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

by Angel Lawson

“Wick,” Verity whispers, brimming eyes sliding to...

Promises and pacts—on my blood—it’s the first part of Wicker’s Baron heritage he ever embraced.

I stand still as he grabs my hand, exposing the ladder of scars made in dark, quiet places. These were etched to track the passage of time, and grasping my wrist, Wicker bisects them with a clean cut. “Family, always.” I barely feel the sting. Verity gasps, watching as he clutches my forearm, the wounds meeting. “On our blood,” Wicker says, which isn’t how the promise goes. It’s supposed to be made on his blood. On Lex’s blood. On our blood? Swallowing, I grasp his forearm, knowing it’s a stupid ritual. A Baron ritual. A ritual Lex has always hated but tolerated. But it’s still ours. “On our blood,” I promise, squeezing. The only thing that breaks me away from his gaze is the flash of crimson I see in my periphery. Immediately, I drop Wick’s hand, sucking in a sharp hiss. “What the fuck are you doing?” I knock Wicker’s knife out of Verity’s hand, wondering when she even took it. The blood trickles down her pale skin—shallow cut, thank fuck—but when I snatch her wrist, she just turns it in my grip, those obstinate green eyes trapping mine. “This is how it goes, right? Now our blood is yours?” When she strains up to brush our lips together, my fingers flutter over the curve of her belly. “Don’t,” I whisper when we break away, resting my forehead against hers. “Don’t take him away from me.” She doesn’t ask who I’m talking about—our son or Wicker, maybe even Lex too—which is good, because I couldn’t give an answer. I just know that I’m nothing without all four of them. She res...

He’d never admit it, but nothing makes him hornier than high emotions.

Maybe that’s my own touch of madness, this inability to feel part of someone unless I’ve left a piece of me inside them.

“‘One fuck per day’ rule,” I remind him. Wicker makes a low, rough sound, reaching out to sweep her long locks of red hair over a shoulder, exposing her pulse point. He sees it, too. “For her, maybe. But me?” He glances at me, eyebrow ticking up. “I can have as many as I want.”

“You like the thought of that, don’t you?” he asks, nudging in between her legs. “Pace inside of me while I’m inside of you?”

For the first time, I really regret not having a bed, although it doesn’t worsen the view much. Wicker and Verity are a fucking sight. His long limbs and her blushing skin. His muscles and her curves. The way Wicker’s slender fingers look as they push down the shoulder of her nightgown, stretching it over a soft, swollen tit. His rough groan as he palms her, and her musical moan as she arches into it. They’re the picture of creation.

She’s gorgeous, laid out just for the two of us. He’s gorgeous, like he’s always been.

“Pace has impeccable fingerwork,” he husks.

“Look at me,” she rushes out, grabbing Wicker’s face. Her mouth lingers against his, green eyes capturing him. “I wanna see your face when he fills you up.” There’s a pause where her request sinks in. At the same time, in the same ragged voice, Wicker and I both exclaim, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Our relationship is no longer just about one another, it’s this—the bond—that ties us together. Our bodies; slick and wet. The baby; ours.

“Don’t fight it,” she says, her voice soft as she soothes him through the invasion. “Let him in.” Wick takes a deep breath, giving me room to take another inch. “He’s big, isn’t he?” “Not as big as me,” he says, even though I can feel how tightly strung he is. “But he’ll do.” Scoffing, I slide in deeper, satisfied when he drops his head into the curve of her neck. “Oh,” he mutters, a tremor going through him, “goddamn.”

It isn’t like with Verity, where all I want to do is stay inside and hold and possess. With Wicker, I just want to fuck.

I roll my hips into his, which rolls his hips into her. It might be the first time I’ve ever felt truly spoiled, having the two of them, so achingly beautiful, under my mercy. I grab Wicker’s hips and fuck him just the way I know he likes—deep and forceful—and in response, he fucks Verity in the same way, my movements dictating his.

“How….” Verity is gasping, “how does it feel?” The backs of Wicker’s ears go a vivid pink. He doesn’t blush for just anything. “Like he’s filling every part of me,” he grits, a particular wildness to his words. He touches her neck, fingers splayed against her flushed skin. “It feels like he’s giving it to me so I can give it to you.”

Some spark of excitement in Verity’s expression collapses into desperation. “Because you're ours,” she says, plucking a wet kiss from his parted lips. “Aren’t you?” “I’m…” Wicker stutters, reaching back to clutch my thigh. “Fuck. Fuck, Pace, I’m going to⁠—” “Wait,” I grunt, reaching around to hold him. My mouth slides against the curve of his cheek. “Come with us.”

“We’re always brothers, you know that, right?” I turn, seeking out his gaze in the dim light. “Yeah, I do.” “What the three of us went through together, no one takes that away. Not a King,” he quirks an eyebrow, “and definitely not a fucking Duke.”

come. I’m met with an unfamiliar sensation buried deep in my chest. It’s warm and lax and void of fear. I think it might be contentment.

Being his discarded sons—it’s the thing that brought us together. It’s all we know. We wear the name Ashby like a badge, but we feel it like a wound. After he’s gone, there’ll be nothing else. Nothing but this. 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 way she chases my touch, even in sleep. How Wicker chases her, a divot digging into his brow. The twitch of Lex’s fingers as he watches him, like he’s anxious to get into bed alongside us. “They’re still ours,” I finally accept.

“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.” His fingers press down on my hip. “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.”

“I need you to promise me something,” I say, voice low. Wicker can’t hear this. “Something that’s been bothering me since Maddox dropped his bomb.” His forehead creases. “What?” “Under no circumstances, in no lifetime, will my son be a goddamn gutter-trash boxer, understand?” He grins, silent laughter shaking the bed, but in the dark, I see the shadow of his fist extended toward mine. “Agreed. I’ll go to the death to ensure it.”

“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?” When my face falls, his lips turn up in a smirk. “Just fucking with you, Red. If you ask me, it already looks good. Bigger with everything taken out, you know?”

Dr. Daddy is a fucking tease.

“Leave it to the Doc over there to make something erotically named ‘nipple play’ as unsexy as possible.”

“Please, Lex,” I say, feeling hazy with the sensation of relief as Wick and Pace hungrily drop back to latch on, drawing out the fluid with little sucks. With my gaze never leaving him, I part the lips of my pussy with two fingers, “Put your baby in me.”

“Don’t worry,” comes his quiet, ragged voice. “I’ll give it back.” I peer over his brothers’ heads as he uses two thick fingers to scoop it up, eyes darkening as he watches himself pushing it back inside.

My body isn’t just made for this baby. It’s made for them.

There’s a feeling for each of my Princes, although they’re hard to put into words. With Lex, there’s a weight in the atmosphere, a strange density that changes the sound waves. With Pace, it’s electric, like a hum sparking against my skin. With Wicker, it’s always touch, the sensation of warmth and pressure.

“My brothers are the only thing I’ve ever cared about, and somehow, in some way, I showed it.” He glances up, eyes filled with such anger that it takes me aback. “I showed it too much. I showed it to him, and he used them against me, time and time again.” His jaw tightens, the candlelight throwing his angular features in sharp relief. “I want you to know that you’re right.” His face pinches, as if he’s facing something unfathomably foul. “I am his creation, Verity. He tied it all together inside of me like tendons and muscles, where the smallest stretch of affection is always attached to the snap of a whip.”

“I wasn’t created to love,” he goes on, head shaking. “But I was created to understand the body. To know how it works and why it works. So when I bully Pace into getting a vitamin shot or force Wicker into a dark room for three days after a bad hit on the ice, they let me, because they understand something that you don’t.” Reaching across the table, he takes the small velvet box, tugging the bow away. “Taking care of you and the baby, making you as healthy as I possibly can…” He grasps the top, clicking it open to reveal a ring. “It’s the only way I know how to show that I want you,” he says. It’s not just a ring, but a Princess ring, almost exactly like the one I’m wearing. “That I respect you,” he adds, plucking something smaller from the bed of velvet beside it. I don’t realize it’s a key to the ring I’m wearing until he gathers up my hand, pushing the pointed end of the tool into the top stone. “That I care about you.” The ring on my finger expands, and for the first time since my coronation, it slips off the knuckle without sting or pain. His amber eyes glow in the candlelight as they meet mine. “That I love you.”

“When I saw you that night, you looked like Prince Charming,” I say, tightening my hold on his hand. “You’re finally living up to the hype.”

“Because we’re not ‘Sides’ and ‘Ends’,” he corrects. “We’re all linked somewhere down the line, and maybe if people understood that, they’d stop trying to divide everything by streets and territories.”

“Is Wicker fucking Ashby my brother?” he seethes into the phone. Obviously, I can’t hear what’s being said on the other end, but I do see Remy’s reaction to it. His face blanks out, bled of all expression. Slowly, he says, “Right.” And then, “Naturally.” And then, “Hold on.” He gives the phone a perplexing glance before holding it out toward Wicker. “He wants to talk to you.” Wicker pulls a face that’s all hard edges and aggression, but strains over the distance to snatch it out of Remy’s hand. “What?” he snaps into the phone, another silence stretching before us. “Hello?” Wicker pulls the phone away, gawking at it before raising his outraged gaze to Remy. “Did this fucker really ask you to give me the phone so he could hang up on me?”

“He’s the only person in this town who hates Maddox more than I do. Seemed like some fun shit to stir.”

“Our son is the heir to the kingdom. He deserves his birthright, and that’s how people need to see him.”

The flash of malicious delight in his eyes doesn’t bother me because I feel it, too. Upstairs, Pace probably has the same violently eager gleam in his own eyes. But Verity doesn’t even know what the ascension is. And she hates getting blood on her dresses.

“You got them in the Pen, right?” “Yeah.” Remy puts his inked fingers to a temple, and then mimics a trigger pull, saying, “Kapow! Red. Stay out of that place. It’ll kill you.”

“Just a house?” Remy gapes at him, an odd flash of anger building in his eyes. “She’s sheltered you, hasn’t she? Showed you her secret places? She’s let you in, kept you safe, and made you a part of her soul.” When all he gets is our silent, blank stare, Remy growls, pointing to a spot on the molding all the way in the top corner by the closet. “Here, you see? You put your initials—your real initials—into the heart of her. WCK.” Wicker squints his eyes. “What, that little carving? I put those there in fifth grade.” “Exactly,” Remy says, nodding. “You showed her who you were. Called dibs. Don’t be a fickle little bitch.”

“Just colors,” he begins muttering. “Not feelings. Just colors. Not bad. Just colors.” Eventually, he glances up, noticing our confused expressions, and freezes. He looks uncharacteristically embarrassed. “Oh, it’s just…. Vinny and Sy say I need to find the good in every color. But, like—” He flashes a neon yellow swatch at us. “A guy can only handle so much.”

I’m starting to understand that Remy doesn’t just see things that we don’t. He sees everything all at once.

“It’s like the molding. I know dibs when I see them.” But he freezes abruptly, all the blood draining from his face. “Wait, would that make me…?”

We’re different from other people. To us, blood ties are a big deal. Sometimes they're dangerous and worth keeping secret, but other times, they’re enormous. Maybe, for once, they can even be something good. Something that doesn’t need to be hidden and whispered about in dark, quiet places.

“You saved Nicky,” he says, as though that covers it. “And I’ll do anything for Ver. She deserves the best.” If I’ve learned one thing that ties the Dukes and Princes together, it’s that one simple fact. Verity deserves the best.

“Aw. I hope they’re making each other miserable.”

“Every time my Duke comes into this fucking place, he comes out with another family member. I’m here to make sure you’re not about to ambush him with a long-lost sister or some shit.” Ah. So he told him. “That,” I stress, “is between him and Wicker and whatever psycho is standing in as their father

Remy assesses the two, apparently coming to a decision. “Sy, you can help Payne with that.” Sy frowns. “I thought I was your trusted hands?” Remy nods at Tristian. “You need a delicate touch to handle explosives. An artist’s touch. Mercer’s with me.” Tristian manages to look both pleased and insulted. “The only thing I know how to draw is my Beretta, and Pace made me check it at the gate.” Killian sighs, relenting, “Whatever. Let Picasso and Matisse get started. I just need someone to help me get this upstairs.”

“This color is okay? You’re sure?” “All colors are okay,” Sy answers, clasping his Duke on the shoulder. His voice is low and patient in a way I’m not expecting. “Plus, the blue and green make teal, right? Which makes it overpower the yellow.” Remy breathes out slowly, assessing the finished product. “Right. To the victor.”

“That’s so the baby always knows how to get home, even when it’s dark.” He whips around, facing me. “Nightmares get in your head sometimes, Lex. You have to be watchful.” His stare is almost too intense—seeking and pleading. “You’ll watch him, right? Make sure he doesn’t turn green? Because my mom,” Remy’s eyes flick to Wicker, “she gave that to me through her blood.”