Princes of Chaos (Royals of Forsyth University, #7)

by Angel Lawson

The Purple Palace.

Right now, the wisteria and roses covering the side of the building are dormant and wilted, gray and brown, lifeless in the January winter.

Cutsluts aren’t made for silk, brocade, lace, and crystals. We’re made for Lycra and denim, skin-tight and frayed around the edges.

As much as I hate to admit it, just looking at this dress makes me feel like a Princess.

By the end of the night, maybe that’s...

The Princess. The house girl for ...

“Yeah, well Piper fucked up,”

“She fucked around and found out.”

It’s not just silk and lace I’m wearing. It’s armor.

This isn’t a party. It’s a battle. And there can only be one winner: The Monarchs.

I can’t help but imagine the Dukes in here, like bulls in a china shop.

They’d destroy it in a heartbeat.

Everyone in this room looks just like the tapestries on the walls. Decorations.

There are handsome men all over Forsyth, but none carry themselves with the same level of arrogance as golden-haired Whitaker Ashby.

but now I recognize that look for what it is; a dark mixture of anguished want.

No man had ever looked at me like that before.

The men at DKS are large and athletic, made of hard muscle and sharp reflexes.

They’re physically intimidating because of how they’re built.

This man is physically intimidating because o...

To think West End is looked down on by these people, even though we’re real

We don’t hide. We don’t wear masks.

We look our enemies in the eye when w...

“Of course you don’t.

The jewel of West End cunts, all safe and sound in her fortified gutter, wouldn’t know the first thing about the consequences of her own fucking actions.”

All I’ve heard since arriving is how my blood isn’t good enough.

My parents aren’t prominent enough. My lineage isn’t established enough.

But when it comes to...

I get what it’s like to be Royal. To be special. To be wanted.

Princes are supposed to be sweet and doting, handsome and charismatic, indulgent and adoring.

When I agreed to this, that’s what I pictured.

A Princess and her devote...

Not three of the worst men ...

But even then, it was a lie I mad...

Because I’m not here to become a Princess...

I’m here to become a...

“Verity Sinclaire, tonight embarks your journey as the vessel for the next great heir.

Any woman can have a womb, but yours has been chosen.”

“Bles...

I’m not sure how, and I have no fucking idea why, but some part of me is suddenly very sure that these guys are being just as forced into this as I am.

As Danner leads me from the room, I pretend Whitaker Ashby’s ‘reward’ isn’t dripping down my leg, along with blood, sweat, and the last remaining shreds of my dignity.

“It always has to get a little worse before it gets better,”

“One step at a time. We’ll make it through, because that’s what we do.”

If one of us doesn’t successfully impregnate the Princess and she doesn’t carry that child to term, finally giving Father an heir, we’re all fucked.

The Prince might not belong to his Princess, but his dick sure as hell does.

“And yes, Whitaker, that is the reason I had you go first. Because you do not respect me, and that means I do not have to respect you.”

“If there’s any seed left in his body to take, that is.”

“Her red hair with your amber eyes,”

He wants an heir. Demands it. And will get it by any means necessary.

That’s what scares the fuck out of me.

“Have you ever had your pussy licked, Verity? I know you were a virgin when you came here, but that doesn't mean you haven't done other things.”