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“This might come as a surprise to you, but I can actually follow a recipe myself.” I jolt back. “You made it? For me?”
“I guess I missed you. A little.” My eyebrows hike up. “You missed me?”
“I saved Nick Bruin’s life.” “Oh.” My nose wrinkles as I shut the door behind Verity, desperately trying to ignore the sight of her thighs pressing together. “Why?” Lex gives me a look. “Can’t have you being the prettiest man in Forsyth, can I?” I balk, jaw dropped in outrage. “Dead or alive, in no universe is he prettier than me.”
“They have an insufferable flair for the dramatic?” she asks. It’s followed by a snort in the backseat, and I shoot Ballsack a hard glare in the rearview mirror. He shrugs, and I don’t have time to stop the car and beat the smug look off his face before Verity adds, “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.”
How can someone feel a connection to a place they’ve never called home?
I’ve never worn the name. I’ve never mourned it. I’ve never breathed it, bled it, or claimed it. But it’s still mine.
She belongs there, not here, lost in all this death and darkness.
“You sure you want to do this?” I ask her. “Because I don’t know what’s waiting inside, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to be unpleasant, and you just stopped puking every fifteen minutes.” “I haven’t vomited in a month, thank you very much.”
It’s not the knowledge that this is the William who hurt the Princess and my baby that triggers my rage. It’s seeing that fear, the insecurity, in Verity’s eyes.
Verity Sinclaire isn’t a coward. She’s tough. A fighter. West End, through and through. She’s taken every single thing we’ve thrown at her for months without a flinch. But whatever this piece of shit did to her that night was enough to make her afraid. And that makes me very, very upset.
The anger that runs through me is toxic, a poison that fuels ev...
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That’s the real difference between East and West. A Duke would be pummeling this guy’s face into ground Baron right now. A Prince takes his time.
“This is for my son, the true Baron heir.”
I eye her belly, round with life. I’ve avoided it. Ignored it. Thrown countless tantrums about how that ‘thing’ has ruined my life. But just now, I killed for it. Him. For us.
But in this instant, it’s not death I want, I crave warmth. Life.
But Verity and I aren’t death. We’re something much more complicated and difficult to earn. She and I are creators.
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.
To Lex, I’m a duty, but Lagan sees me as his woman. I think both of us understand this now.
It means this baby and I are his.
“You told me once that this ridiculous, ornate Princess bed was made for one thing: creation.” I run my hand over my belly. “I’m creating right now, growing your child, and I need your attention and focus here,” I tilt my head toward the screen, “not there.”
“They don’t like you, Rosi.” “Me? What did I do?” Wick snorts. “Well, let’s see. You hit Heather with a frying pan. Got all the girls in your court to dump their boyfriends…” “She was flirting with you, knowing you belonged to me. And those guys! Every last one of them came on my face!” I refute. “They gave me dead, black roses! I’m the victim here.”
his mouth brushing the shell of my ear as I drift off surrounded by my men.
“I think if we’re doing this whole ridiculous thing to earn their trust, then they can fucking well put in the effort to earn ours.”
God, I hate this guy. Hate him.
“Why are you such a jerk?” “Why are you such a bitch?” he snaps back. “Maybe because my back hurts.” I lean against the back of the chair, trying to stretch out my spine. I’ve been on my feet all day trying to pull this whole thing off. “Or it could be that you’ve been nothing but an asshole to me since I stepped foot in East End! What’s your excuse?” “Don’t pull the pregnancy card on me, Sinclaire.”
“You really want to know?” “Enlighten me.” “You assaulted my girlfriend with a frying pan.” I roll my eyes. “She tried to fuck my Prince.” He looks distinctly unimpressed. “Everyone on the Court tries to fuck the Prince. It’s tradition. You’d know that if you belonged here.”
“Well, where I come from, if a girl tries to fuck your man, you kick her ass.” “Of course they do.” He snorts. “Barbarians.”
“Look, I’m sorry Heather broke up with you.” From the aggressively skeptical scowl, it's obvious he’s not buying my apology. I insist, “I actually am. Believe me when I say there are no two people better suited for each other.”
These men don’t need a King. They don’t need a Princess. They need a mother.
All bark, no bite. Who knew?
Maybe I don’t need to be liked. Maybe I just need to be respected.
These are people who have helped me claim my own power. So why am I so powerless to help them?
“There’s no such thing as an urban legend in Forsyth. Every ridiculous rumor you hear is not only true, but the reality is probably even more absurd.”
I’ll never be caged again. Not by him. Not by anyone.
“You know our father buries secrets the way pirates bury gold.”
If there’s one thing that being Rufus Ashby’s sons has taught us it’s that when a King speaks, we should listen patiently. These bastards love to hear themselves talk.
taking the journey down the wicked path changes you.
“Kayes or not,” the King confirms, turning away, “you’re still my son’s little brother.”
Lex is the body. Wick is the blood. I’m just the empty, watching eyes.
“You’re my Prince.” Resting her hand over mine, she insists, “You’re his father.”
“Don’t,” I whisper when we break away, resting my forehead against hers. “Don’t take him away from me.”
I just know that I’m nothing without all four of them.
I flatten my palm over the baby, making a mental promise never to do to him what Father did to us—making us feel unfit in our skin.
Blood and last names mean everything in Forsyth, but neither can touch this.
“The closer we get to removing Father, the more darts will come our way. People will try to dismantle us. Keep us unsteady. Make us question ourselves. But the one thing Father did was teach us that no matter what danger is coming our way, we protect one another because we’re family.”
“Wick loves you, Pace. I love you. Verity trusts you. And god, that baby is going to be so goddamn lucky to have you as one of his fathers.”
“What do you think? Tigers, giraffes, or elephants?” Wicker blinks. “Are we opening a slightly illegal petting zoo?” Frowning, I flip to some other pages. “Well, there’s also trains, bunnies, and baby ducks.” “For the tigers to eat?” “For the theme,” I whine, flashing him a page with a forest theme. “Gun to your head, which would you choose?” “Can you just pull the trigger?”
“You might want to sell that to someone who isn’t the illegitimate daughter of Forsyth’s worst King.”
“It’s not just our child. It’s not even just me. That’s your problem, Lex! Me, the baby, the entirety of West End? You don’t give people a choice over their own bodies, you just decide because you can take or save a life, it makes you God.”
“I’m trying to keep him safe.” I reply, “By telling me what to do with my own body.”
