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

by Angel Lawson

I’m used to this disgusted, used thing squirming beneath my skin. It’s the same thing I feel whenever Father sends me off to please someone rich and well-connected and revolting. It’s the feeling of being the means to someone’s ends. Verity Sinclaire used me.

What happened tonight was more than a punishment. It was the end. An end to my family, who’s going to see the full scope of what I’ve become. An end to whatever fragile, curious spark had been growing between me and the three men I’d only just begun to catch a real glimpse of. An end to the girl who thought she had what it took to hold them, and worst of all an end to the girl who first drove over that bridge, wide-eyed and painfully pure, the world spread out so hopefully ahead of her. As I wash those forty-three men from my body, I grieve for her the hardest.

“Only two men in this town are capable of taking the title of Baron King, and our dear Wicker is the first.” First? Dumbly, I ask, “Who’s the second?” If the probing nature of the question angers Ashby, then he does a good job of deflecting it. “Someone just as ill-suited to the position, I’m afraid.”

“Such beautiful, soft hands,” he muses, ignoring the question. He looks down at it–my hand, cradled in his palm–and covers it with his other, giving my knuckles a slow, tender rub. “If I find you snooping like this again, I'll let Lagan take them.”

Suddenly, I realize why I haven’t been able to see her yet. It’s not even about the cleansing. Not about savoring the destruction, nor feeling remorse for it. It’s because now I know. I know that even after everything, I still want her.

The thing about Wicker is that he only knows two ways of coping with any given thing: hurt something or fuck it. And it’s usually the latter–sometimes both. It’s not his fault, it’s just what being Father’s product has shaped him into. I hate it. I’ve always hated it. From the first night he came back to boarding school and told Lex and I, smirking, about the sweet piece of ass he bagged over the weekend, I didn’t feel jealous like Lex did. I felt fucking sick at the thought of someone owning him like that, because for all his boasting and bluster, I could see the uncertainty and hurt lurking beneath it. Wicker didn’t want it.

I may as well wear it while I can.

It’s all I can do to not fold over and vomit again.

“I hope she cried when she realized how much of a whore you’ve become.” In the end, I’m grateful for it. Because Lex Ashby is someone I could have loved. Until right this second.

He lunges for me, catching me around the throat and squeezing. Gasping for air, I manage to drop the last of my arsenal. “You kill me now, and you’ll also kill the baby.”

“This is it,” Ashby breathes, glancing between me and the test. “You’re carrying the heir to East End.” “Who cares?” Lex spits, murder still burning in his eyes. “She’s a fucking fraud! A liar and traitor! We should throw her into the dungeon!” Whirling on him, Ashby barks, “She’s the Princess!” Gaping, Lex flings a hand toward me. “She’s a fucking hostage!” But then Ashby roars, the rawness of it striking the entire ballroom into stunned silence. “She’s my biological daughter!”

“Through your womb, my legacy will endure.” He stares at it–my stomach, which will surely be swelling soon–and sinks to his knees, his expression all at once drawn and full of awe. “You don’t just carry the heir to East End. You’re carrying the heir to my crown.”