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Remember who your King is.
I may be in East End, but I have the power of the DKS frat behind me. The cutsluts. The Dukes, including Simon Perilini, their new King. Not to mention two Queens. The Monarchs.
Security will be heightened. It’s fine. Probably.
Today, it just looks sickly and anemic. A lot like I feel.
Okay Verity is already growing on me
I’m guessing this room probably served as a chapel back in the early days of Forsyth. Or maybe it’s just a depiction of the Princes. Bigger egos have happened.
They may look pretty, but there’s no doubt that under the thick layers of mascara and shiny waxed skin, there’s a cutthroat bitch who will do anything to become Princess.
Sisterhood. That’s why I’m here. For the Monarchs.
Unlike the bitches around me, my pedigree comes from real women. Women who aren’t afraid to stand on their own.
That’s right, bitch. I’m a solid C-cup.
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.
Mr. Rosenstein became Forsyth’s longest living citizen. His decrepit ass is probably running off nothing but pure spite. Gotta respect that.
I check myself out in the mirror. I look good. Fantastic even.
Well, I’ve been his prized cow since high school. Taking me off the market is a net negative for us both.
adopted or not, in the eyes of Forsyth, all three of us are bastard mutts who lack any Royal blood.
Pace entered the system the moment he was born, Lex’s parents weren’t even from Forsyth,
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 woul...
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We were raised on these ideals: bloodlines, legacy, heirs, paternity, bu...
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And every lesson ended on the same note. Our job isn’t to be Royal. It’s to ...
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“This one.” Pace flicks the screen and rises from his seat. “This one is mine.”
Everyone in this room looks just like the tapestries on the walls. Decorations.
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.
They’re physically intimidating because of how they’re built. This man is physically intimidating because of how he moves.
To think West End is looked down on by these people, even though we’re real. We don’t hide.
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. Maybe that’s what makes it so different. We don’t have to compete like banshees. We just have to be… Loyal.
People of East End are seeing exactly what blood means: Nothing–not if you’re already rich and connected to the elite. But for people like me, the lack of it is all that matters.
didn’t close the door on my potential to be Royal. Hoping I’d been picked because someone finally saw something special in me. Hoping I was good enough.
“Princess isn’t a title that just any mere woman can wield,” he’s saying, ignoring his sons. “It’s a crown in and of itself. A mark of a strong, unique, powerful woman.
the girl I’ve chosen tonight has something the rest of you don’t.” He lifts a hand, listing off, “Class. Poise. Strength. Chastity. Fire.”
And, robustly, he announces, “Verity Sinclaire!” Well, clearly I’ve gone crazy. Auditory hallucinations? I should really ask Sy about that tomorrow.
I get what it’s like to be Royal. To be special. To be wanted.
A Duke would never let some horrifying, antique, golden dildo ‘break in’ his Duchess. He’d fight for it. He’d touch her. He might not make love to her, but he’d damn sure feel her. He’d win her.
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 devoted Princes. Not three of the worst men in Forsyth.
Because I’m not here to become a Princess. I never was. I’m here to become a Monarch.
Any woman can have a womb, but yours has been chosen.”
And people thought the Barons were weird…
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.”
Remember who your King is. Lavinia’s words give me strength not because of Sy, but because of where I come from. I’m from West End. I’m a fighter.
the Princess will serve & obey her Prince, she will sever all other Royal ties, she’ll treat her body as a temple…
It smarts to accept how much I’ve underestimated the Princes’ depravity.
She’s short and petite, maybe even younger than I am, but she feels as big as a fucking h-bomb, posture straight and vibrating with energy.
“Say, uh… Stella? I’m going to assume you’ve had some coffee.” There’s no way that much energy is natural. “Is there possibly… any left? In Forsyth? Or earth?”
“I’m going to wash your hair now,” Stella brightly announces. I give a tight grin. “Kill me.” She grins back. “Can you sit up?”
“How long have you been a handmaiden?” She hums pensively, rinsing the suds from my hair. “About five hours.” Blinking the water from my lashes, my brow furrows. “You mean–” “I was hired to be your handmaid, specifically,” she confirms,
I’m starting to understand now that beneath every luxury lurks something terrible.
Ashby argues, “Pretty things are meant to be worn by pretty girls,” and stands. “Allow me.”
UGH HE IS GIVING ME CREEPY VIBES
Pace doesn’t even use a napkin, licking out to catch any wayward crumbs. I hesitate to make any fast movements, almost certain he’d give a possessive snarl. It makes a wave of homesickness spark in my chest. He eats like a Duke.
The Dukes, as much as I love them, aren’t exactly known for their subtlety and restraint. Even if they have weapons, they’re still on someone else’s territory. Double shit.
They’re my family—my big brothers–and as much as I know that them showing up here is a terrible, stupid idea, my chest blooms with affectionate warmth at the knowledge they came. Loyalty.
“You think you’re better than me?” Wicker shrugs. “Obviously. That’s not really in question here.” Nick strains against Sy’s taut, massive arms. “Then prove it. You may have beaten Bruce in the ring, but I will stomp your ass until you beg for fucking mercy.”
