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

by Angel Lawson

MMF (Look Closely at the Positioning of the Letters)

“You’re not scary, you’re just protective. It’s sweet,” I decide, but then amend, “annoying, but sweet.”

“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.”

“There,” he says smugly, dipping down to brush his lips against my cheek. “My woman. My baby. My name.”

West End’s tetanus factory masquerading as living quarters,

We’re gonna make you blue again, Nicky.”

These men don’t need a King. They don’t need a Princess. They need a mother.

“Kayes or not,” the King confirms, turning away, “you’re still my son’s little brother.”

Mrs. Crane gives Heather a sour look. “For beating up a frilly frat boy? He better have gotten on his knees afterward and licked your pussy like a waffle cone.”

Lavinia blurts, “Or when he brings you the head of your enemy.” At everyone’s shocked stares, she shrinks into herself, quickly adding, “Or, you know, when he takes care of your kitten or helps you fix a clock.” Mrs. Crane’s scraggly voice pipes in. “Severed heads are a messy business. Best stick with him taking care of your pussy.”

“To the victor go the spoils.” Grabbing for mine, I give it a sniff before raising it, correcting, “To create is to reign.” She laughs a low, scratchy laugh. “Oh, blondie. Same fucking thing.”

“Doggy-paddling and panic-treading don’t count,” Pace argues.

Reaching up to scratch his temple, Wick seems to give this a lot of thought before coming to a conclusion. “Well, I didn’t want to hold the brain, you know?” It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, but weirdly, maybe also the sweetest.

Wicker, the person most afraid of loving something, has been captured, hook, line, and sinker.

“Are you fucking me with this plaque?” Verity’s mother’s voice comes from the hallway. “‘The Rufus Ashby Maternity Suite’. Jesus Christ, that son of a bitch never saw a room he didn’t want to piss on.” She walks in with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Well, I wonder if rooms in the fiery pits of hell have plaques?”

Pace’s jersey—number three, Sinclaire —and