Page 12

She hugs her middle, hunched and nervous, but readjusts her arms instantly as if she’s crossing them to look tough. “I want to know what’s about to happen.”

Her eyes dip down to my attire. I still haven’t made it up to my room, but I’ve shucked my jacket, bow tie, and waistcoat in an untidy attempt to get comfortable. My tuxedo shirt is untucked and unbuttoned, revealing the tight undershirt beneath, and though I’m still in the dark pants, my dress shoes are abandoned by the door, with nothing but black socks to cover my feet. My hair, which I’d spent ten minutes getting up into a smooth ponytail earlier tonight, is now in a loose, haphazard state.

Because of her.

“Let’s get something straight.” I stand, satisfied by the way she skitters back, eyes tracking me sharply. “You betrayed us. You stabbed my brother in the back, and then you humiliated me in front of the entire frat.”

Her arms drop, eyes flashing in fury. “You’re going to talk tomeabout being humili—”

I’m in front of her in a blink, towering over her startled form. “I’m talking now,” I hiss, watching as she stumbles back two steps. “You fucked us over. Make no mistake, Princess, you’re the enemy. And the things we do to enemies? Well…”

We stare at one another for a long beat, our crimes laid out. There are no secrets in this house. Everything is recorded, documented, filed, and leveraged. There’s an irony here. I’d been so judgmental about Verity betraying West End by aligning herself with the East. Turns out, she’s more loyal than I ever expected. She’s not a traitor. She was playing us the whole time. I kept telling her she didn’t know me, but I was the one that had no fucking clue what was going on with her—outside of labs and physical exams. And even then, I’d failed by not catching on to the fact she was pregnant first.

I reach over her shoulder for the lab coat hanging on the back of the door. She flinches so hard she bangs against it, blinking as I step away, threading my arms through the sleeves. “Fortunately for you, the moment you step into this room under my medical care, you’re safe.”

She releases a gnarled chuckle. “I’m supposed to believe that?” Her eyes are tired, and the black eye makeup she put on hours ago is all smudged and smeared. Her hair is still up in the fancy style from the ceremony, but wisps of red curl by her face. I don’t feel sorry for her—not one fucking iota—but I don’t see Verity standing before me. I can’t. I see a patient.

She, on the other hand, sees a monster.

“Princes have a job,” I explain, sauntering to the sink. “More like a fight, really. Your problem is that you think West End has some monopoly on winning. As a Prince, there are a lot of ways for me to lose, but only one way for me to win, and that’s to deliver a healthy newborn in approximately eight months. So, it’s like I said,” I gather my hair back, tying it up, “when you’re in here, you’re safe.”

I can hear her chewing on her bottom lip. “It’s that easy for you? Shutting your emotions on and off?”

“I’m a doctor,” I say, shoving my sleeves up my forearms, “or will be. In this room, I deal in science. Not emotions.”

There’s a short pause, and then, “There were a few times our deposits felt emotional to me.”

I pump the soap in my hand, trying not to remember the last time we were in here. The slick, fevered kisses. The way her hand felt on my cock.

Below my belt, my dick stirs to life.

Slamming my fist down on the faucet handle, I insist, “That was about creating a conducive environment for conception. In this house, we use our skills for the betterment of our family, and right now, that means your pregnancy is priority number one. Believe that or don’t. I don’t need you to trust me.” I turn to look at her. “I just need you to obey me.”

Someone like Wicker might think this is the wrong word to use.Obey. Verity’s eyes flash indignantly; I know that’s the last thing she wants to do. Because she doesn’t trust me. Can’t, really. If she weren’t pregnant, I’d make it my mission to destroy her.

“Fine,” she relents, stepping out of her shoes. It’s not because she has no other choice—although that’s true. It’s because she trusts we both have the same endgame.

She thinks a Princess can win, too.

Scrubbing my hands, I hear Verity unzipping her jeans and the soft shift of fabric as she removes her clothes, but I pull two latex gloves from the box and tug them on before turning to face her. In the last two months, she’s lost any sense of modesty when she’s here. This is my domain, and similar to how she is while with Pace, her behavior modifies. I can see it in the growth of her pubic hair. His demand.

In my examination room, I demand compliance.

I assess her body, taking in her nudity and how her hands clench at her sides. Her pale skin pebbles from the chill of the underground room. There’s no evidence of her pregnancy yet. Her stomach and breasts have yet to swell, but that doesn’t stop my gaze from lingering on her tits, because my cock hasn’t gotten the message about her betrayal. I use every ounce of willpower to maintain control. There’s no other option. The video she showed of me at the Valentine’s Day party? That was a personal attack. My brothers don’t come off in a good light. They look like submissive pawns to my father’s terror, but me?

The entire room watched me down on my knees while my father flogged me like an animal.

I hate Verity Sinclaire.

But the woman in front of me, all female, ripe, and fertilized…

My body wants her on a primal, biological level that doesn’t comprehend things like deception. It justwants. Wants to invade her. Wants to grab her soft hips. Wants to keep breeding her.

Gruffly, I say, “Get on the table,” and tear my gaze from her body. The paper covering the hard, padded surface crinkles as I methodically pick through the supplies I’ll need for the appointment: blood withdrawal, speculum, ultrasound gel. I place them all on the cart beside the ultrasound equipment and turn.

She’s on the table as directed, but there’s a wariness in her eyes.

Wordlessly, I place my phone beside us, hitting the button to record.