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Jesus, it’s hard–so hard not to just tell them the truth. That I’m doing this, in some ways, for them as much as me and the Monarchs. That I want to see Forsyth become the kind of place that doesn’t turn sweet boys like Remy into these hard, violent, distrusting men. But I can’t.
“I don’t want to be the next Mama B, you guys. I want to be the next Lavinia. I want to do something that matters. Something that leaves a mark on this place.
“Maybe I can be to East End what Lavinia was to me. Maybe there’s a girl out there who needs a voice in this Palace. I’m going to make sure she has one.”
“You’re a fucking traitor,” I say, basking in the tears that swim in her eyes, spilling over. “Which makes you useless as a Princess, because you’ll turn on us the second something shinier and more impressive comes along. You have no fucking concept of loyalty or allegiance. You’re the worst kind of person.”
“She’s my Queen,” Simon says with an insolence no one else would dare to show. “And you’ll show her the respect a Queen deserves.”
That’s my king 👏🏽👏🏽
Nagging. Another reason we don’t have a Queen. Father is bad enough.
It’s pretty damn clear that his Duchess wants something, and he’s going to get it for her.
The Prince might not belong to his Princess, but his dick sure as hell does.
Father’s eyes narrow in on my brother. “I know for a fact that you possess a remarkable reading comprehension. Don’t test my patience with willful ignorance.”
“You’re not doing this because you trust us. You’re doing this to punish us! You’re angry at Pace for Spring Break, me for having fun, and Lex for—” My brother looks me up and down, scoffing. “For nothing, because Lex is the cyborg you wish we’d all be. He never steps out of line. But since he’s busy being Dr. Perfect Son,
“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.”
Verity Sinclaire is nowhere close to being a celebrity, but the Princess? She is.
But I’m not any other Princess. I like to know where my enemies are and what they’re doing.
“So our little cubslut’s a fan.” My eyes narrow. “I’ve just seen your banner on campus. No one can miss a head that big.”
I love her
his body in motion, lacrosse helmet covering half his head, a perfect bead of sweat gliding down his sharp cheekbone toward his strong jaw. I think about it every time I pass it on the way to the visual arts building. I bet it’s Photoshopped.
“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.”
I’ve never been special. Sure, my entire life had been centered around becoming special, but in reality, the position of Duchess was a pipe dream.
To create is to reign. That’s the East End motto.
Those words don’t mean these men want their ‘beautiful’ Princess to reign in any literal sense. They just want me to hurry up and get pregnant.
Wicker might be vile, but he’s never been less than up front about it, and I think… I think I might respect that. In an odd, West End’ish way.
But it’s more than that. It strikes me then. I’m one of them, the elite. The powerful. The envied.
“You didn’t train me to be a Duchess. The Dukes, the Lords—even the Counts, before they were blown to hell and back–prefer virgins, but none of them require it. There’s only one house who has that requirement. The Princes.”
“That’s who you groomed me to be ready for, whether you intended to or not. And if being a Princess is a fight? Then all the better, because I’m still West End.” I sling my bag over my shoulder, straightening my spine. “I’ll win.”
giving the puck a hard slap. I hear the crack, the best fucking sound in the world–other than my name on a woman’s lips
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.
She’s still rigid. Anxious. “And what am I?” Narc. Traitor. Mine. “Too tense,” I answer,
It’s just like before, seeing her on that dating app and knowing other guys are seeing her too. I want something that no one else has.
“Tell me you want my baby inside you.” She stiffens before craning her neck around to gape at me. “Your what?! I-I don’t even know you.” Rubbing her clit, my lips drag against her ear as I say, “You don’t have to mean it, Rosi. You just have to say it.”
But she was mine first. She should have been. If things had gone differently–if she’d never reported me for those videos–I would have made her mine. Wholly.
Nothing looks as fuckable to these three as my own goddamn misery.
And I hate them. God, I hate them. I hate them so fiercely that my fingernails dig painful crescents into my palms, because they know. They know Wicker Ashby is off limits to any other woman in Forsyth, and they see it as a challenge. A game.
When I’m close enough to hear her laugh, she parts her lips to speak. She never gets the chance. I swing the frying pan with all my strength, whacking it right into her jaw.
MY GIRL 👏🏽
Back in West End, I never felt compelled to fight with the other girls. The idea of burying my knuckles into flesh and bone was always vaguely sickening to me. Now, I just can’t seem to stop myself.
“Maybe the last few Princesses have been so soft that you’ve forgotten your place, so let me be clear.” Feeling the suspended energy of the party, I know everyone is watching, listening, but I wait for her pained, welling eyes to blink open before continuing. “I’m holding you personally responsible for every bitch in East End. You better tell them that the Princes are off limits, because if any of you so much as breathes near them, I’m going to find you and stick this knife into your tit.”
Then he drops to his knees.
WE LOVE A MAN ON HIS KNEES
By the time I pull back, my lips dragging against hers wetly, her eyes are hooded and dazed. Fuck. Mine might be a little, too.
“I can’t decide what’s worse. Being your sentient fuckhole,” pushing the car door open, she lurches out, her heels loud as she stomps onto the pavement, “or being your glorified petri dish.”
The Purple Palace could never be a real home. It’s too big. Too cold. Too full of everyone else’s shit.
“You ever get the feeling he isn’t exactly cool with Verity being our Princess?” Lex gives me a look. “Are any of us?” “No, I mean…” I scratch my head, trying to find the words. “Her being our Princess. Mine and yours. Like he’d rather not be sharing her. Catch my drift?”
Pace doesn’t get his claws into just anything–or anyone. He doesn’t have flings. He has projects. Fixtures. Should have known a little thing like her getting him convicted for a felony wouldn’t stand in his way.
Almost every mark leaves this place alive, and that’s something we pride ourselves on. Professionalism.
“Okay, that’s just insulting. The three of us combined probably have more money in our trust funds than your dad’s made his entire life.”
“Every time you do this, I’m going to go out of my way to get it out.” Her green bottle-glass eyes ping between mine, simmering with rage. “The thought of your baby being inside of me makes me want to vomit.”
None of us were meant to create. We’re the creations.
Truthfully, having the tracker inserted ten minutes ago was the least intrusive thing done to my body this week.
“Buried? Yeah, right. Little shit’s got a tomb, with all its special engravings and weeping angels and private fucking monthly concerts, performed by yours truly.” He tips the bottle back, a bitter curve to his mouth. “When I die, Father will probably dump my ashes into the sewer. Thank god. Can’t even die around here without having a schedule drawn up for you.”
Wicker has that effect on me–erratic and dangerous–seemingly everywhere all at once.
This place might be beautiful, but it’s dark and cold, full of dead things.
there is one thing Rufus Ashby holds sacred above all things. Creation.”
“There’s more than one way to create life.”
