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We’re both tense, breathing hard, and I find myself too tired to tolerate it. “Is this how it’s going to be? You hating us for fulfilling our obligation, fucking us over because of it, and then us getting our payback?” I turn my head, locking onto her miserable gaze. “We know how that will end.”

Bloody, probably.

What’s another body or three to float down the flooded streets?

“You tell me,” she says, a challenge in her eyes.

But all I can offer is the way I cradle her cheek in my palm, drawing her soft lips to mine. “We’re trying,” I say, never closing my eyes. The kiss is testing and too brief, her jaw still clenched when I pull away. In that moment, I wish I were Wicker, who can reduce girls to a pile of goo with nothing but a look. I’ve never been able to do that.

Verity’s eyelashes flutter, but her expression is shuttered. “I’ve never tried harder at anything in my entire life.”

Maybe I’m not the only one afraid of letting shit go.

The sound of her door slamming reverberates hard enough to jostle me in my seat. I watch soundlessly as she trudges through the puddles toward her Dukes, the DJ’s voice rolling through the cab.

“The river is rising,” he says. “Now it’s your turn. Wake up and smell that beautiful decay, Forsyth…”

* * *

“Haveyou seen any of my hair ties?” I ask, rummaging around the drawer of my bedside table. “The ones I use at night?” I’m in pajamas, ready to settle down for the night, but I don’t want to sleep with my hair down, and I’m not willing to risk split ends on a shitty rubber band.

“Sorry, I haven’t,” Danner says, resting the tray of bedtime drinks on the dresser. There are three, one for each of us. It’s a rare night that we’re all at home.

The only glass missing is Verity’s disgusting milk.

The first time she left the palace for West End, it was a relief. Everyone was bitter and raw after the cleansing and Valentine’s Day. I know I was pissed, my anger consuming me as I plotted ways to hurt her the way she hurt me.

But this time, things feel different. All week, the palace has been quiet, devoid of her little movements through the halls, around her bedroom, the high-pitched incessant chatter of her handmaiden echoing off the vaulted ceilings. More than once, I’ll catch the scent of her perfume and head into the corridor, thinking I’ll get a glimpse of her before remembering she’s gone—back to her people.

“Would you like me to look in the Princess’ room?” he asks. “It’s possible they got mixed in with her personal accoutrements.”

I grunt in irritation, but say, “I’ll go. Thank you, Danner.”

It’s amazing how many ways she’s infiltrated our lives. Her scent, her belongings,ourbelongings mixing with hers. It strikes me again as I step across the threshold to her room. The bed is made up, but Wicker’s pillow is neatly leaning against the headboard, my blanket is still folded at the foot, and Effie’s cage is near the window. Much to my brother’s irritation, after leaving her in the Princess’ room, Effie has started shunning her live feed, preferring the view outside this window. Even at night, it’s the best view in the house, so I can’t blame her. Something tells me Effie prefers the bright daylight and soft colors in here over the dark, screen-filtered light in Pace’s room.

“Pretty bird,” she croons when she sees me.

“Sure are,” I say, walking over and getting a treat out of the pouch. “A very pretty bird who hopefully hasn’t been hiding my hair ties.”

Effie, the impossible klepto she is, goes through phases where she likes to knick various baubles. “Oh, god,” she squawks. “I’ll tell you anything!”

Grimacing at the weak imitation of Gary Troy’s voice—a job we had months ago to extract information regarding adultery and some light embezzlement—I narrow my eyes at her. “You wouldn’t last three seconds in the dungeon.”

It’s then that I pause, noticing the sound of running water.

We’d know if she was back. Pace wouldn’t let that slip past him, but still, my pulse thrums at the possibility of her being here. I didn’t leave things the best when we traded her back to the Dukes. I’ve taken her coffee the past two mornings, but all I’ve gotten is a grateful nod and more of her ‘performance’ as Princess. It’s new and annoying, the scratchingneedin my chest to settle this constant friction.

For the sake of the baby, of course. Seeing her on campus, getting remote updates on the heartbeat, and trusting her to stick to the diet while she’s gone doesn’t satisfy my need to keep track.

Any hope for that shatters when I find a pile of clothes on the floor: jeans and a pair of three-hundred dollar limited-edition sneakers.

You’vegotto be kidding me. I open the shower door and stare blankly at Wicker, who’s lathered hair to toe.

Unflinchingly, he nods. “Hey.”

“What are you doing?” I snap, harsher than I should.

He tips his head back under the spray, looking totally fucking euphoric. “Have you taken a shower in here? It’s huge. There’s a fucking bench. I mean, really, abench. Perfect for fucking. Dual shower heads, waterfall feature…” He points to the ceiling, then grabs a bottle off the shelf and squeezes a large dollop into his palm. “And her shower gel really makes my skin soft. It’s not like she’s using it, right?”