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Before I can snap my shocked gaze to his, Wicker loses his straight posture, exploding, “Fuck that!”

Ashby’s nostrils flare wide. “Kneel!”

Wicker glares at his father, and for a moment, it’s as if they’re blood, too. The swirling fury in their blue eyes, blonde hair gleaming in the candlelight, expressions obstinate and full of rage. But some part of me knows they couldn’t ever be truly related. Ashby is too bright—too icy and stiff and obvious. Wicker glares back at him, not with ice but with a knife’s gleaming edge. There’s a wicked violence in his nature that’s too Baron’esque to be anything else, and when Ashby glances at Lex, I see that darkness transform into bitter defeat.

The part where Wicker grits his teeth and slowly drops to his knees?

That’s the part Ashby has instilled in him. Defeated compliance.

And I savor it.

The sight of Wicker below me, the sound of Lex and Pace following suit, the way they all look lined up in front of me in submission…

It’s as close to feeling intoxicated as I can get.

“Welcome your creation,” Ashby growls.

Pace moves first, pitching forward to press his mouth to the red handprint on my stomach. He lingers for only the barest moment, and from my vantage, I can see the flutter of his dark eyelashes before he pulls back, lips painted red. Wicker is next, that knot at the back of his jaw pulsing as he springs forward. I flinch as much at the hatred in his eyes as I do the sudden movement, the hard bounce of his lips barely brushing my dress. If he notices, he doesn’t care, immediately snapping back to his position.

He looks almost as sick as I feel.

Lex is last to bend toward me, slowly, but when he does, his amber eyes rise to mine, trapping me in their fiery heat as his lips press to my belly. His stare is the most complicated. There’s menace, yes. Anger. Distrust. The threat of violence. But there’s also a strange sense of connection, as if this hatred and hurt we feel has bound us in some inevitable way.

There’s an unmistakable tension that grows in the room at my lack of reaction, and Danner, who’s been standing off to the side, clears his throat and leans in.

“You must bestow them with your grace now, Princess.”

I cut my eyes to him. “My… grace?”

“A touch, a kiss.” Danner glances at them—the Princes—and then back at me. There’s a plea in his eyes. “A physical sign of affection will seal the union.”

Of course. If this is a wedding, then there must be a kiss.

I follow his gaze to them, idly wondering, “And if I don’t?” I know Ashby hears the question because the same fury sparks in his eyes that was once meant for Wicker.

It’s purely rhetorical.

I’ve never once been under the impression that I had a choice in this.

“Girl,” Ashby hisses, leaning close to my ear to whisper, “you may be pregnant, and you may be my biological child, but I still wield a power you do not want to test.”

The cutting voice in my ear… it’s the voice of the man in the video who gave his son lashings for failing to make enough deposits. A mixture of fear and revulsion shudders down my spine. My Princes are still on their knees, and I step forward, towering over the three of them to bestow my grace.

Grace. The word churns in my mind. An undeserved favor that cannot be earned, only given. At this moment, I understand the meaning behind it. These men—these rapists—they do not have my forgiveness. Nor my respect. But as my Princes, as the potential father of the heir, I can give them my grace.

I step to the right, looming over Wicker’s broad shoulders, fascinated by the loose lock of golden hair curling in front of his eye. I loathe how handsome he is, how everything about his face is perfectly symmetrical, the product of generations of excellent breeding. It’s also a big part of what makes him powerful. The deceit of it.

Running my finger under his sharp chin, I tip his face up to mine, watching as his piercing blue eyes glare daggers at my mouth. I bend at the waist, brushing my lips over his. It’s just what Danner wanted: an intimate caress. His lips are stained with the metallic taste of old blood, but my kiss is so gentle and coaxing that I can feel his breath go shallow against my mouth.

All it takes is a sweep of my tongue.

His jaw yields instantly, lips parting to taste me back. He’s so easy, so fucking bound to his weakness that a sound even escapes him, throaty and full of desperate grit.

But before he can surge up, I bite down—hard—puncturing his bottom lip.

Wicker jerks back, hissing as his eyes bore into mine with some mixture of shock, arousal, and rage. “Bitch!” he spits, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Fresh blood smears across his snarled lips.

Moving a few steps to my left, I stop in front of Pace next. His expression is cold—resentful of being on his knees. In his mind, that’s my place, a position of submissiveness. Perfect for apet.