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

by Angel Lawson

What I need is air, time to think, and the flutter of butterfly wings.

“Fuck, you’d be so pretty, all opened up. Spilling out. That’s why I took this job, you know? Because you’re so ripe, Verity Sinclaire. A creator, like me.”

“I’m here to show you that creation and destruction are two sides of the same coin.”

“Ballsack,” I call, knowing how I’d feel if it’d been Verity. I wait for his tired eyes to meet mine before nodding. “I’m sorry.” His mouth presses into a tense, joyless grin. “Funny, isn't it? How easily you’ll say it to me, but it’s taken you months to say it to her?”

The threats he made were depraved but intentional, like he was conflicted between desire and duty. He sounded Royal.

I’ve seen what it’s like to belong to a Royal who hates me. Spites me. Resents me. That was awful in its own right, but our child is going to see a side of them that’s possibly even scarier. Because they’re going to love him.

“If it hadn’t been Stella, it would have been someone else. Someone like Kelsey Livingston or Laura Walker.” When her eyes blank, I nod. “Yeah, you don’t know them. But you will. Everyone will—because of Stella.” I stress, “Because of the Monarchs.”

“No matter what you choose, you’ll have three of the Royal houses on your side. Take a moment to let that sink in because it might be more power than anyone has ever had in Forsyth.”

Ever since this became my role in the family, I’ve made a promise to myself to never gain enjoyment from it. All those people when I was small—the ones who said I was empty and evil—knew then what I know now. It's in my DNA. It’s the reason Ashby took me away that night, in the midst of blood and flashing lights. He didn’t want a son. He wanted his own little purebred psychopath. Someone who could cut and hurt and maim, and feel nothing while doing it. Just like my real father.

“My heir will inherit them both. It’s the perfect combination, is it not? Light and dark. Creation and death.” “Two sides of the same coin?”

“It should be you and me, Verity. We should raise him together. My boys don’t understand the coin, but you do.”

“You’re staying, right?” I whisper the question just as she meets my own kiss, her palm solid and sure on my chest. “I’m staying,” she assures, “just do me a favor?” “Anything.” Flicking her eyes behind me, she demands, “Make it hurt.”