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I scoff. “You’ve been around me far too long to have so little game.”

He shoots me a glare, but that ear-blush has traveled to his neck. Like Pace, he obviously wants to nail her regularly. Lex has always seen sex as an unavoidable, if fun, biological function. Watching him stammer, and, like…try?

This girl has no idea their balls are in the palm of her hand.

“Thank you.” She pushes a curl behind her ear, the Princess ring catching the light with the movement. “Maybe this white dress will make it through the night without getting blood on it, unlike the others.” The words could be barbed and acerbic, but they’re not. She says it airily, her gaze dipping to the floor, and an awkward silence envelops us.

Once again, I’m reminded of my role in this. In some ways, I’ve treated Verity no better than the men and women of East End have treated me. The thought leaves an aftertaste that I don’t particularly care for.

Kind of sour.

Instead of acknowledging this, I link my arm with hers, shrugging. “Bloody dresses are a requirement of any Royal event in the palace. But in case you didn’t know,” I add, leading her toward the stairs, “the blood doesn’t necessarily have to be your own.”

She glances up at me with a dark smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

* * *

My brothers don’t attendas many black-tie events as I do, and it shows. It’s painful to watch Lex move about the room with an overly formal stiffness, his motions perfunctory and robotic. Sure, he knows the right things to say and do, when to kiss cheeks and when to offer a firm handshake, but there’s none of the finesse that comes with years of weekly practice.

Across the room, Pace is in the middle of a conversation with one of Father’s CIOs, looking like he’d rather take a walk off the balcony than spend another moment engaged in small talk with a corporate tool.

And Verity…

You’d never know she’s the same woman who endured all the trials and abuse that come with being a Princess. We’ve watched them come and go over the years, and none of them have taken to the role with equal parts feisty independence and determined perseverance like she has. In a way, it’s a little unnerving, how well-suited to the role she is.

Maybe it’s in her blood.

There’s a small part of me that realizes this whole thing may come to fruition. That she’ll carry the baby to term, survive labor, and hand over the first true Ashby heir in a generation. Maybe she’ll get her wish and name the baby something meaningful to her.

Then I remember how this obligation will do nothing but fuck up our lives.

“Whitaker,” I hear, wincing at my name. I’ve kept to the edges of the room all night, snagging flutes of champagne, doing my best to avoid cougars—particularly Trudie Stein, after standing her up at the tea. The voice doesn’t come from a woman, but a man, and I glance over and see Darnell Livingston approaching, expertly draining a glass of bourbon. “Tough loss the other night. That was a beautiful goal. Too bad you came up short. The instinct you and your brother have together… well, it’s a goddamn sight to see.”

“Well, you know what Father says.” I peer across the room at him, lip curling. “Practice makes perfect.”

He claps me on the shoulder with a meaty paw. “Good thing you’ve got one more year to claim that title from Easton.”

I try to muster up some team spirit. “That’s the plan.”

He nods. Rory’s father was a D-man back in the day. He even played professionally for a few seasons up north; opportunities me and Pace won’t have even if we wanted them. A drop of sweat glides down my back.

He looks around the room and whistles loudly. “Fuck, Ashby went all out on this shindig, didn’t he?”

“Ah, you know Father,” I say, rocking back on my heels. “He’s never met a balloon arch he could resist.”

He laughs the way all guys his age and class do: uproariously, as if they’re the star of the show. “I have to tell you, my wife was disappointed when Rory wasn’t chosen as Prince, but I was relieved. It’s a lot of pressure you guys are under. School, hockey, East End obligations, and then a fucking kid on the way.” His gaze sweeps over Verity in the distance, and then he leans in, eyebrows wagging. “Although, your Princess sure is a looker. If she’s anything like her mother, I bet she’s a fucking tiger in bed.”

Annoyance pricks along my skin. I get this mental flash of what it’d look like to break the stem off my champagne flute and bury it in his neck.

Ungodly messy.

“No offense,” he continues, like he’s not a heartbeat away from bleeding out on the parquet floors, “but these gender reveals are some kind of youngster bullshit if you know what I mean.” He waves over a waiter and drops his empty glass on the tray. “Back when we were having kids, we’d find out or not, pick blue or pink for the nursery, and move on with life. All this,” he waves at the grandeur, “it’s ridiculous. What’s your father going to do when the baby gets here? Have a parade?”

“More than likely.” There’s not a trace of humor in my eyes.

Darnell sees it, grimacing. “The good news, I guess, is that as long as the paternity test pans out, your Princess will be set for life.”

Unless it has my DNA, and then it’ll be a Kayes, looking over its shoulder just like I have.