Princes of Legacy (Royals of Forsyth University, #9)

by Angel Lawson

“You can photoshop him into a picture, right?” Wicker asks, slamming the door. He’s twisted around, looking at Pace in the backseat. “Like some fucked up image of Father surrounded by underaged Thai girls?” “I can,” Pace says, inspecting his gun before tucking it behind his back, “but we can do better than that.” “Better how?” Wick’s forehead creases, and then he cackles. “Oh, Thai boys. Yes, that is so much better.”

“You’re just trying to make it hotter in here so we’ll sweat more,” he grumbles, stalking over to the window in question. Well, it doesn’t hurt.

“And for what it’s worth, you make that hideous shirt look gorgeous.” The low, silky whisper immediately brings a flush to my face. “You’re obligated to say that as one of the fathers of my baby,” I say, aware of Lavinia watching us. He shrugs and replies, “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” before sauntering off.

It’s probably poisoned. Eh. I’d still eat it.

“I’d tell you to look in the mirror but you’d get so hung up on your reflection that whatever is waiting on us would be long gone.”

“Look at me,” she rushes out, grabbing Wicker’s face. Her mouth lingers against his, green eyes capturing him. “I wanna see your face when he fills you up.” There’s a pause where her request sinks in. At the same time, in the same ragged voice, Wicker and I both exclaim, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“I do not. Did you try the cold and warm compresses like I suggested?” At least this time, he’s the one to get all throaty and glazed in the eyes. “Or light massaging when you’re in the shower.” “I read the books,” I tell him, not in the mood to be Dr. Daddy-splained to right now.

Dr. Daddy is a fucking tease.

In unison, Wicker and Pace each grab one of my knees, draping them over their laps to spread my thighs widely—obscenely—exposing where I’m slick and ready. Exhaling, Lex drops to his knees, inching toward us as his hand jerks furiously, stripping up and down his cock. He stops between my thighs, and I reach for him, finally allowing myself to thread my fingers through his luscious hair. I use my grip to yank him closer.

I notice the gold cursive imprinted in the velvet of the box. To my beautiful Queen. May she reign.

“Not that I won’t enjoy watching Ballsy get fussed over by thirty women.” Ballsack looks more hunted than he had when the agent dragged him out of here. “I don’t have to go in.” He looks at me, pleading. “I don’t, right?”

“Dude, your name makes for some really weird sentences,” I tell him. A ghost of a grin tugs at his lips. “One of the other guys I pledged with got ‘Sphincter’, so I count myself lucky.”

Mrs. Crane’s scraggly voice pipes in. “Severed heads are a messy business. Best stick with him taking care of your pussy.” Lavinia blinks. “Oh, I was being literal about the kitten. Although,” she gives a sly smirk, “the other kitten is well taken care of, too.”

“I’m willing to do something a lot more dangerous than dying for them.” Reaching out, I brush her hair over a delicate shoulder, heart clenching at the misery in her eyes. “I’m willing to live for them.”

Yes, my ‘to do’ list involves everything from prenatal care to scheduled torture. I really may be an Ashby.

“I remember feeling fascinated with my first kill. The way his lungs shook—the sight of his flesh torn open—it was the first time I looked at a human body and saw a machine. And I was… well, annoyed, to be honest,” I confess, hoping she doesn’t think less of me. “I remember it taking a lot longer than I was expecting, and it made me super late for lunch.”

“I love your hands—soft enough to drive me wild, powerful enough to slay the monster in the palace.”

Lex is dressed in a dark gray waistcoat and crisply pressed trousers, hair slicked back into its bun. He looks like a gentleman, but only I know how much of a lie it is. Four hours ago, he was pushing his spunk into me while muttering absolute filth into my ear.

“Dude, you’ve watched me meticulously disembowel at least half a dozen men.” Pace adds, “You’ve cut off more fingers and toes than you have.” Lex points the transducer at him. “You’ve seen the inside of a brain.” “And hell, that was just a rough hockey practice,” Pace says. “Yeah.” Wicker blinks, forehead knitting up. “And?” Incredulously, I surmise, “But the baby being born will be too gross for you?”

“Our son will have the one thing none of you did—a mother. And mothers aren’t just here to love and care for you. They're also here to kick asses, teach manners, and show you how to treat women. Mothers,” she concludes, “show you something a father can’t always teach.” Skeptically, I wonder, “And what’s that?” Rosi smirks. “How to be a real man.”

Across the narrow space in the boat, Verity’s hand reaches out and takes mine. Light against dark, scarred against soft. Wrong, but completely right.

Our family will be an elaborate tapestry made from dark and light, hard and soft, pain and comfort. And it’ll warm our son.

Wick turns away to hiss into the phone. “Lex, where are you? They’re talking about slugs and gross stuff, and this isn't my area of expertise! I’m just supposed to be the soothing, calm guy. Listen to my voice, Lex. Do I fucking sound calm?”

I’d love to say we’ve been a well-oiled machine, superstars who are killing it at this parenting thing, but the last two weeks have been a total blur. I’ve never been so tired in my life. My body aches, and the guys are grumpy as hell, frequently snapping at each other—and I’m snapping at them. And on top of that, there are the fluids… So many disgusting bodily fluids.

When I watch Pace with Justice, I see a father who wants to show him the world as much as protect him from it.

When I watch Wicker with Justice, I see a father who wants to show him his heart.

When I watch Lex with Justice, I see a father who wants to show that time is precious, and he’s eager to spend it doting on his child.

Verity makes fun of me for how precise I am with setting up for changing Justice’s diapers, but I’ve learned it’s a lot like torturing a mark down in the dungeon. It’s smelly and super gross, and if you’re not careful, you may get fluids on you, but everything goes smoothly if you’re well prepared.

“Family isn’t about blood. It’s about the people you love,” I tell her.

“Hey.” Wicker waves, always a pro at breaking the tension. “I’m the pretty one.” He shrugs, sniffing. “It’s been said.” Pace snorts. “Modest, too.”

Later, when all of us are sitting around the table, the elders trade stories as my Princes and I laugh along, struggling to think of our parents once having been as young as us. Driving fast cars down the Avenue, causing trouble at Friday Night Fury, traversing territories like bandits. We drink it in, never having heard these stories before. The good stories.