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

by Angel Lawson

“You will nourish the child that blossoms within your womb.” I nod. “As you command.” “You will serve it before anyone else—even your Princes.” “Even their King?” The words escape my mouth without my bidding, but I can’t find it in myself to regret them, even as his stare turns hard and flinty. “I assure you,” he says, voice low, “your King and the well-being of his heir are as one.”

“You shall be anointed with the blood of the greatest princess of them all. My princess. The mother of my first heir, Michael.” He unstops the vial, tipping it into his open hand. “May her blood bless your womb as you carry on my greatest gift: my name.”

barf

“I’ve given a lot of Princesses away on their coronation nights, but this one is special,” he says louder for the others to hear. “This is more than just symbolic. Tonight, I’m giving my daughter to my sons.” Behind him, a PNZ member makes a low, amused snort, and Ashby tenses. Twisting his head, he searches for the source, snapping, “You will not pervert this glorious event.”

right, bc it wasn't already perverse rufus

Dimitri Rathbone is the peacemaker. God help us all.

“Listen? You want me to listen? I might if you ever said anything!” My mother’s mouth snaps shut, lips pursed into a tight, angry line. “When were you going to tell me that Ashby is my father, Mama? Because you should have told me back when you were grooming me to be a rival Royal. You should have told me the instant you discovered he chose me as Princess. You should have told me something!” Shaking my head, I release a tight, bitter laugh. “I can’t believe you’d let me go into this so ignorant and unprepared.” “Let you?” she shrieks. “Short of tying your ass up and dragging it back to the gym, I did everything I could to stop you from doing this.” “Everything but tell me the truth.”

“Your Pace?” My mother’s slow, mangled laugh fills the room. Her eyes are full of a pain I can’t quite understand, but it’s hidden beneath a wrath that’s so West End I get overcome by a wave of homesickness. “Is that what you tell him, Rufus? I wonder how loyal those gifted boys will be to you when they find out where he came from.”

“Two words, honey.” My mother leans over the table, catching his gaze. “Dungeon twins.” Ashby drops his pen, head whipping upward to gape at her.

One of us impregnated Father’s secret biological daughter.

god rufus is so fucked in the head

Fifty bucks says that one made it.” His lip curls up distastefully as he stares me up and down. “Not a speck of purple on this guy. Probably jizzed into a test tube.”

Wicker’s better at composure than me. He lifts his arms, casually lacing his fingers behind his head. “The flirting looks a little desperate, Rathbone. Your Lady not satisfying you? If you want a spin on my cock, all you gotta do is ask. I can lower my standards for a charitable deed.” Rath sneers back. “Oh, you’re a little too busy disappointing your family to bother with disappointing me.”

“Maybe West End’s tired of seeing its girls used as Royal fodder.” Wicker chuckles up at him, tipping his head back. “Then maybe West End should do a better job of protecting them.” “That’s the thing about our girls, you see. They’re red and purple, born to fight.” Remy leans over, slamming his palms on the armrests. “All we gotta do is give them the weapons.”

“Don’t make me turn this hostile negotiation around.”

“I’m here to prevent a murder or avenge one. Your choice.”

“Come on,” he sighs. “Just a lit...

“You’ve got murder at home, Maddox. You didn’t even finish the last one.” He quirks an eyebrow. “Cash Mal...

She has Michael Ashby’s eyes.

In our household, that revolves around shared experiences, not DNA sequencing. But still, there’s a tightness in my chest that feels dangerously close to jealousy when I look at Verity standing next to Father. She’s the one thing we could never be. His blood.

There’s probably even some Countess out there curled up in whatever hovel North Side has holed up in.”

Forsyth Carver Slays Another. Below it, I begin reading about some psycho who terrorized the campus a few decades back,

I pause only to make one thing known. “Verity Sinclaire is the best woman in Forsyth. Wanna know why?” He flinches as I lean in, my stare hard. “Because she’s mine.”

Effie immediately jumps to my desk, her little head bouncing back and forth as she watches the screen with me. Verity is on a sofa, legs curled beneath her, a textbook open in her lap. Effie’s voice softens. “Gentle, gentle.” I stroke distracted fingers along her back. “Yeah, that’s our girl.”

Vivarium: Beware the rose's thorns; a shadow dances among the petals. Instar: 5535856715

She looks like an Ashby. A real Ashby—blood and bone, fair and prim—and Jesus fuck, it pisses me off that I have to think of my last name as more rightfully hers. Ashby has never been a name we wanted, but it was the one thing that tied Lex, Pace, and me together as family. She’s never had to kneel in front of a fireplace, or rot away in a cell. She didn’t spend every summer being berated and bullied, a lash to her hand when she missed a note on the cello, or raged at for losing a game. She’s never had to hear the phrase ‘practice makes perfect’ while holding in her exhaustion. We earned the name Ashby with sweat and blood, torment and fury. All she had to do was exist.

“A while back, someone broke in and splattered the nursery walls in pig blood.

“I’d only want you to consider the function of a jewel. It’s fun to look at, but its ultimate value is speculative. At the end of the day, a diamond is just a fancy rock.” I’m struck by the notion that I might be standing beside the only person in Forsyth whose opinion of Wicker is lower than mine.

“If you really want to follow a path in medicine, I suggest you do a little research on genetics. I can only mold what I’ve been given, and you, son, will never be a healer.”

I only remember small snatches from the night my parents died, but that one might be clearest. I heard how the police found me secondhand; a toddler sitting among the bodies, tiny hands clinging to my mother’s bloody dress. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s part of the reason I wanted to be a healer. Not to prove them wrong, but to be on the other side of that door—someone who fixes instead of breaks.

“After all we’ve been through, Wick? Are we really just going to let him do it again? Take someone’s abandoned kids and make them into—” I can’t even finish my thought. That’s how vile it is to me. “No,” I repeat.

I wonder if Pace feels this responsibility, too—that whatever is in her belly is worth killing for. Maybe that’s why all he does anymore is watch. Maybe this fear gripping my chest has been chasing him for weeks. This fear that we’re not enough.

“Nervous?” she asks as if she’s reading my mind. “About what?” “Being a father?” I look at the spot on the ground, the carpet slightly worn from the pressure of my knees. I was nervous last night. Today, I’m fucking terrified of this child being raised by the monster that just left this room. By the expectations that’ll be placed on its shoulders. Of the consequences if it’s a female.

“Get in the car,” he orders. “I’m taking you home.” “Home?” I explode, whirling on him. “Where is home, Pace? You’re going to take me to West End where I’m a freak show? Or are you going to take me back to the palace where I’m a prisoner? Which is it? What fucking home?!” I punctuate the last word with a punching shove against his chest.

It’s not enough anymore to watch her like this. I need to see inside her. I need to know her veins and muscles and organs and sinew. I need to touch it, memorize it, map it out, and tape it to my wall.

“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.” Now, she flinches. “I was never yours,” she insists. “Is that a lie you tell yourself?” Smiling darkly, I stroke her hair. “You were looking over your shoulder every night. Jumping out of your skin when I’d message you. Checking the locks on your doors. Hardly able to sleep, because you knew I’d be watching. Waiting.” I pull in a deep breath, relishing the scent of her skin. Sometimes when I’m watching her, I forget this is better. The smell of her. The feel of her beneath my fingertips. “You couldn’t think about anyone else but me.”

“Lex’s hair isn’t like mine. It was a learning curve.” I don’t tell her about how Lex would later learn how to do my hair, too. That these twists swinging in front of my eyes are his, spun meticulously by his own exacting fingers.

“The truth is,” she continues, shoulders relaxing, “I can’t imagine growing up here.” She shudders. “Sometimes I think he gave me a gift by not acknowledging me sooner.”

For a house built on the idea of creation, there sure as hell is an awful lot of destruction.

I saw her on my phone during Lit 311, disappearing into the bathroom stall she always likes to hide in for a good 15-minute crying jag. That’s what makes my Rosilocks the perfect Princess. She’s so good at hiding her misery. Her eyes weren’t even red and puffy when she emerged from the stall.

“Precious heir…” Effie croons. “See?” I snort, crossing. “Even the bird knows it.” Except then she barks, “Just fuck me already!” I gasp at the sound, garbled but still sharp with frustration, just like I’d said it. “Oh no.” Pace grins like the cat who caught the canary. “I’m glad she caught that for posterity.” Then, his face falls. “Fuck, that’s really going to confuse my dick later.”

“I used to think they’d get tired of me, but if that happens, they’ll just find someone else. It may as well be me.”

“This must be why men have testicles. They need somewhere to store all the fucking audacity.”

“Despite Father’s efforts to keep me the physical dimensions of a ten-year-old, I’ve grown an inch in height and across the shoulders.”

There are these little things about her that are changing. Or maybe not so little things. Like her tits. They’re bigger. I know it. It’s like a disturbance in the Force or something. I sense their growth.

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.”

“If someone hurt you or our baby, I’d lose my fucking mind.”

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. We’re trapped behind territory lines. We’re in our brownstone, or tower, or crypt. We may be sitting on bombs waiting to go off at any fucking moment. We fight for our brothers, blood or other. We fight for our Kings,” he curls his fingers against my belly, “for our heirs. Effie doesn’t need to get her hopes up that there’s something more out there, because it doesn’t fucking matter. This is it for us, Rosi. All of us.”

I know I’ll be haunted by the fear in his eyes. It’s a fear that’s only now forming in my own gut, this gnawing suspicion that I’m growing something in my body that I won’t have the right to. And maybe its father won’t, either.

Wicker slaps the table. “Deal me in. I got ammo.” But when he starts patting his back, he snorts a laugh, gesturing to Lex. “Gimme my gun, bro.” Lex scoffs. “Yeah, that’s gonna happen. I wouldn’t even trust you with a blow dryer right now.” Wicker thrusts a finger at him. “That was one time. One time.”

I need to know what happened with the blow dryer lol

“Wicker’s never met a win he couldn’t regret in the morning.”

“Why the long face?” Wicker says, holding his arms out limply. “Look at it this way. If it’s a girl, she’ll be a whore. A boy gets a thirty-three percent shot at being something else.” The smile he gives is pure agony.

Over the speakers, the DJ—a creepy junior who runs the underground college radio—is talking about the crisis not so unlike a stoned art major. The broadcasts are more riddle than news, but Verity has taken a strange liking to them. “Seventy-two more hours of rain,” the radio crackles. He sounds like he’s inhaling from a cigarette or a blunt. “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?”