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Verity

I feellike an intruder in my own skin as I’m led up the aisle.

It can’t be the dress, all white and sparkling, because it’s not so unlike the one I wore my first night in this palace. It’s older, though. That much I’m sure of. The touch of age has softened and yellowed the lace that frames my décolletage. Its long silk train drags behind me as if this were a wedding, and why shouldn’t it be? After all, three men dressed in their finest tuxedos are waiting for me across the room, their heads bowed as each step brings me closer to them.

We’re unequivocally bound.

And then there’s the man pressing my hand firmly into the crook of his arm, guiding me with pride.

Rufus Ashby.

My father.

He could be the source of this feeling—this sense that I don’t belong in my own body—but I know he’s not. It’s not the weight of the tiara on my head, nor the PNZ members’ gazes following me as they stand erect, hands clasped behind their backs. It’s not the cloying scent of roses. It’s not even the sight of the throne ahead, the memory of all the pain I’ve felt in this room, and the dread that there’s more to come.

I know exactly what it is.

It’s the strange, tainted life growing inside me.

I’d block it all out if I could—the stares of the frat. The weight of Ashby’s hand pushing on my knuckles. The curling sensation of sickness as I grow closer to the three men standing before the throne. However, I can’t possibly do it. I feel every gaze, every inch that brings me closer to them, as acutely as a thousand pinpricks. Or worse, the feel of them inside of me, making deposit after deposit of sperm.

It isn’t until we reach them—Wicker, Lex, and Pace—that I notice how stony their faces are. Perfectly composed, heads lowered in a supplication that I know can’t be real.

I fight the urge to spit in their faces.

Ashby turns as soon as we reach them, spinning me to face the room. A sea of somber faces stares back at us, and I swallow back bile at the memory of what they all did to me, not even a whole week ago. They all wait for him to speak, which isn’t a surprise. Ashby does seem to love having a captive audience, and he’s the King. If anyone thinks the coronation might be about the Princess, then they’re proven wrong the instant he steps forward.

“To create is to reign,” he eventually speaks, lifting his chin.

“To create is to reign,” the men in the room repeat.

Candlelight sharpens Ashby’s features, and I shudder to think how much of them might be reflected in my own. He’s my father. As absurd as the statement was, I have no doubt in its truth.

“That’s the saying, isn’t it?” His blue eyes scan the room, lips curved into a satisfied grin. “I’ve dreamed of this day. I won’t deny it. To stand here with my blood,” he lifts a hand, gesturing to me, “and my spirit,” he turns to gesture to the Princes next. “And, most importantly, the heir they’ve made for me. Forus.”

I stand, frozen with disgust, as he places a palm on my belly, not even meeting my gaze.

He actually appears misty-eyed as he addresses the room. “Today,Ireign. Not with fear. Not with influence. But with blood and spirit. This isn’t just a coronation—it’s a promise met. Renewal and hope, but most of all, legacy.”

He turns to me next, finally looking into my eyes as he takes my hand.

“Do you understand the covenants of your position?” he asks.

Despite how my belly roils, I nod.

He traps me in his stare, wide and fervent. “You will nourish the child that blossoms within your womb.”

I nod. “As you command.”

“You will serve it before anyone else—even your Princes.”

“Even their King?” The words escape my mouth without my bidding, but I can’t find it in myself to regret them, even as his stare turns hard and flinty.

“I assure you,” he says, voice low, “your King and the well-being of his heir are as one.”

Hisheir. I hear the word loud and clear, and that roiling sickness in my belly hardens to stone. I realize that’s what I’ll need to endure what’s coming.