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He turns to leave her there, but Remy’s voice rings out, “Hey, Kemp.” When DK spins, his eerie eyes void of emotion, Remy plants his feet, pinning him with a long look. “No matter what you call him, he’ll never be your father.”

DK doesn’t even flinch. “I know exactly what my King is, Remy.”

Sy’s mouth forms an unhappy line. “A psychopath?”

“Oh,” DK gives a slow, creeping smirk, “he’s something much worse than that.”

When DK fails to elaborate—to no one’s surprise—Remy nods. “You could have a place here, though.”

This, at least, seems to spur some emotion on DK’s face. Consternation. “Come again?”

Remy jerks his chin toward the back. “I’m building a tattoo studio. We could use a piercer.” His green eyes gleam malevolently in the low light. “No one in Forsyth is as skilled as you are at stabbing things with needles.”

Nick and Sy are both staring at Remy like he’s gone absolutely mental.

DK presses a palm to his chest, offering a fake grin. “As touching as that compliment is, I’ve already been told I’m unwelcome. Good luck with this shitpile, though.”

And then he’s gone, sweeping through the doors just as quietly as he’d entered them.

“I betshe’s gonna have like eight of them,” Verity says, grinning. “Your cat’s got some real spunk, Lav. Look at this girl—she’s huge!”

I shoot a glare toward Archie, who’s perched on the back of the sofa and currently throwing his own glares to the mother of his children.

“You fucking dick,” I growl, not for the first time. “Don’t you dare be mean to her! This is all your fault!”

The black cat—nameless, so far—is just as DK described her. Suspicious and feral. But she’s also clearly terrified, refusing to come out of the cage.

I still leave the door to the carrier open. “I’m not sure we can handle eight kittens,” I whine.

But Verity climbs to her feet, insisting, “Sure you can! You just need to find her a good nesting spot.” Humming, she wanders around the loft apartment like it’s familiar territory—which it is. When she was staying here, it was a lot more sparsely furnished, but she navigates the living area like it’s a second home. She was the first person I called regarding the pregnant cat situation—for obvious reasons. She’s never been a cat, but she has been pregnant.

The four men sitting around the dining room table with varying levels of grumpy eyebrows certainly won’t be any help.

“Are you stupid?” Wicker says, face twisting. “Why the hell would you invite a Baron to be a business partner?” The only downside to having Verity over is that one of her Princes always escorts her. Lex isn’t so bad, and Pace mostly keeps to himself, but Wicker is a brat.

“Excellent question,” Nick replies, turning a slow, threatening look Remy’s way. “I’m all ears.”

Remy rolls his eyes, undeterred as he tips his chair back. “You guys don’t get it. Timothy Maddox has never been your father.”

Sy scoffs. “So it’s some sort of solidarity thing? Because news flash: Timothy Maddox has never been DK’s father.”

To my surprise, it’s Wicker who jumps in, squirming uncomfortably. “It’s a Baron thing. Leadership in Beta Rho isn’t about having a commander. It’s all… paternal and shit.”

“It’s devotion,” Remy corrects, tipping his head back to look at Sy. “You’re a King, but you’re still one of us. To BRN, myfather—his position as King—it’s like being the Pope. They don’t just follow him. They worship him.”

Nick scoffs. “I’m not seeing how having a Maddox worshipper downstairs is working to anyone’s benefit. Your father will just use him to keep tabs on—” Abruptly, he goes silent, and I glance over to find him eying Remy thoughtfully. “Huh.”

Wicker and Sy both look confused. “What?”

Remy laces his fingers behind his head, lounging back in his seat. “Forcing his shadows to work in the light. An enemy is always better when you can see them.”

A low hum escapes Nick’s lips. “When you canschedulethem.”

Remy’s white hair sways with a nod. “Plus, I wasn’t lying before. We could use someone skilled in body mod, and Kemp and I go back far enough that I think he might actually give it a second thought if my father ordered him to dick me over.” He gives Wicker a long, significant look. “And that’s more than we can say about anyone else on the wicked path.”

It’s still strange to think of them as brothers. Remy on one side of the table, all tattooed and wily, while Wicker sits before him, pressed, groomed, and gleaming. But sometimes, if I squint really hard, I can almost see it.

They both share that same glint of wild, cutting sharpness in their gemstone eyes.