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Hatred.

“I understand,” I say, hiding my doubt. It’s been less than forty-eight hours since the Valentine’s party—since I revealed the pregnancy—and I haven’t been able to worry about much beyond this moment. My coronation.

“Danner,” Ashby says, holding my stare. “I’ll anoint our Princess as her Princes recite her covenants.”

My eyes scan the room furtively, preparing myself for whatever new hell they’re going to put me through. That’s the difference between the girl I used to be and the woman I am now. It fascinates me as Danner steps from the shadows, passing a vial to Ashby. It’s familiar, similar to the one that was filled with the blood taken from me on the throne. Similar, but not the same. This one has a red ruby on the stopper.

“You shall be anointed with the blood of the greatest princess of them all.Myprincess. The mother of my first heir, Michael.” He unstops the vial, tipping it into his open hand. “May her blood bless your womb as you carry on my greatest gift: my name.”

I see now how womanhood is gained in Forsyth. It’s not about age or biology or losing one’s virginity.

It’s about pain.

And not just pain, I ponder as Ashby coats his palm in the ancient, red-tinged oil, but the constant endurance of it. It’s about a man pushing his slick palm to my belly and knowing to anticipate a sting.

“My sons,” he says, “declare the covenants.”

“The Princess shall conduct herself with the grace of a mother,” comes Lex’s voice, flat and toneless.

Pace’s mechanical words come next. “The Princess shall not profane her body to the influence of other men.”

There’s a tense pause, and then Wicker’s cutting hiss. “The Princess shall thank her Princes for their successful seed.”

Lex adds, “The Princess shall be protected at all times.”

On and on it goes, their resentful voices ringing out behind me. Ashby’s palm remains pressed to my belly as we listen, but there’s no warmth in his touch. My eyes scan the room—Pace says something about the Princess’ required examinations—and the muscles in my shoulders tighten.

I already know these covenants. Stella and I read them back-to-front before I even decided to reveal the pregnancy. And we didn’t just read—we weeded through them to find the sinister subtext underneath.

A Princess’ time in the palace is split into two markable phases: attempting to make a baby and actually carrying one. Plenty of Princesses have walked these palace halls, but she doesn’t reign until she’s created life.

Despite searching for hours, we couldn’t find anything about a third phase of a Princess after she gives birth.

“The Princess shall agree to these covenants wholly, explicitly, and without reservation.” Wicker is the one who finishes, and when Ashby raises an expectant brow, I do just as they ask.

Wholly, explicitly, and without reservation. “I swear to abide by the covenants.”

If he’s surprised by the easy agreement, Ashby doesn’t show it. He merely pulls his hand back, revealing a sickening sight. The belly of my dress is stained with a red handprint. “She reigns,” he says, turning to smirk at the crowd.

“She reigns,” they all echo, in varying degrees of boredom and excitement.

Leaning down, he pitches his voice lower, something only meant for me to hear. “This next part is one of my favorites.”

My muscles coil tight.

“I’ve given a lot of Princesses away on their coronation nights, but this one is special,” he says louder for the others to hear. “This is more than just symbolic. Tonight, I’m giving my daughter to my sons.” Behind him, a PNZ member makes a low, amused snort, and Ashby tenses. Twisting his head, he searches for the source, snapping, “You will not pervert this glorious event.”

It’s a struggle to restrain my own scoff.

Every part of being a Princess is rooted in perversion.

Composing himself, Ashby finally steps aside, gesturing to the space in front of me. “Come.”

Behind me, I hear their resistant, shuffling feet, and then they’re standing before me, the three of them—Wicker to my right, Lex to my left, and Pace in the middle. My Princes are perfectly poised, hands clasped behind their backs, gazes locked to some vague point over my shoulders. Some of Pace’s small, loose twists fall in his eyes, but he doesn’t flick them away. The muscle at the base of Wicker’s jaw is knotted tight, his blue eyes somehow both empty and full of fire. And Lex might as well be a mannequin, stiff and motionless, his pale jaw dotted with an uncharacteristic shadow of stubble. Bitter hate boils under the surface.

Good.

“Kneel for her,” Ashby suddenly commands.