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“In there, you control all the conditions. You’re agod. All-seeing, all-knowing. But out there?” I gesture vaguely toward the window. “Out there, you’re just a whim of fate. You can’t handle it. You can barely handle it when Wick and I go on jobs without you.”

Pace’s frown darkens with each word, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about it. We’re going to have to wind all our neuroses into a single knot in order to raise a kid together. I don’t know what that looks like, but I know it won’t be whatever our son needs.

“How else do you keep something safe?” he asks. As if she understands him, Effie hops onto his ankle, walking up the long length of his shin. He strokes his hand down her inky feathers. “How do you live the life of a Royal, see all the jacked-up shit we have, and not be fucking terrified sending something you care about out into that sewer of depravity?”

“Hell if I know,” I say. “That’s why I just focus on her health. It’s what Icando.”

“Why are we acting like this matters?” Wicker’s low, cutting words draw my gaze to him. “You keep talking about this thing like it’s already ours.”

“Because it is,” I argue.

His blue eyes flash in frustration. “It’shis. You really think he’s going to let any of us raise this thing? He probably already has every second of its life all planned out.” Raising a hand, he lists off on his fingers, “Nanny, nanny, special academy, nanny. We’re a non-factor. Which, personally, works fine for me.”

“No.” My reply is hard as nails. “I won’t let that happen.”

But Pace’s low voice rings out, “Wick’s right,” and when I glance at him, all the pensive calculation in his eyes has disappeared. “We’re not going to have a choice in anything. The sooner we accept that, the easier it’ll be when it happens.”

But I won’t accept that. Not for a fucking second. I don’t know where it comes from or why, but I know I’d go down swinging for the right to my own goddamn son.

I start to close the book, but Wicker’s hand comes down over the top. “What are you doing?” he asks. “Cliffhanger much?”

“It’s late.” I’m tired, and I blame being in this bed for making me feel, well,things… other than sleepy.

Pace carries Effie over to her cage and closes her in. He drapes the cloth over the top and returns to the bed, nudging Wicker to the middle. “One more chapter, bro.” He stretches out, resting his head on his bicep. “I need to know what to expect next week. You know, other than the apple thing.”

Sighing, I flip the page, and start, “Week fifteen is an exciting time, as you’re well into the second trimester…”

* * *

At what pointdo I get used to this, I wonder? The repetition. The sense of dread. The slick sweat on my back that appears the second I step into Father’s office.

I smell my brothers before I see them, the faint scent of nerves striking as I shut the door behind me. They’re stiff and in position, standing in front of Father’s desk.

It makes it worse that I haven’t the faintest idea what this is about, and from the crease on Pace’s forehead and the twitch in Wicker’s fingers, they don’t either. There’s a terrified part of me that wonders if this is about getting knocked out of the tournament. They lost their game two days ago and although Pace and Wick hadn’t been happy about it, I got the sense they were both happy to be done with the season. I’d been waiting for Father’s commentary on the loss, and maybe this is it. None of that blame belongs on me, but that’s not how this works. My brothers failed to secure the win. That fallout may land on my back. Literally.

“Sorry I was late,” I say, stepping into place. “My lecture ran long.”

Father is busy writing in one of his ledgers, and the twist of anxiety in my stomach threatens to go straight to my bowels. We stand in silence, the clock ticking behind us, until he shuts the book, caps his pen, and glances up.

“I’ve been going over what occurred while I was away on my business trip. The security footage, the evidence found on the grounds by Thad, and of course, your own reports.” He glances at Pace, then Wicker, while I slowly process that this isn’t about hockey. “The timing is surely suspect, and I can’t rule out that it wasn’t orchestrated to happen in my absence from the palace, but from my audit of the events that happened that night, it seems things were handled well.” He focuses his attention. “Whitaker.”

He stands a little straighter, even though his heart doesn’t look in it, a little sigh falling from his nose. “Yes, sir.”

Father’s gaze takes him in for a long beat. “It was your quick action that corralled the Princess to the safe room. And although the decision to arm the Bruins’ boy was risky, in this circumstance, I approve.”

Wicker loses some of his stiff posture, but it’s not relief. It’s as if he’s too tired to hold it. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Father adds, “His loyalty to the Princess is clear. Adding another man to protect her while you and your brother searched the grounds was smart. The heir is our number one priority, and you acted beyond reproach.”

Wicker dips his chin. “Thank you, Father.”

He shifts his gaze next to me. “Pace, it’s my understanding that you managed to land one of your shots.”

Pace is stiffer, eyes fixed on Father’s desk. “Yes, sir.”

Father taps the wood with his pen. “I’m disappointed we weren’t able to recover the intruder.” The statement hangs in the air. Father’s disappointment is always worse than his anger.

“Yes, that was my failure,” Pace says in a subtle attempt to cover for Wicker. “It was dark, and the cover was limited. I should have done more. I wanted to follow, but the conditions didn’t make a pursuit safe or practical, and we really wanted to get back inside with the Pri—” he swallows, “heir.”