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.”
