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This is a reason to be Princess. Finally, some perks worth writing home about.
Of course, Kira understands what Frida apparently doesn’t: that babies here are a business, not a declaration of love.
Pace looks at me the same no matter the circumstances. Like I belong to him.
“In here,” I say, knowing it’s bad when she doesn’t fight, allowing me to usher her over the threshold to her room.
That’s the worst part of all this. I can watch her every second of the day—and sometimes, I do—but there are parts of her I’ll never have access to.
“I wonder how long it’ll be,” I say, brushing the backs of my knuckles over the flat of her belly, “until you get bigger.” She wraps her arms around herself, shivering. “I wish it were over with.” I don’t.
I want to see every second of her change. Every new inch. Each new curve.
“Goddamn, we have got to have Lex run a DNA test between you and Wicker. You’re both such bratty little bitches sometimes.” She hugs her knees, fists flexing. “Fuck you.” “Exactly.”
“You’re just a vessel, Verity. You’re disposable to all of them. Never forget that.” “Like I am to you?” she asks, voice bitter. It makes me pause, jaw clenching, because it’s been years now, and this girl still doesn’t get it. “Have you forgotten?” I ask, leaning forward to drag my lips against her ear. “I made you mine long before I wanted to put that baby in you.”
“Love is fickle and weak. People fall out of love every day. But fear?” I slide my hand down her chest, palming the curve of a tit, reveling in the weight of it. “Fear becomes a part of you, like a new molecule. No one has ever fallen out of fear.”
For a house built on the idea of creation, there sure as hell is an awful lot of destruction.
I’m here to fill the hungry, empty void inside her, and when her eyes reluctantly flutter shut, I content myself with holding her. Enveloping her. Possessing her.
Maybe it’s having her right here, my arms locked around her like vises, and knowing that I don’t need to watch because I feel.
Verity Sinclaire could snap her fingers right now and have me racing to the kitchen to make just about anything. In my whole goddamn life, a moment has never felt as perfect as this one.
Which Prince will it be this week? There’ll come a day when he makes that choice for her. Better I do it first.
This is a fight that’ll have only one victor. And it won’t be me.
“She’s carrying our baby. I know that doesn’t mean anything to you, but it does to me and Pace,
“You want to know why those East End bitches came after me?” “Because it's tradition!” “Because of you!” I explode, whirling my gaze on Lex and Pace. “All three of you! You’ve shown East End that it’s acceptable. That their Princess is trash and should be treated like it.”
YOU TELL THEM
“Everything you’ve put me through publicly has given the implication that the mother of your precious heir isn’t worth any respect. And if you don’t respect me,” I ask, challenging them all with a look, “then why the hell should they?”
“How exactly do you plan on changing this now?” “Controversial take,” I say, raising a hand. “How about stop being such massive dicks to me on campus?” To Lex, “Treat me like a human being?” To Pace, “Stop spitting into my goddamn mouth?” Pace pulls a face. “Can’t we just cut off some fingers?” “We’ve had a lot of success with that in the past,” Wicker agrees with complete sincerity.
“This must be why men have testicles. They need somewhere to store all the fucking audacity.”
“What could they be?” Then, my head snaps up. “Oh god, it’s not more roses, is it?” “It’s not roses,” Wicker insists. “It’s a surprise.” I tilt my head, assessing the size of the seeds. “Is it fruit?” Wicker’s eyes bug out. “Do you understand what a surprise is? Jesus Christ.”
It’s like she’s inside my fantasies and putting them on display. I’m starting to wonder if I talk in my sleep.
Want her or not, she doesn’t belong to them. She belongs to us.
On campus, we treat her like she’s our Princess, and this is how I do it: massive amounts of PDA,
“I’m not putting my cock in there. You’re like a fucking piranha. Consider the bj declined.” She freezes mid-chew. “Seriously?” “Dead serious.”
“I’m sorry if my eating for two repulses you.” I scoff. “Convenient excuse.” She takes a big, deliberate bite. “I’m also hating for two.”
If life has taught me anything, it’s that people are always looking for something to take.
“That was amazing,” she says, sticking out her chest and messing with something on her back. I take a surreptitious glance around us. “Look, I know you were raised in the equivalent of an apocalyptic world, with no social graces or manners, but what the fuck are you doing?” “This bra is killing me,” she grunts,
“You can’t be serious.” “Oh, I’m always serious about fashion, Red.”
“Your body is a work of beauty, Wicker. If you had a heart to match it…” She never finishes the sentence. It’s still ringing in my ears as I nod off.
Boxers and a Glock, the outfit of choice for any Prince at 2 a.m.
“I’ll rest when I find out exactly who tried to fuck with what’s mine.”
That’s part of the sickness, isn’t it? That women in Forsyth are humiliated so much, we can’t bear to humiliate ourselves by bringing it into the light.”
the sickness Stella speaks of doesn’t know Royal class. It doesn’t know blood. It doesn’t know names. It only knows gender. It probably knows where these missing girls are, too.
“I’m tired of women in Forsyth being disposable.” I reach out and take her hand, squeezing it. “Royal or not.”
“he has such a good tongue…” “Okay!” I hold out my hand. “Ballsack is like a cousin to me. I’m happy for you, but I really don’t want to know anything about his tongue.” She giggles. “Gotcha.”
“They’re loyal to you,” he says, checking the window. “I don’t trust him, but I trust that he doesn’t want to see you dead, which is a sentiment East End is running a little low on.”
“If someone hurt you or our baby, I’d lose my fucking mind.”
But Wicker and I? If sex were a religion, we’d be in purgatory.
Maybe I don’t need to break them apart, but instead, figure out a way to tie us all together.
“I’ll tell you anything!” I’m not sure exactly whose voice that is, but afraid the sentiment is a plea, I frown.
I feel like this is a CLUE
“Just by existing, this baby already has a target on its head, and if you think I won’t do everything in my power to protect you both, you don’t understand me.” “Protection doesn’t always mean locking something up in a cage.”
“This is all an illusion. We’re all in cages. Some are bigger than others. Some, like ours, are gilded and comfortable. But that’s how being a Royal works.
“Leave the speculum alone, Wick.” He’s squeezing it like scissors, and then making a hole with his hand and shoving it through. “Christ,” he says, pulling a face. “Another check in the ‘glad I have a dick’ column.”
“I know you’re both fucked in the head over this, but that doesn’t mean you get to upset her. For everything this means to us, it means a thousand times more to her.”
He looks beautiful. I wait for the wave of fear and upset. The doom of reality at knowing I’ll bring another spoiled Royal into this world. It never comes. Instead, I’m struck by a sense of awe, protectiveness, and truth. I just see my baby boy. Our baby boy.
“Grab a boat and some critters, because Forsyth is going biblical. If it doesn’t wash away our sins, they’ll probably bob to the surface and start floating down the Avenue like discarded Scratch baggies. If that worries you, then you’re a Royal. If it doesn’t, then congratulations. You’re nothing. Can you think of anything better to be?”
That’s the cause of my sleeplessness: that this wild, heavy, aching thing in my chest has attached itself to the baby she’s carrying, and I don’t know if she’ll love it for being hers, or hate it for being ours.
“That’s all you need to know about the mother of your son. That she’s human and has a soul, which is more than she can say for his fathers.”
