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Stomach turning, I adjust my grip on the knife. “I know.”

Despite having a knife to his throat, Father reaches up to straighten my collar, looking nonplussed. “Truth be told, I hadn’t realized you’d made her one of you so quickly. But look at her, already taking your punishments for you. All this little outburst of yours has accomplished is confirming my suspicions.” He gives me a blood-stained grin. “She’s the new precious thing, isn’t she?”

Behind me, I hear the unmistakable sound of Thad’s gun being cocked. I fix my eyes on Father’s throat, the blade so close to cutting, and for a moment, there’s a distinct possibility I’d take a bullet if it meant slicing through the skin.

“Let him go.”

Only it’s not Thad’s voice, and a quick glance reveals that it’s not Thad’s gun, either.

Wicker is standing in the doorway, his pistol raised as he stares Thad down. His hair is damp, and he’s wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, but he looks menacing as hell. Pace’s arms are still locked behind him, his face twisted in rage as he stares at Verity. Thad’s eyes snap to Father’s, and when his chin dips in a nod, Thad almost looks relieved.

Pace springs from his arms instantly, lunging for Verity. It’s a good thing, too. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I have a role to play in this. She’s injured, bleeding, the curve of her shoulders tense and trembling as Pace sweeps her carefully into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he’s saying, stroking over her hair as he tucks her face into his neck.

“Thaddius,” Father says, “leave us.”

“Yeah, Thaddius,” I parrot mockingly. “Leave us.”

He raises his hands defensively, eyes trained on Wick as he backs out of the room.

Wicker slams the door behind him, face hardening. “Someone want to fill me in here?”

“Father was just about to find out what it’s like,” I say, pushing the blade harder, “to be under my knife.”

But Father just snorts. “Is that what you think this is, son?”

“I’m not your fucking son.” Saying the words is like plucking a two-decade-old splinter from a finger. Once they’re out there, my skin feels looser, as if I’ve just made some unimaginable new space in my body.

“Which is exactly why you aren’t going to kill me.”

“Do it,” comes Wicker’s quiet, tense voice. I’d try to find Pace’s opinion on the matter, except he’s too busy pushing these little, agonized whispers into Verity’s temple, his hands splayed over her stomach between them.

“Do it,” Father says, his eyes holding mine, “and you’ll have East End to answer to. All those men you’ve spent your entire Princeship humiliating and disparaging?” He tsks. “I may have adopted you, but none of you carry the bloodline. It’ll have to come to a vote, and they don’t like you very much. Not nearly enough to accept you, and they certainly won’t accept a Princess who’s made their lives miserable. They’d have to find anewKing—one who won’t suffer the existence of a competing heir.” All the snideness fades from his eyes, replaced with the same evil he’d hoped to find in me. “Ask me what they’d do about the child.”

Nostrils flaring, I push until the skin breaks, blood beading to the surface. “Then we’ll kill them.”

He doesn’t flinch. “That might work—for a while. Until the Barons come in to clean up. You see, they owe me a debt.” Father’s eyes flick to Wicker. “They’d never let him wield Royal power. Even adjacently.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” I bark, heart thudding, “about the Barons!”

But Father just gives me a patient smile. “Of course, you do,” he says, gently pushing my arm away. “You’re not a fighter, Lagan. You’re a strategist. You were made to see strengths and weaknesses, and right now, you’re seeing what we both know to be true.” In his eyes, I see the same man who took me down to the dungeon for the first time, a mark strapped into that same old chair. “If you walk away, you’ll have started a war with me. But if you don’t, you’ll be starting a war with Forsyth.” He speaks more like he’s giving a lesson than bargaining for his life. “Think, Lagan. What have I taught you? Which foe are you more likely to overpower?”

“It doesn’t—”

“Think!” he snaps, and in his eyes, I see the oddest spark of panic. “What’s the priority? It’s not me, and it’s certainly not you.”

I swallow, flicking my gaze to Verity. “The baby.”

“Yes,” he says, brow smoothing in relief. “Precisely. How do you protect him?” When I don’t answer, he grabs my face, pressing, “How do you ensure his safety, Lagan?!”

When it hits me, the knife falls to the floor with a clatter, my shoes stuttering against the floor as I shuffle back.

Father inhales, yanking a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabs the blood from his face as he assesses us. “Now that this nonsense is settled, we can proceed with my daughter’s punishment.”

“Hit her again,” Wicker growls, “and it’s not just going to be us that you have a problem with. If the West End finds out about those marks…” He raises a daring eyebrow. “We may not be the only ones you’ve started a war with.”

Lavinia Lucia already blew one kingdom off the map, and something tells me that the Duchess would have no problem doing it again. No matter the collateral damage.