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My mother does not share those reservations. “We can call the nurse,” she says, clutching my hand. She touches my chin next, getting a good, long look at the scratch there. Just what I need—another grisly wound.

Her eyes are beyond murderous.

I offer an assurance that I don’t feel. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine!” she snaps, but even though the words are sharp, the look on her face is anything but. Her eyes shine with unshed tears. “I should have never let you go back to that place.”

“Mama, please,” I try, squeezing her hand. “This isn’t your fault.”

Her voice trembles when she whispers, low and fierce, “I should have killed him that day he showed up on my porch.”

I don’t need to ask who, or what day she’s even talking about.

“Well, he did bring a dick to a gunfight.”

I’ve never been in the hospital before. In all my life, I’ve never had any injuries that couldn’t be taken care of at home. There was the one time I got a sprain from practicing round-offs on the gym mat, and Mama sent me in to see Pauly, the gym’s trainer, and asked him to take a look. He wrapped it in a long, beige ACE bandage and gave me a stick of gum before sending me on my way. Until tonight—with the exception of Rufus Ashby’s whip—it’s been the most extensive injury I can recall.

Now I’m in a hospital bed, the IV attached to my arm dripping some clear fluid while monitors flash red and green. Nothing drowns out the sound of angry, loud male voices carrying down the hall.

“Jesus,” Mama says, flicking a glare toward the door. “Leave it to men to turn your crisis into being about them.”

Lavina snorts, but I rub my forehead, trying to ease the building pressure. “Will you just go get them?”

Mama’s eyes narrow. “Which ones?”

I give her an exasperated look. “The Princes. They’re not going to stop until they lay eyes on me,” I rest my hands on my belly, “and him, directly.”

“Good,” is her answer, the metal bangles on her wrist clattering as she flicks a hand. “Let them carry on. They should get to feel a fraction of the panic I felt when I got that goddamn call. None of this would have happened if they’d—”

“Mama.” My voice is firm, brooking no argument, and I almost regret it when her face falls.

“You don’t belong to them,” she says.

Quietly, Lavinia agrees, “They broke the agreement, Ver. You’d be well within your rights to tell them to fuck off.”

I look at Lavinia, and then my mother, allowing them to see the determination in my eyes. “I know,” I say. And then, “Let them in.”

“Fine,” Mama says, snatching up her purse, “but if they start up with more of that nonsense, I’m kicking their spoiled little asses out of here.”

Lavinia doesn’t follow her, instead moving closer to the bed. It’s the first time we’ve been alone all night—in weeks, really.

Once we’re alone, she asks, “Do you want to tell me what really happened?”

Taking a deep breath, I wonder where to even start. The roller coaster of the past few months? The way Lex seeks me out, looking to fill a gaping hole with my body and soul? How Pace soothes me in ways I never knew possible? How Whitaker Ashby is a man so lost, so abused, that it took a lifeline to drag him back?

Or do I tell her about the dungeon? The reason I took the punishment? How terrible living under Ashby’s rule is? Do I dare tell her the only thing that kept me alive was the hope of getting back to the men upstairs?

Or maybe I should tell her about Stella, and how her going missing seemed to trigger something in all of us.

Fear.

“Things have become… tense,” I begin, “with Ashby. He’s gotten more controlling. Demanding. Especially with the baby.” Swallowing, I still remember the unhinged look on his face as Lex held that knife to his throat. “I understand why they wanted to go, and I believe them when they say it’s been planned for a long time, but…” I blink, feeling fresh, hot tears form. “When Stella went missing, I knew I had to stay and find her. That’s when I called you.”

“Verity,” her tone is cautious, “this person who was chasing you in the woods? Are you sure it wasn’t… you know. One of them?”

I reach out to grab her wrist. “No! I promise. I saw him, Lav.” The masked man’s image is seared into my mind. The way he touched himself and the way he spoke, his cadence clear and precise. The threats he made were depraved but intentional, like he was conflicted between desire and duty.

He sounded Royal.