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

by Angel Lawson

When I point it out, Remy grins. “Oh yeah, that’s Effie. She’s a big soul. I bet the house loves her.”

“Let’s face it. There’s no way for there to be an impartial investigation by the locals. The corruption runs deep, and it leads back to every single one of our houses.” Cops, judges, clerks, attorneys, politicians. He’s right. No one is clean in Forsyth. “And I’m aware that it seems like we’re meddling by using our federal contact, but it was the best we could do. We want answers.”

“None of you have sisters,” Mercer continues, “but I do. There’s a vibe. Our women have a connection.” Wick nods, face pensive. “I can see it. You know how women like to travel in packs. Ours don’t have that option. Not even with their court or,” he waves his hand at Sy and Remy, “or those cub-sluts of yours, or,” he shoots the Lords a look, “the whores at your brothel. Sure, they have other women to talk to, but no one who gets what it’s like to be Royal. It’s an exclusive club.”

“The Duke in me wants to say hell no. But the psychology student in me…” He grimaces. “It says that if we want these women in our lives for the long haul, then they’re going to need some kind of support outside of us. Someone who knows what it's like to carry the burden of being a Queen.”

We’ve all just barely started speaking to one another, but the idea of Verity being a Queen of Forsyth… It feels destined. “Then we let it be,” I say, knowing it’s the right thing. And if it’s not… Then the three of our houses will deal with it in our own way. Just like we always do.

I think of Odette. Or Amber Maddox. Posey Payne. Not all women who go missing are dead. Some are still missing. Others are hospitalized or in prison. I rest my hand on my stomach, relieved, not for the first time, that I’m carrying a boy and not a girl. Although, I know firsthand that boys get hurt in Forsyth, too.

“You have to be careful, though. I won’t risk a sister to save a girlfriend. You understand? Plus,” he shifts uncomfortably, “if your Princes find out I even asked you to do this, my nickname would become strictly symbolic.”

I’m the Princess, I want to tell her. I became Princess by sitting on a ceremonial dildo. I know all about healing up an abused pussy.

“It’s like a vault of Forsyth’s secrets over there. They could probably bring this whole town to its knees if they conspired together.”

And that’s why the women of Forsyth have never banded together. Someone felt the need to bring a switchblade to a baby shower, for Pete’s sake. Mistrust runs as deep as the Baron’s crypt.

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

“Severed heads are a messy business. Best stick with him taking care of your pussy.”

The wicked path can be like that, you know.” Meeting my gaze, she stresses, “It’s not just a title or a game. It’s more than life or death. It’s a skin we wear. They might take off the masks at the end of the ceremony, but the sense of self never returns.”

“For those of us on the wicked path, true self is about loyalty. Do you trust your lover enough to die? To give yourself over a hundred percent, body, mind, and soul? We’re not just bound in this life, but also in the next. Will may be gone, but he’s still tethered to me, waiting until I cross the veil.”

“That’s what they do,” she explains. “The King sets the four of you loose in the forest behind the crypt, and the Barons hunt you. It’s not just the Baroness’ initiation. It’s the Barons’, too.”

“It’s a test, Princess. A Baron and his sinister sister have to be invisible. Silent. Ruthless. If a Baron catches the Baroness, that means he’s good at hiding, following, adapting to the shadows.” “And if he doesn’t?” Her head cocks. “Doesn’t what?” “Catch her.” “Oh, Princess, he always catches her.” The words are said without mirth. “The King chooses his darklings very well.”

“What happens after they catch you?” She hugs her knees, lifting a shoulder. “They bind you to their wicked path and worship death upon you.”

You’re a creator.” Smiling softly, Regina’s arm stretches over the distance between us, hand brushing the swell of my belly. “You foster life and light. But we’re servants of death, and this boy in your belly? He’ll be a part of it, one way or another.”

“Aren’t you willing to die for your Princes?” Her eyes dart down to my stomach. “Your son?” “I’m willing to do something a lot more dangerous than dying for them.” Reaching out, I brush her hair over a delicate shoulder, heart clenching at the misery in her eyes. “I’m willing to live for them.”

“I wouldn’t worry about him not taking to it.” I reach out and reel her in between my parted legs. “We all know the Ashbys are boob men.”

Fucking. Lex. But she’s right. We did. And we have to be… what’s the word? Responsible? Ew.

It feels familiar and full of potential, and as I creep down the stairs to the kitchen, I do what Remy Maddox once accused me of. I put dibs on it. Mine, I think as I fill the kettle, and mine as I wait for the water to boil, and mine-all-fucking-mine as I pull the tray out of a cabinet, getting everything in order.

So I guess I’m going to give you something you probably never gave those women you buried out back.” I square my shoulders. “A choice.” Danner glances at the tray. “I suppose you’re not here to set me free, are you?” When all I do is stare at the cup of tea, he nods. “So you’re going to kill me.” “Don’t think of it as murder,” I say, voice clipped and crisp. “Think of it as mercy.”

It’s difficult not to see this as a show of weakness. The death I’m offering him—a death of his own making—is the easy way out. A Duke like Remy would shoot him in the head. A Baron like my father would cut him until there was no more blood left to give. But blood means nothing in this family, and I’m not them.

“I wanted to love you because I wanted to be loved, and I didn’t know what it looked like—felt like.”

If I was expecting to feel triumph, then I’m wrong. Mostly, I just feel sad. Danner’s killed people, but so have we. There’s no mercy in what my brothers and I do. No special teas. No quick ends. There’s no satisfaction in watching this old, frail man grimace as the poison meets his stomach. But I can’t trust him with my life anymore. Not with my brothers’. Not with my Princess’. Not with my son’s. When I place my hand on his, holding his foggy-eyed stare, I can only think of two words to part with. They’re the same words I spoke to him every night as a child as he tucked me into bed. “Goodnight, Danner.” He gives me a feeble smile, eyelids fluttering closed. “Goodnight, Whitaker.”

“You are loved, you know.” Her eyes are so unbearably penetrating that my stomach clenches. “Sometimes…” I start, needing to catch my breath. “Sometimes it really fucks me up to know that everything I’ve come to love was given to me by Father.” I glance down at her belly, thinking even that hasn’t been untainted by his influence. But when I push my hand out, grazing against the heat of her stomach, I don’t feel the bitterness. “I used to wonder if it was even real, like maybe I’m just making the best of it, or maybe I’m so broken that I cling to the smallest crumb of warmth, claiming it like a parasite.” Immediately, she insists, “That’s not true.” “It was with Danner,” I argue, reaching up to take her face in my hands. I hold her there as I look into her eyes. “But it’s not with you.” “I love you too,” she says, repeating what I didn’t exactly say, but she understood anyway. “And so will he.”

I’ve tortured the truth out of men before. Their deepest, darkest secrets. But Verity’s confession isn’t something forced. It’s what I’d hoped for, it’s something real, tangible. I kiss her mouth and take her hand, leading her away from what I accept as my past, instead guiding her back upstairs to our future.

“Tradition,” Lex says simply, his hand moving slowly up my spine, underneath my hair to the column of my neck. “And I like it, you look stunning.” “You look like a fucking goddess,” Pace agrees, fingering the fabric covering my breasts. One tug would easily free them. “Jesus Christ, Rosi.”

I’m not letting him run my Princes out of their home—the home he forced on them. It’s a pillar of Forsyth and it belongs to them, and since we’re set on making this place into a home, we’ll do what East Enders do. We’ll have a rebirth. Announcing my son’s name, his claim as heir, and gaining the approval of the frat is how we’ll do it.

Part of me wants to yell and scream, to tell them to get on their knees and let me ruin them the way they ruined me, but I’m made for something bigger than a moment of revenge. I’m made to be the mother of a king.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is low but strained, and when he glances at me, I see the regret. “I thought he was chaining me to him, and I resented you—everything about you. But I’m starting to realize that’s what he wanted. He never wanted us to think of you as a gift.” He rests his hand on top of mine and gives it a squeeze. “But you were, Red. You were a gift. And that’s what this is. Remember that.”

These are terrible men, and in Forsyth, there’s only two things to do with terrible men. Kill them or recruit them.

“You killed a Baron?” a voice says. “Fuck. That’s savage.” “That’s what a real father does for his son,” Wicker replies, eyes sharp as blades. “Rufus made an attempt on my blood, and in return, he’s paid the price, too.”

“He took our ideals and twisted them into something ugly and wasteful,” he insists. “He wasted our women. Our creators. Our mothers and sisters. He used their flesh and discarded them when he was finished.”

“I’ve proven my loyalty,” Tommy says, wiping the blade on his thigh. “Just not to you, but to the throne. You thought I was working for you,” he smirks over his shoulder at Pace, “but in reality, I was working for them.”

Another twenty men kneel to stain my dress, but for the first time, I’m proud to have my white dress bloodied. With each man who looks me in the eye, pledging their oath to my son, the memory of the throning—the cleansing—grows more and more hazy and undefined. The men who watched and participated in those vile ceremonies didn’t know me, and I hadn’t yet realized how strangled their hearts were by Ashby’s rule. There could be no greater proof of Rufus Ashby’s failed kingship than the knowledge he hadn’t snuffed everything good out of his own men. I just hope I can keep finding more of it.

“I never thought I’d be able to pass on a real legacy,” he says, the candlelight glinting in his eyes. “This is…” Visibly struggling to find the words, he pauses, inhaling, “everything, Red. Everything.”

Putting the blade to his neck, I take a deep breath, letting that anger—the West End fury that flows through my veins—infuse my voice with stone. “I’d never name my creation after you,” I tell him, pushing the blade into his skin. “I’m naming him after this.” The knife slices as I yank it to the side, feeling the tendon cut. A wet gurgle sounds out, but I don’t look down as I hold him by the hair. Not to watch his blood spill. Not to see the life fading from his eyes. Not even to see how long it takes for his final breath to spill out of his wound. I watch my Princes, tall and strong, as I give them a gift almost as good as our creation. “Justice.” Dropping the knife, I square my shoulders. “Our son will be named Justice.”

He was a monster who helped bring me into this world, and I helped take him out of it.” I bend to kiss that place on her neck. “That’s the Royal way.”

She inflicted the wounds—the death blow. She’s the one who broke our chains.

“Your mother is a real badass,” I say, shivering at the sensation of her fingers carding through my hair. To her belly—to Justice—I whisper, “I know this is a weird family you’re being born into. But we’re really excited to meet you.”

“It’s all in the way he moves.” She bites her lip, seeming to consider this deeply. “With Wicker, he sort of… stretches? I swear, it’s like my belly gets bigger. And Pace’s voice always makes him kick and twitch, these little punches that feel like flutters. And you…” She pushes my hair back, an unbearable softness in her eyes. “When he hears your voice, he squirms around, like he’s turning, searching...”

My brothers and I always processed our kills in different ways. Wick’s always preferred getting lost in pleasure, slamming his hand over that dopamine button again and again. Pace has always turned to weed and his attachment to Effie. I’ve always just wanted—needed—to sleep it off in peace.

“I knew once you started, it would only get worse.” Letting Wick and Pace nurse from her was probably the most erotic thing I’ve ever witnessed. There was something so primal about following the path, the knowledge that they put their seed into her, let her nurture it into life, and then nourished themselves with it. If my first kill taught me that bodies are machines, then watching Verity’s change, evolve, create, has taught me the opposite.

“Wicker once explained it like… causing death makes him want to experience life.” Tilting my head, I add, “Which, medically, makes a sort of sense. You’re full of endorphins. Adrenaline is pumping through your veins. Your system is on alert, and,” I touch her stomach, “you just went into some primal protective mother mode. It’s normal.”

“Jesus Christ, baby, slow down or I’m gonna pop off.”

“If you won’t suck them,” she whispers, gazing up at me with lust-drunk eyes, “then fuck them, Lagan.”

“I used to dream of this,” I confess, voice embarrassingly guttural as I watch my cock pump between her tits. “In the early days, all those times you were on my exam table, your pussy so pink and wet for me,” she moans and I grunt, feeling the vibration against my shaft, “I’d look up at you and see them—these perfect tits—and daydream about how they’d look once our seed took hold.”

“It really pisses me off that I couldn’t give my seed to you like they did. I would have been so good at it, baby.” The words tumble out of gritted teeth, any sanity obscured by the sight of her, panting, eyes glazed with stunned arousal. “I would have bred you day and night, so fucking eager to be the one who put my baby into you. That’s what I’m gonna do when you’re fertile for me again. Won’t let you be empty again, Verity...” “Lex,” she whines, expression collapsing. “Keep going.” The intensity of the night takes over—Lagan takes over—and I rock into her, increasing the pace. Her eyes hold mine and it’s so good this way, looking down at her face, the lights on, no sleep between us. Her hands cup my balls, kneading at the sensitive sack. “Fuck, baby,” I grind out, trying to keep my wits, wanting this to last as long as it can. “I love your eyes. I love that freckle behind your ear, and the stretch mark on your right hip.” I fuck in and out, delirious from it all. “I love your hands—soft enough to drive me wild, powerful enough to slay the monster in the palace.” I hunch over her, lips pressed against her forehead, watching her nipples as they start to weep. I swipe a thumb over it and stick it in my mouth, tasting the nourishment that will feed our son. “I love this baby and everything it’s doing to your body. I love you, Verity, so fucking much.”