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

by Angel Lawson

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

“First my grandfather, then my dad, and now my son. He won’t stop until he’s exterminated my whole fucking bloodline!”

“Then let me speak this language you know so well. My son—my real son—sees this girl,” he nods toward where Verity is peeking over my shoulder, “as a sister. Harming her and her baby would be unforgivable in his eyes. That trumps your flimsy motive.”

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

“Now that one,” Lav says, tossing a shirt in the medium pile, “the way he looks at you?” “What about it?” “I’ve seen that before too.” She turns to watch Wicker approach Lex in the middle of the room. “He’s not ready yet, but when he finally is…” She trails off, but honestly, I’m dying to know. “What? What happens?” “It’s going to feel like falling off a cliff.”

“Because she’s our family, and you’re her family.” He dips his chin in a grim nod. “Family is the only thing we trust.”

“Never,” I tell her, realizing that I mean it. I am never letting this woman go.

This is my son. I brush my lips against hers. This is my Princess. I gasp for air, tasting the tang of blood and the edge of old, rusty death. This is my legacy.

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

“I’d rather lose something I love than condemn it to a lifetime in a cage.” When Verity glances back, I give her a wink. “You taught me that.”

“But I’ve thought about it a lot lately, and I want—no, I need you to know it’s real this time.” A sad sort of hope swims in her eyes. “What is?” I bring her hand to my lips, pushing a soft kiss into her delicate knuckles. “I love you, Rosilocks Sinclaire.” Watching the force of my words sink in, the tears spilling over, I whisper, “So fucking much that every breath I take when you’re nearby feels like a thousand daggers to the heart. So much that if you told me right now you wanted to leave and take our son to a better, safer place, I’d…” Pausing, I admit, “Well, I’d fucking hate it, and there’s not a power 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.”

“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.”