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Pace’s empty eyes when he closes himself into his room. The flash of dread on Wicker’s face when he has a particularly unseemly job. The way they’ve both become so good at hiding it…

I shake out of it more slowly than I like, setting my jaw. “He knows how badly you don't want your mother to see that video. He owns you now. Why would I ever take that privilege away from you, Verity?”

There’s a click from her throat when she swallows. “How the hell is that a privilege?”

“The privilege of being an Ashby,” I say, the words bitter. “Welcome to the family.”

My focus shifts back to the screen. Rath was right before. I interned for an obstetrics clinic over the summer, another form of Ashby privilege that put me into positions other pre-med students couldn’t have imagined. I’ve been wondering if this is why. How long has Father planned for this? Did he get me that position so I’d be prepared to deliver what’s possibly my own child?

Either way, I’m fluent in the technology—no expense spared—and I nudge the transducer when I see a speck form in the area. “You’ll feel a little pressure,” I say, pushing it against her cervix.

Verity cranes her neck as she peers at the screen. “Is that… it?”

It.

I point to the screen, ignoring how suddenly heavy my limbs feel. “Right there.” I circle around the dark spot. “That’s the embryonic fluid.”

Her mouth parts in awe. “It looks like the eye of a hurricane.”

“Kind of.” I fall silent at the confirmation of it all. Seeing and hearing it are different from reading lab results. There’s a baby in here. A baby me or one of my brothers made. There’s something shocking about working so hard for something and finally experiencing it coming to fruition.

Creation.

Some part of one of us found some part of Verity Sinclaire, and together, they’re in the process of making a human being.

But then, over the hum of the electronics, our eyes meet, and the chest-numbing awe at seeing the creation come to life extinguishes in the space of a heartbeat. Until the fetus comes to term, it comes with the attachment of this woman—this betrayer—whom I can’t trust with the smallest of things.

Much less the Ashby heir.

3

Verity

Stella helpsme dry off after my bath, combing out my hair. “I’ll spend the morning packing your things so they’re ready when it’s time to go.”

I look up, catching her eye in the mirror. “I’m sorry you have to come with me.”

“I’m not,” she says, chipper as always. The gown she helps me into isn’t one I’ve worn before—lush and satin-feeling. “Getting out of this haunted house for a few weeks sounds like a vacation to me. Plus, you’ll need me more than ever now that you’re pregnant.”

I look down, noticing how the gown clings to my flat belly. “It’ll only be my second month. I don’t see how things are going to change much.”

“Maybe not at first,” Stella says, arching an eyebrow, “but things can change quickly. Today, it’s morning sickness. Tomorrow, it could be mood swings! I’ve been listening to a lot of podcasts for expectant mothers, and apparently, even in the first eight weeks, you can look forward to any number of symptoms, from heartburn to crippling fatigue!” She says this with a big, toothy grin, as if that’s something she’s excited about. I’ve been around Stella long enough to understand that the sunny disposition is just how she deals with unseemly topics.

My eyes narrow. “You’ve been listening to podcasts?”

“Oh, yes.” She spritzes me with something that smells like roses.Always roses. “Never let it be said that Stella St. James takes her job anything less than seriously. I’m prepared for anything, just wait and see.” She spins to look at me, wide-eyed. “Are you cold in that? Or hungry? I can have the kitchen staff whip you something up. I’ve cross-referenced the approved foods list with things that are supposed to settle your stomach. Fair warning, there’s a lot of green stuff.”

“I’m not hungry,” I say, even as my stomach growls. The mere thought of putting anything into it makes me feel unsteady.

I have one more night left in this place before I can go home to West End.

I think about it when I slip into bed minutes later, the scent of roses thick in my nostrils. There’s a smell to West End, like old metal and asphalt, that I might actually be anticipating. God, the sounds, too. The palace is always so quiet and tense, but West End is louder, full of life, and as I nod off to the sight of my bedroom’s heavy velvet drapes, I imagine steel, wood, and the deep peals of youthful laughter ringing off the old brick of downtown.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep when something familiar tickles at the back of my awareness. It’s hard at first to understand what it is. Not a scent exactly, but there is a taste, bitter and fleshy. In that unconsciously primal way, two halves of my mind split in different directions, one seeking it while the other shrinks back. There’s pleasure in it but also pain, and when I move my tongue to either chase it or rid myself of it, I realize why.

“That’s right, Rosi,” comes a deep, gruff whisper. The mattress rocks beneath my shoulders. “Suck for me.”

My eyes blink open, forehead knitted together in panicked confusion. I try to pull in a breath, but it emerges as a gasp, the back of my throat confusingly full. I struggle to lift my arms from the quicksand of slumber, hands grasping wildly as my vision sharpens on the figure straddling my chest, pinning me down.