Princes of Ash (Royals of Forsyth University, #8)

by Angel Lawson

To my surprise, Pace opens Effie’s cage, beckoning her to hop onto a finger, and then carries her over to the bed.

As a bonus, you may have increased energy and more lustrous hair and nails during this trimester.” Beside me, Pace groans. “What?” Wick asks, blue eyes flicking to him. Scowling at the ceiling, Pace reaches down to adjust his junk. “You know how her hair does it for me. Shinier and more lustrous? I can’t take it.”

🤣🤣

“How do you live the life of a Royal, see all the jacked-up shit we have, and not be fucking terrified sending something you care about out into that sewer of depravity?”

But I won’t accept that. Not for a fucking second. I don’t know where it comes from or why, but I know I’d go down swinging for the right to my own goddamn son.

I start to close the book, but Wicker’s hand comes down over the top. “What are you doing?” he asks. “Cliffhanger much?” “It’s late.” I’m tired, and I blame being in this bed for making me feel, well, things… other than sleepy. Pace carries Effie over to her cage and closes her in. He drapes the cloth over the top and returns to the bed, nudging Wicker to the middle. “One more chapter, bro.” He stretches out, resting his head on his bicep. “I need to know what to expect next week. You know, other than the apple thing.”

Wicker’s new sheets don’t even smell like her. And it pisses me off.

And now that I’m here beside her, something inside the core of my being begins unwinding. Relaxing. Calming.

But then Adeline says, “Your eyes look very familiar.”

He’d bragged that he’d heard his father say that my father was a Duke, which was shocking enough, but it was the rest that haunted me at night. “Man, I don’t know! I just heard it was a huge scandal. If I had to guess, I’d say she was someone important.” His eyes flicked up to mine. “Someone Royal.”

Worse is that, in the back of my mind, buried beneath the ragged panic and stomach-churning despair, this little thought is screaming at me to, at the very least, turn to her. To take her face in my hands and tell her that she’s the most gorgeous fucking thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. To bring back that shy little grin that I shattered with my apathy.

By the time I get anywhere recognizable, it feels like a million pounds of water has seeped through my clothes, and my feet are numb. It’s cold. It’s only when I find myself in the old diner parking lot that this wildly spinning compass in my chest fixes on a direction. I don’t even pause over the invisible territory line, stepping over it like it’s just another crack.

“God, I thought you were that old serial killer Lav keeps plastering articles about all over the walls.”

👀👀

“Okay,” she says, voice gentle. Gentle, I hear in Effie’s approximation of Verity's voice. Gentle, gentle.

Just a tiny little bump. Just… Just an apple. I’m drawn to it like a magnet, holding her hips as I press my forehead to the small swell of her belly. Father preaches a lot of bullshit, but I think I see it now. The power of creation. It sinks into me like a soothing balm, much like the flutter of Verity’s fingers in my hair, stilted but unwavering.

Her baby was only ten weeks. Strawberry.

“Because the only time anything feels right is when I’m inside you.” Her hand is warm when she cups my cheek, her expression collapsing in despair. “Pace…” I clutch her hips, willing to beg. “Don’t make me leave.”

Here, in the sleepy stillness of the loft, having him inside me feels normal—sweet—an act between lovers instead of Royals. It’s… nice.

Somebody—not naming any names—wouldn’t let me leave the house until we went eight rounds over possession of my jacket. Again,” he adds, “not naming any names.” And then Nick’s wry, “It was the Archduke.” “Archduke?” Pace mouths, jamming his foot into a shoe. “Recruit?” I punch my arms through my robe. “Cat.” “Fuck.” He angrily pulls on his hoodie, brows crouched low. “Goddamn it. That’s a good name.”

Now that is a fidget.

“Are you on drugs?” His amber eyes snap to mine, full of outrage. “Of course not!” When his reaction draws the attention of a few surrounding students, he huffs, draping his arm over the back of my chair. Just like that, he’s the very picture of casual, a finger winding idly in my hair. “I’m not used to having an hour to do nothing.”

Liarrrrr

“Oh my god,” I breathe when it hits me. “Is that what this is? The coffee, the touching, the hair…” I shove his arm away, hissing, “You’re trying to get into my pants!” “Obviously,” he says. And then, a glare. “You like my hair.”

My ache for him rivals the one he has for me. Doctor, father, lover… they’re all the same; a man capable of giving me everything.

But I’m pregnant. And I can’t fucking fight.

“I saw you, Wicker—the real you—and everything felt different. You weren’t a monster anymore. You were just…”

“You were sad, and genuine, and scared, and beautiful, and…”

Wicker was terrible to me, but never because I gave him the chance by letting him in. That’s what stings, deep down in my soul. He trusted me with something precious, something meant to help me, and I mangled it. In a way, I cut him deeper.

“It’s excruciating to care about someone who hurts you.”

“I just wish everything had been different—for both of us. I think, in another life—”

“Verity,” comes his voice, from behind me. It’s jagged and quiet. “Hold up.”

My cheek is still humming where she touched me before, even long after we’ve set off for the dining room.

Touch me again.

Verity almost topples her platter when I hand it off to her, our fingers grazing in a way that nearly makes me shudder.

My fingers buzz with the impulse to grab onto some part of her and drag her the rest of the way. It’s not impatience or irritation, but instead, this nagging, clawing need. Touch me, touch me, touch me.

Touch. Me.

From anyone else, that’d be a horrible pick-up line. From her, it’s sincere. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy to reveal all these secret, hidden places to her.

I’ve been seeing her as a woman first and a West Ender second, but the truth is, she’s both things at the same time. She’s vulnerable, and she’s defensive about it. She’s pliable, and she’s fighting it. She’s desperate for companionship, and she resents it. She’s not Michael Ashby with tits. She’s me with tits.

You were this ridiculously hot redhead, all innocent and pure. Someone I might have actually wanted.” Giving in, I finally reach out and touch her leg, running my fingers over the pale skin. The frantic buzzing eases. “You’re defiant and determined. You’re all the things that he beat out of us a long time ago.”

There will be consequences for abandoning her, but I just can’t seem to care. She’s not the one I want to touch me.

folding her into me like a new organ. Nudging my nose into her hair, I pull in the scent of it, different from how she smells when she’s in East End. There’s more lavender now, but the scent of rose is still there, peeking stubbornly underneath. The buzzing roar beneath my skin quiets entirely.

Her room has, with varying degrees of embittered defiance, become our room.

My brothers both react to the sight of her in their own way. Lex is strung tighter than my cummerbund, the shell of his ear a glowing, blushing red. Pace stares at her like a heat-seeking missile, raking his bottom lip through his teeth. There’s no doubt in my mind he’d fuck her right here if he could.

This girl has no idea their balls are in the palm of her hand.

Once again, I’m reminded of my role in this. In some ways, I’ve treated Verity no better than the men and women of East End have treated me. The thought leaves an aftertaste that I don’t particularly care for.

In a show of cooperation, I bend down to brush a featherlight kiss against Verity’s temple, ignoring the zing of heat that sparks when my lips touch her skin.

As the first blue hits the sky, a strange feeling hits my chest. It’s only then that I realized I sort of liked having this secret between the four of us, something sacred and ours alone.

Whitaker, Pace, Lagan, even Verity… This is an aspect of our identity that Father never had a claim to. It’s the only thing our biological parents gave us that still remains. A couple of hours ago, the thought wouldn’t have even occurred to me, but now that he’s trying to take it away, I understand. It’s fucking sacred. “She’s the mother,” I say, fuming, “and she’s going to name him just like our mothers named us.

Wicker snorts, and it hits me that he’s stroking my hair.

When I came up for bed a few hours ago, I found all three of them already in here. None of them were actually in the bed yet, but they were sort of orbiting it like they wanted to be. We were all wrung out from the party, Ashby’s display and Wicker’s outburst still fresh. There weren’t many words spoken. I just went about getting ready for bed and never got around to picking one to sleep with me. Maybe I couldn’t.

“Wait.” I grab his arm, alarmed. “You don’t have to leave.” Wicker gives me an odd look, his hair all mussed. “I’m just making room.” But then he pinches my chin between his forefinger and thumb, searching my eyes. “Ah, I know that look. You had a bad dream, didn’t you?” he asks, voice gruff. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“You’re starving it,” Pace replies. “Your wet dreams are back, and every time she touches you, you look like you’re taking a hit of Scratch.” Pace and I exchange a look, but mine must be utterly stunned.