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

by Angel Lawson

in this world that could stop me from still watching over you, but—but I’d let you go.” A fat tear rolls down her cheek and I catch it on the tip of my thumb. “I understand now that you don’t cage the people you love.”

“Getting off your feet,” she answers for me, shooting Wicker an incredulous look. “She’s thirty-eight weeks pregnant.” His jaw drops, the ladle in his hand thrust in my direction. “She said she had to! She gave me the big, sad eyes and everything.” Mama snorts. “Falling for the pout. Bush league, blondie.”

What erupts next is the embodiment of 237. Mayhem.

With an annoyed sigh, Wicker does the same. “Can’t keep a shirt clean to save my goddamn life. I don’t know why I bother anymore.” “Versace?” Remy asks, looking him up and down. Wick nods. “That’s why I stick to black.” The exchange isn’t enough to calm the agony growing in my stomach,

“Me too, Red.” His grip tightens around my hand as he flashes me one of his prized grins. “You want to know the middle name we picked out for him?” My heart skips a beat. I’d given them the task of choosing a middle name weeks ago, but since none of them brought it up again, I figured they just forgot or were unable to decide. On a hitched breath, I ask, “What’d you pick?” Wicker reaches up to swipe a tear away. “James,” he says, cupping my cheek. “Like Stella St. James. So she can still be here with you.”

“Hey, Justice James,” she sobs, voice trembling with emotion. Glancing over, I laugh breathlessly at the looks on my brothers’ faces, so full of astonishment and adoration.

Unable to disagree, I call out, “Hey, Yak, don’t take this wrong way, but could you fuck off?” He barks a laugh, situating the blanket. “Sure thing, Ashby. Push the button if you need me.”

Once he’s left, Verity throws me a look that’s both admonishing and grateful. “Rude.”

“I was so worried I’d feel different once I saw him,” he says, voice ragged as he glances up at me. “Like I’d meet him and know he wasn’t mine.” Verity struggles up in bed, anguish on her face. “Oh, Pace.” But he grins down at the baby, head shaking. “It’s just the opposite, though,” he says, eyes softening as he takes in Justice’s tired face. “He’s made of you and Wick—two people I love the most. Nothing has ever felt more mine than this.”

Maybe Wick can’t understand it yet, how something they made together can feel so inexplicably linked to us. Maybe someday he will.

and red and bald. Looks kind of like my grandpa, actually.” Rory smacks him with the bouquet.

“He just came out of a person.” Verity gives a tired chuckle, meeting my gaze. “I’m assured he won’t look like a ninety-eight-year-old man forever.”

Lavinia begins, “Okay, tell us everything. Like, on a scale of one to Sy’s dick, how bad did it hurt?” “Jesus.” I choke on the first bite of spicy chicken, not even caring that Verity’s exposing a breast for the hungry baby Mama B is bringing her. I can’t be here for this discussion. “I’ll, um, just go eat this down in the visitor's lounge.”

Justice isn’t just a baby. He’s our baby. A Prince who is going to need a hell of a long time to be ready to lead. Verity’s already more than a mom and a partner. More than a Princess. She’s a goddamn Queen.

“I love you, Verity—every part of you—because you made me see that I could be so much more than an object to be sold and traded.” His cheek presses against mine and it’s wet from his own tears. “You made me into a man, and then you gave me the chance to be a father, something I never even thought I wanted, but somehow, you knew I was worth it.”

“Duplicity isn’t something I boast about, but I’ve learned to be good at it.” She glances at Mama B, a proud grin on her face. “Fifteen years and the bastard never knew I was involved in getting Odette out of that cell.” Mama B chuckles. “No one ever suspects a woman in fuzzy pink slippers.”

Even though the words are coming from Adeline and not my mother herself, I feel the truth in them. Odette is a survivor. Just like I am. And that’s a bond we’ll always share, even if I never get the chance to meet her.

“That’s Sophia Lark,” I say. “She’s a graphic artist with a minor in visual. She’s definitely a creator.”

It was the fierceness of Lex's soul, the blaze of Pace's devotion, and the ferocity of Wicker's heart that made me a creator. And ours will be a legacy of hope.