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

by Angel Lawson

“Don’t tell me it’s another gift,” Wicker mutters. “I don’t know how Danner used to do it, but I’ve been trying to get the bloodstains out of my Versace for weeks. I’m on a murder fast.”

Wicker decides, “Well, I don’t care what Payne and Perilini say. I’m not going to some arranged wedding between an emo-gothy chick and one of the new Barons. Maybe it’s going against my creepy pedigree, but those masks freak me the fuck out.”

“It’s the people, not the things.”

Our family will be an elaborate tapestry made from dark and light, hard and soft, pain and comfort. And it’ll warm our son.

“It’s the people, Red. Not the things.”

His jaw drops, the ladle in his hand thrust in my direction. “She said she had to! She gave me the big, sad eyes and everything.” Mama snorts. “Falling for the pout. Bush league, blondie.”

“I’ve seen a lot of bad things since becoming Princess, Mama. Things that were so bad, Rufus Ashby had to be eliminated, but whoever did this… is doing this…” My voice cracks. “He may be worse than Ashby or the other Kings combined.”

What erupts next is the embodiment of 237. Mayhem.

“Can’t keep a shirt clean to save my goddamn life. I don’t know why I bother anymore.” “Versace?” Remy asks, looking him up and down. Wick nods. “That’s why I stick to black.”

Everything falls apart. The artifice of fun snaps away, and suddenly, a wave of fury fills the air.

“But nothing can stop Lex from getting to you.”

“My baby is about to give birth, and your stubborn, incompetent, Barney Fife ass better cook up a quick way to get her to a goddamn hospital, or we’re going to sue your ass to kingdom come!”

“Sinclaire women have the easiest labors, Ver Bear. You slipped right out of me like a slug from a water can.”

“That’s beautiful, Mama B. Red as fuck.”

“Lex, where are you? They’re talking about slugs and gross stuff, and this isn't my area of expertise! I’m just supposed to be the soothing, calm guy. Listen to my voice, Lex. Do I fucking sound calm?”

where he’s going to assist for credit hours—a string that had been pulled almost eight months ago, the same week my pregnancy test came back positive. Wicker made me a playlist and Pace was going to be my anchor because they were both going to be in the room with us. There was supposed to be a full medical facility and drugs. It was a good plan. A solid plan. A plan that didn’t involve ten detained cubs, an FBI agent, and a gym medic.

I part my lips to say something gracious and profound, but what emerges is, “I’m not giving birth in front of ten frat boys.” Pace releases the breath he’s been holding with a quiet, nervous laugh. “Well, these frat boys are about to become men, because it really seems like he’s coming, Rosi.”

From across the room, Remy jerks his chin. “Excuse me—nine frat boys and an uncle.” He grins at Kaz. “I’m going to be an uncle.”

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.”

“I love you,” I tell Wicker, and his shoulders sag suddenly, forehead dipping to rest against mine. “I love you too, Red.” His voice is quiet and ragged, like he’s giving away something much scarier than words. I don’t need to wonder how many times he’s said that to someone who wasn’t one of his brothers.

“Justice doesn’t come without a little pain, right?”

Grunting, I strain for the ladder, realizing that Pace probably made a jump for it. Fucking psycho. Taking a deep breath—needs must—I plant my toes into the brick ledge, flex my knees, and leap.

I’ve seen women giving birth before, but none of those were women I love. Even the sight of Verity in pain cleaves through my chest like a hot knife, she looks like a force of nature as her body clenches in a push, a spray of rabid spittle flying out through gritted teeth. Wild tendrils of her red hair are plastered with sweat to her forehead, the capillaries closest to her skin already blooming, breaking. She looks like a warrior. A creator.

“Do not,” he growls, teeth bared, “fucking touch him.”

When she obeys, I don’t see the fatigue anymore. I see eyes filled with fire and steel resolve, and when the next push comes, it’s with a strength I wouldn’t believe her capable of. Here she is, this little slip of a girl, tendons popping, eyes squinching, mouth pulled into a grimace, and she’s giving life.

Frantically, I begin rubbing his back. “Come on, little guy. Let’s see it.” Suddenly, he begins squirming. “When he hears your voice, he squirms around, like he’s turning, searching…”

His first breath is this tiny, quivering thing, released in a cry just as raw with fury as his mother’s had been seconds ago. My vision swims as I take him in, and for a long moment, it hurts to breathe. He’s so small—so unbelievably fragile—and we made him with our bodies, with our minds, with our hearts. In two-hundred and sixty-four days.

The cord is still attached, and the afterbirth will come, but the sound of sirens seems like they’re getting closer. Which is good, because at this moment, I seriously doubt my ability to function. I’m too busy watching my family. Verity releases a ragged gasp as she touches him for the first time, her wet eyes filled with awe and joy. His tiny body, warm and damp, settles instinctively against her skin, and she instantly gathers him closer, fingers grasping against his delicate skin. “Hey, Justice James,” she sobs, voice trembling with emotion. Glancing over, I laugh breathlessly at the looks on my brothers’ faces, so full of astonishment and adoration. The world narrows to just the five of us as we each meet our son in our own way.

On one side of the street is a long row of handcuffed DKS. On the other is a line of PNZ. As soon as the gurney emerges through the doors, all of them turn to look our way, a sea of hopeful, nervous faces. But then Justice releases another one of those squawking, raspy cries, and the crowd erupts as one. DKS cheers while PNZ claps, and we make our march to the ambulance with congratulatory shouts of, “‘Atta girl, Princess!” and, “To the Victor, Ver!”

Maybe I never fully bought into Rufus’ bullshit—maybe East End was built on a foundation of suffering and degradation—but looking at my Princess, no five words have ever rang truer. “To create,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her damp forehead, “is to reign.”

“Hey, Yak, don’t take this wrong way, but could you fuck off?”

“But holy shit, Red. Look at you.” “What?” she asks, face falling. “Do I look that bad?” “What? No,” comes his instant response. “You just look so motherly and shit.” He walks over and squeezes in beside me, lifting her chin to plant a slow, tender kiss on her mouth. “It’s hot as fuck.”

“You’re good, Wick,” I assure, but stand behind him, directing his arm. The three of us watch as Wicker settles, gazing nervously down at his son. “What if he starts crying?” he frets. “What if he—” But then Justice’s eyes flutter open, blue meeting blue, and Wicker looks gutted. “So, you’re what all the fuss is about, huh?” His whisper is light but strained with emotion, and when he ducks down to gently brush his lips over Justice’s forehead, Verity, Pace, and I share a long look, understanding the gravity of the moment. Wicker, the person most afraid of loving something, has been captured, hook, line, and sinker.

“I have a lifetime to be a dad, but we only get to meet our son once. Come on, make the arms.”

When Wicker steps back, Pace furls. It’s like his whole body is holding the baby, shoulders both high and curled inward, as if he’s shielding him from something. Up until this moment, I’ve been pretty well-versed in the field of Pace’s emotions. He’s never been as explosive as Wicker or as composed as me. Pace feels, but he expresses it tactically. Nothing about the look on his face right now is tactical. “I was so worried I’d feel different once I saw him,” he says, voice ragged as he glances up at me. “Like I’d meet him and know he wasn’t mine.” Verity struggles up in bed, anguish on her face. “Oh, Pace.” But he grins down at the baby, head shaking. “It’s just the opposite, though,” he says, eyes softening as he takes in Justice’s tired face. “He’s made of you and Wick—two people I love the most. Nothing has ever felt more mine than this.” He looks up at me, eyes both curious and wrecked. “Is it like that for you?” My chest throbs. “Yeah,” I admit, taking Verity’s hand in mine. “That’s exactly what it’s like.” Maybe Wick can’t understand it yet, how something they made together can feel so inexplicably linked to us. Maybe someday he will.

“Are you fucking me with this plaque?” Verity’s mother’s voice comes from the hallway. “‘The Rufus Ashby Maternity Suite’. Jesus Christ, that son of a bitch never saw a room he didn’t want to piss on.” She walks in with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Well, I wonder if rooms in the fiery pits of hell have plaques?”

“Got you one too, Dr. Daddy,” Lavinia says, thrusting a foil-covered burrito at me from another bag. Since when does West End’s Queen buy food for a Prince?

Lavinia begins, “Okay, tell us everything. Like, on a scale of one to Sy’s dick, how bad did it hurt?”

Before letting them in, I crack the door, checking to make sure she’s decent. Verity can flash her tits to her mom and her girlfriends all she wants, but it’ll be over my dead body that the Dukes get even a glimpse of her nipples. Seeing that she’s put the goods away for now, I open the door for them to enter just as a burst of laughter comes from the women.

Death and birth. No one understands the cycle more than a PNZ.

Nestled against his other ink, a small crown is visible beneath the translucent bandage. In a looping script, the initials J.J. interlock. “For my nephew.” Verity stares at it, her mouth pressed into a tight line as her eyes begin welling. “Oh, Remy,” she gasps, wiping a tear from her eye. “Fuck you. You know I’m hormonal right now.”

“Vinny, look,” he says, flashing her an excited grin. “Have you ever seen a brighter white than this?”

“He doesn’t mean his skin color. White means⁠—” “Fresh and clear, like a clean canvas.” Remy’s eyes light up, and he looks at Verity. “Can I give him his first tattoo?” I jolt forward to take him. “Okay, enough of that.” He frowns, but hands Justice over to me. “Not now. I mean when he turns sixteen.” At Nick’s elbow jabbing into his side, he hisses, “Fine, eighteen.”

I’m thinking of Verity. She’s finally asleep. I’ve got Justice bundled up in my arms, and it strikes me hard how amazing his mother is. In a single day, she’s had the Queen of South Side delivering her food. The Queen of West End—born and raised North—giggling on her couch. Even Maddox and his young fiancée sent a bouquet of flowers and a card. Kings and Dukes, East End soldiers, PNZ members… people from every corner of this city. They weren’t drawn here because of a Royal birth. It was her.

Justice isn’t just a baby. He’s our baby. A Prince who is going to need a hell of a long time to be ready to lead. Verity’s already more than a mom and a partner. More than a Princess. She’s a goddamn Queen.

It’s like I’ve always said. Whitaker Ashby may be pretty, but he isn’t dumb.

it’s all just the story of our family written on your body. Just like Pace’s tattoos and Lex’s scars.” He presses a kiss against my neck. “And if that’s not convincing enough, I watched you eat bacon this morning and turn it into milk to feed our son. That shit is pure wizardry.”

“Look at me, Red.” I meet his eyes in the mirror. “If you think I’m going to go looking for someone else, you don’t get me, but that’s fair. I haven’t always put myself out there. Vulnerability isn’t my forte.” He tugs at my hair, letting it fall over my shoulders. “I love you, Verity—every part of you—because you made me see that I could be so much more than an object to be sold and traded.” His cheek presses against mine and it’s wet from his own tears. “You made me into a man, and then you gave me the chance to be a father, something I never even thought I wanted, but somehow, you knew I was worth it.”

“That is something we do with you, not alone. Seeing you with him is what turns me on, and it’s the same for him. Understood?” I nod, feeling a flush wash over my skin as he assesses me, a divot in his brow. “And porn doesn’t cut it for me anymore. Not when I’ve got the sexiest woman in the world in my bed. But let’s make a deal.” He turns me so he can look at me, head on. “If I get the urge to rub one off before we can do it safely,” he offers, watching as his finger trails down my chest, “then I’ll save it for you. But if you get the urge, you save it for us, okay? If you’re getting off, I want to watch.” In a deep voice, almost a groan, he adds, “And god do I want to watch that.” The flush returns to my cheeks. “Really?” I search for any trace of a lie, but he holds my gaze unflinchingly. “You have no idea, Red.” The idea isn’t unappealing. In fact, I feel a bit of a tingle at the thought. “It’s something we do together,” I agree, leaning into him, “even if ‘together’ looks a little different right now.”

Each of the guys has their own way with him. Pace likes to walk him around the palace, through hallways and rooms, and sometimes even outside. When I watch Pace with Justice, I see a father who wants to show him the world as much as protect him from it. Wicker likes to play for him. I haven’t seen him with his cello so much the whole time I’ve known him. It’s nice, the house being filled with music at the oddest hours. If I wake up, disoriented and alarmed, a calm always rushes through me when I hear Wicker’s cello reverberating down the halls. When I do, I know he has him. When I watch Wicker with Justice, I see a father who wants to show him his heart. Lex likes to relax with him. He’ll scoop Justice up and take him to the sitting room, laying him on his chest as he watches TV, late at night, after classes are done. More than once, I’ve walked in on him, discovering his glasses askew as he sleeps, Justice fast asleep against him. When I watch Lex with Justice, I see a father who wants to show that time is precious, and he’s eager to spend it doting on his child. But I like doing this. Just watching him.