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

by Angel Lawson

“Go slow, Lagan. Fuck me slow.”

“I knew you wouldn’t hurt me,” I tell him, knitting my fingers into his silky-soft hair. “Because I’m yours, aren’t I?” I gaze up into his dead eyes, and the longer he’s silent, fucking into me like a mindless thing, a worry niggles at my chest. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m just using him. Maybe I’m the one being driven by something primal and impulsive, the knot in my belly tightening with each thrust of his cock, clit throbbing for the friction of him against me. And then a ragged, slurred sound emerges from his throat. “Mine.”

“Show me,” I beg, fisting a hand into his hair. I make sure his eyes are locked on mine when I command, “Come for me, Lagan.” Quieter, like a dirty secret, I plead, “Put your baby in me.”

As I fall back asleep, satiated and full, I realize that nothing—not a stockpile of weapons, high-tech security, or even the damage these men can do with their hands—feels as safe as I do at this moment. Tight in Lagan’s arms.

“Dr. Nightingale over here.”

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

“He adores you. And the baby. It’s so cute, I could literally barf.”

“That look Sy just gave me? That’s the way your doctor daddy looks at you.”

“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.”

I feel it in the pit of my chest, this dull, painful throb that I’d put her through it. It’s why I’d been so happy to find out our son was made from Wicker. Wicker, whose biggest problem is that he has too much soul.

“I’m sorry we did that to you.” The whisper is little more than a breath, but I know she hears it. I don’t say that Father engineered the circumstances, or that I was too high on Scratch to stop myself, or that I was just protecting my brother from someone I thought would hurt him. It doesn’t change anything.

“Blue, yeah,” Remy rushes out, stroking Nick’s forehead. “Hear that? We’re gonna make you blue again, Nicky.”

“Because you got the blue bag.”

“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.”

Pace nods, and then they’re off, the three of them disappearing into the alley—a Duke with a grudge the size of a skyscraper, a soldier with nothing to lose, and one of the most skilled torturers Forsyth has ever seen. Brice Oakfield is in for a world of pain.

“It means I’ll always protect you and our child. I’ll take care of your family, East and West.”

“You’re wet,” I tell her, knowing it’s too much to be just from her own desire. “He was in you?” “Before he left,” she says, arching back into me with a hitched breath. “He filled me up, told me to wait for you.” With an exhale, I sink in, engulfed like a warm hug, understanding that my brother knew what I needed before I did. That I was too tired to fight anymore. To fight her. To lash out with the darkness I feel inside. After the blood, stress, and fear, I needed this. A tether.

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

“The only reason I never wanted to be a father is that I didn’t want to be anything like you,” I say, the first drops of blood spilling from the cut I carve into his flesh. “But that’s because you know nothing about being one. And I may not have what it takes, but between the three of us, we’ll do a hell of a lot better than you.”

The days are endless, but these nights—trapping myself inside that glass casket—are without measure or purpose. The only obligation I have is watching Pace’s bird while he’s out, so I take her down there with me, watching as she makes all these furious, clumsy attempts at flight. Over and over, she bats her wings, struggling to reach the highest branch of the camellia tree, but never quite making it. You and me both, pretty bird.

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

“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.”

Annoyed, I grumble, “God, I hate the Barons’ insufferable flair for the dramatic.” I feel her gaze on me and when I look over, sure enough, Verity’s staring at me with her jaw dropped. “What?” I ask, shifting into a lower gear as we approach the wrought iron gates of the cemetery. “They have an insufferable flair for the dramatic?”

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.

When William came after Verity, he slighted both of us. Her, personally. Me, because that child, like it or not, is mine.

“You’re talking to my Princess. Show some respect.”

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.

“Your King left you here for us. You would call it an opportunity. I call it a gift.” I purse my lips. “Maybe even a peace offering. But, unlike you, I won’t be squandering it.” The rage simmering under my skin bubbles to the surface. I stop at the head of the tomb, and grab William from behind. “This is for hurting my Princess.” He grunts, but the following cry is lost when I slash the jagged blade from one side to the other. Blood sprays, but the action feels better than any fucking release in my life. “This is for my son, the true Baron heir.” I plunge the blade straight into his heart. I yank it out and immediately thrust the blade in and out of his lifeless body. “For violating the sanctity of my home and for being a fucking betrayer of yours.”

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.

“I want you,” I tell her, realizing the truth of it as I say the words. “I want to taste you. Fuck you. Feel your body wrapped around mine.”

Maybe I truly am a Kayes, getting off on the brutality of death. But in this instant, it’s not death I want, I crave warmth. Life.

“Jesus, Red,” I groan, not knowing what made her so wet, the fact we’ve been apart for so long, or the bloody scene in the middle of the room. “Death gets you off, eh?”

There’s no preamble, no fucking foreplay. I ease between her thighs, press my cock against her entrance, and punch inside, burying myself in the heat of my woman. “God, Wick. Deeper.” I don’t feel like a God. I feel like a man—skin and bones, flesh and blood, capable of defending what belongs to me. I take Verity, take what’s mine, slamming my hips into her ruthlessly, getting harder with her every breathless cry. She holds onto me, clenching with every thrust. When I come, burying myself inside of her with a pained grunt, it feels just like death should be. Earned. Warm. Final. 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.

“Wicker,” Lex whispers. “Shut up.” Since Wicker is wound around me like a vine, his voice is louder, my ear pressed to his sternum. “I didn’t say anything.” He sounds confused. “I can hear you thinking.” Lex sighs. “It’s like nails on a chalkboard.” Against my other side, Pace mutters, “Seriously. You’d think someone who just got spectacularly laid would go to sleep.”

It means this baby and I are his.

“Look at me,” Wick says quietly. “I want to see your face when he fills you up.”

All this time, I’ve struggled between the dueling instincts to wear my role of Princess like a Duchess or an Ashby, but the truth has been staring me in the face the whole time. These men don’t need a King. They don’t need a Princess. They need a mother.

I’ll never be caged again. Not by him. Not by anyone.

If the kingdoms are a chess game, then Maddox has memorized the board we only just realized existed.

“I don’t need a DNA test to know that. To kill someone with your bare hands so violently, so artfully…” The energy of the room crackles with tension. “That’s an act of love. A father’s love. I’d know it anywhere.”

“I want you to succeed!” I’m not expecting the sharp boom of Maddox’s yell, nor am I prepared for the slam of his fist on the table. “You—all four of you—are children of Royalty. You’re different facets in the legacy of Forsyth. Stop putting on a play and start leading your fucking kingdom!”

“But we are bound, Whitaker, through both blood and deceit.”

“You were wrong,” I snap, unable to hear any more of this bullshit. “He did kill him. Night after night. Used him. He put Wicker on a fucking platter for Forsyth to consume, and you sit here on the land you stole from his family, pretending you did him a favor? And for what? Because some goth fuckboy stole your girl?” Disgusted, I shake my head. “You’re worse than a monster. You’re weak.”

“The only thing that saved you was the love I had for Remy. In the end, I couldn’t do it.” His eyes fix like lasers on Wicker, and in them, I see something aged and weary. Something horrifically sad. “I just couldn’t bear the thought of killing my wife’s creation.” For a brief moment, the earth might as well stop spinning. I’m suspended in the gravity of what Maddox is saying, and for some reason, all I can hear is Lex’s voice whispering inside my mind. Green eyes are inherently dominant over blue… The Maddoxs’ green eyes. Wicker’s blue eyes. “Kayes or not,” the King confirms, turning away, “you’re still my son’s little brother.”

“I flirted with him.” When I glance over, his expression is twisted into a disbelieving grimace. “I hit on my brother?” I wait until he meets my gaze to lift an eyebrow. He blinks. “Yeah, okay, that actually tracks.”

“We’re still more yours than anyone else’s. Me, Lex, Wicker,” snagging my hand, she rests it on the swell of her belly, “and the baby.”

Lex is the body. Wick is the blood. I’m just the empty, watching eyes.

“Is that why you’ve been so on edge these past few months? Pace, you’re more to us than just the security guy.” She turns to me, the look on her face so achingly sincere that it makes my gut clench. “You’re my Prince.” Resting her hand over mine, she insists, “You’re his father.” Wicker’s looking at me like I just slapped him in the face. “You’re my brother.”

I hear the words, but I can’t reach them. Can’t feel them. The panic is rolling like a rogue wave through my veins. “We only work as a family because we don’t have anyone else,” I tell him. It’s how it’s always been. We’re the discarded remnants of Royal flukes. Stones th...