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It’s a lie. It has to be. There’s simply no way he’d put his own daughter on the market, take that whip to her back, or throw her into the dungeon for days on end.

There’s no fucking way.

But if there is—even one fucking iota…

They’d never forgive me.

Lex looks at Verity’s belly like it's become his whole purpose. Pace can hardly focus on anything that isn’t keeping her safe. If the two of them knew I put her and the baby in danger, that’d be it for us as brothers.

And like that, the cards come tumbling, every last one, fluttering down to my feet.

Father nods, watching me carefully. “There it is.” I’m numb as he cups my cheek. “My beautiful boy. Those people out there think I took you in to make you my son. But you know how wrong they are, don’t you?” He offers me a cold, dead smile. “This is what I took you for. This is what Imadeyou for. Without this pretty face, you’re nothing.” Stepping away, he straightens his tie. “Now, I need to see to my guests. Get yourself together. I expect you back in there before the last piece of cake is served, looking like an ecstatic father-to-be.”

21

Verity

I’m paralyzedas I stare at the cake on the floor, the crown shattered and mangled in equal parts. The golden ‘A’ from the monogram gleams in the light, and one of the guests—a middle-aged brunette woman—places her hand on my arm, offering a sad, sympathetic smile.

“These things never go how you imagine they’ll be,” she says, nodding at the destroyed cake. “Creation is a messy business. Don’t let it get you down, dear.” She offers my arm a little pat before sweeping toward the cake.

Someone knocks into me, sending me stumbling off-balance, and I hear a small, “Excuse me,” as a group of people closes in on the cake with her. I watch, confused and extremely grossed out, as they crouch down, each taking a messy handful of cake and bringing it to their mouths.

“My goodness,” the brunette woman moans. “This is divine!”

“Uh…” I wring my hands, pulling a face. “I’m sure there’s some plates around here if you’ll just—”

But four more people crowd in behind them, expressions eager and curious, as if they’re trying to find a place to squeeze in.

“What the hell…” I turn to phrase the question to Pace, but suddenly, he’s not there. “Pace?” I call, turning, straining up on my toes to scan the room. He’s tall—taller than Lex even—and I should be able to catch a glimpse of him, but I don’t. All I see are the guests, each of them dressed in their finest formalwear.

And they keep getting closer.

My pulse ratchets up as I try to see over the crowd, calling out once more, “Pace? Lex?Wicker?”

All I get is shoved aside by Coach Reed. “Save some for me!” he says, licking his lips as he lunges for the cake. Turning to gape at them, I’m taken aback by the grotesqueness of it, smears of white and blue down everyone’s chin. They’re like zombies, kneeling on the floor as they shovel the wreckage into their greedy mouths.

I back away from them slowly, but then Rory Livingston’s father pauses, his gaze rising to me.

“There’s not enough,” he says, squeezing frosting through his clenched fist.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stammer, looking frantically for a familiar face. Stella, Danner, anyone. “Maybe there’s more in the back.”

“No,” he says, reaching out to clutch my ankle. “Give us more.”

I kick frantically, releasing a panicked wail. “Let me go!”

But then the brunette woman joins him, latching onto my calf. “Give us the creation!” she demands, pulling me down.

I land hard, the breath knocked from my lungs as their hands grab and seek, dragging me to the center. “Wait!” I cry, thrashing against the slippery, frosting-covered floor. “Stop, please!”

But there are too many, their hands all over me, ripping my dress away. Their feral, hungry faces twist into excited grins as they crouch over me, immune to my pleas. I can do nothing but scream as they open their jaws, jagged teeth gleaming, and bite down into my thigh.

Sharp, excruciating pain seizes my lower body, and I thrash, finally making contact with something solid.

There’s a series of thumps, and then a bright explosion. More fireworks?

Only, as soon as I have the thought, it’s melting away into the realization that I’m waking up. Which doesn’t necessarily help. “Ahhh!” I scream, the cramp like a vise grip, seizing my muscle. I grab frantically for my leg, but I’m twisted in both the sheets and Wicker’s arms. “Make it stop! Make it stop!”