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Mine sure as fuck is.

“Whatever,” he says, feigning a flippancy I almost buy. But then, with just as much conviction, he adds, “She’d have to beg me to fuck her.”

Lex swings an arm over his shoulders, leading him away. “Good luck with that.”

I don’t follow them, though. I stand there and watch her, the way she accepts box after bundle, stone-faced, not even meeting their gazes. There’s always been something about Verity, since that first time I saw her online. It’s not just that she’s pretty. It’s not even that she’s transformed from pretty to hot.

It’s thissoftness.

Even dressed in her West End armor, she exudes vulnerability. Accepting a box from Matt Kramus, she shrinks into herself even as her shoulders square. It’s the fascinating duality of it. How can someone be so weak, yet so tough? How can the girl who looked my brother in his murderous eyes, playing that video for the frat on Valentine’s Day, be the same watery-eyed girl who took my cock in her throat last night?

Lex would sink into her softness.

Wicker would seek out the toughness.

But I want it all.

I want the way her eyes find mine, and I want the way she flinches at the knowledge I’m watching. I want the way her shoulders curl inward protectively, but I also want the heat of her glare.

I move to the end of the line.

It’s been a long time since I paid Royal favor to a Princess. The whole ritual of it always felt unseemly to me. Transactional, like we’re paying a hooker to perform for our house. If I had my choice, it’d be the Duchess or Baroness—women who adorn their Royal men because they want to, not because of the prestige of the position.

But I think I’m beginning to understand because when I finally make it to the front of the line, approaching my Princess with a sly, vicious smirk, it’s with the knowledge she has no choice.

A Princess mustalwaysaccept her gifts.

I grab her chin. “Open.”

Her eyes flare with anger at the demand, flitting from side to side as if she’s considering rebelling. Her cheeks flex with a restrained grimace, which is how I know she won’t. Too public for such a spectacle, especially since she’s West End right now. She wouldn’t want to jeopardize our fragile peace, would she?

Sighing, she points her gaze to a vague point over my shoulder and parts her lips.

I wrench her face up, gathering saliva in my mouth.

Then, I spit onto her tongue.

She shudders when I clamp her mouth shut, waiting for the bob of her throat as she dutifully swallows me down.

“For my beautiful Princess.” Trailing a fingertip down her neck, I graze the valley of her cleavage, and then lower, resting my hand on her belly. Leaning in, I whisper, “May she reign.”

* * *

East End is knownfor the golden row—the blocks of townhouses the frat lives in—and the Purple Palace. But this is the side of East End I know best. It’s wedged up against the north, past the luxury boutiques and mansions, and embodies Father’s kingdom better than anything else. The buildings are modern, clean, and nondescript, some having no signage at all.

I park Wicker’s flashy sports car in the alley out back, stepping out into the cold rain. Raising my hood, I march up to the door,Bastion Securityetched into the glass, and jab the buzzer. While I wait, I look over my shoulder, scanning the area. That gnawing vigilance is still in the back of my mind, even months after my release from prison, but I don’t mind it.

It’s how I know Father is watching me.

The only true point of surveillance is a camera built into a decorative lamp post across the street. I’ve watched it enough to know the dome isn’t sealed correctly, so whenever it rains, condensation builds up inside it, making the picture little more than a blurred smudge.

Right now, the rain is pelting the dark pavement, but I don’t know how much longer the weather will hold. I’ve been waiting for this downpour for a week. Impatiently, I slam my hand into the buzzer again. And again. And again.

Finally, I see a figure stumbling down the hall, his thin mustache twitching into a frown. He’s wearing his signature loud Hawaiian shirt, this one an obnoxious neon green, and a pair of basketball shorts. There’s half a burrito clutched in his left hand.

Charlie’s a pasty nerd nearing his late thirties, but unless someone saw his atrocious facial hair and male-pattern baldness, they wouldn’t know it. The guy is infamous for being a sleazeball around the frat, always acting like he’s one of the guys.

He pauses when he sees me but quickly recovers, unlatching the door.