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

by Angel Lawson

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.

My blood might be Royal, but aside from my brothers and Father himself, no one knows. Even if they did, being the descendant of the Barons’ highest Royal lineage would just make me even less accepted in East End.

“This one.” Pace flicks the screen and rises from his seat. “This one is mine.”

Being a Princess is Forsyth’s highest honor. Everyone knows it. It’s the Royal position girls want most of all. Princess first, Lady second, Countess third, Baroness fourth, and Duchess… No one wants to be Duchess except West Enders.

Because I’m not here to become a Princess. I never was. I’m here to become a Monarch.

The prayer of their house, just as much as West End has its victors and spoils–just as much as the Lords keep what’s theirs. “To create,” he says, “is to reign.”

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

“You see, Rosilocks, the only thing we really get out of this is you,” he says, grazing a knuckle along the curve of my cheek. “Your sweet lips. Your pink cheeks. Your smooth legs and perfect tits. If you want to know the truth,” he pitches closer, voice dropping to a deep rumble, “nothing has ever made me harder than watching him fuck you bloody over that table.”

Wicker is a little something I like to call fuck-sexual. His dick is an equal opportunity lender. Chick, dude, MILF, DILF, barely legal or gender ambiguous, he doesn’t discriminate. Wicker’s libido is Ellis fucking Island. Give him your tired, your poor, your huddled masses. He’ll fuck their brains out.

We were molded to hurt, cut, and deceive, but no matter how much Father hoped it’d be against each other, it never has been. We made that pact years ago. In blood. In darkness. In agony. We’re a Cerberus–three heads, one heart.