when he runs his finger down the back of my neck. It’s in that moment that Windsor happens to pause in a spot where I can see him undressing, dropping his clothes to the floor and revealing a lithe, muscular form that has my entire body going up in flames.

He sees me looking, smirks, and then walks over to shove the door closed.

“Okay,” I tell Creed, finding it suddenly hard to talk as I glance over at him. “Absolutely. Yes.”

A slow, sultry smirk curves over his mouth as he stands up and takes my hand. I make sure to reach out, grab his teacup and finish off his drink before we go. Don’t want to piss the prince off, now do we?

Creed and I head back to his room and end up late for class the next mo

rning.

It’s worth it though, oh so worth it.