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She’s never had to kneel in front of a fireplace, or rot away in a cell. She didn’t spend every summer being berated and bullied, a lash to her hand when she missed a note on the cello, or raged at for losing a game. She’s never had to hear the phrase ‘practice makes perfect’ while holding in her exhaustion.

We earned the name Ashby with sweat and blood, torment and fury.

All she had to do wasexist.

I reach out to rip the tattered duffel bag from her grip. “Get in the car.”

She stumbles at the force as she tightens her grip, those high heels grinding awkwardly on the pavement. Bruin jolts forward, either to catch her or to strike out at me.

He never gets the chance.

Verity herself slaps my hand away, her eyes sparking hot. “I’ve got it myself.” Then she squares her shoulders, lifts her chin, and marches right across the boundary line.

Her handmaid follows more reservedly, flashing me a wary glance as she passes. Ballboy is last, giving his King a reluctant nod before stepping over the line.

“Any attack on him or the Princess,” Perilini says, voice hard, “is an attack on West End.”

Nick Bruin touches the pistol tucked beside his hip. “If you forget that, we’ll find a way to remind you.”

I slide my sunglasses on. “If you taught him his manners, then there’s nothing to worry about. And if you didn't…”

Practice makes perfect.

I let the implication linger, enjoying that split-second flash of doubt in Maddox’s eyes. Yes, DKS boys aren’t known for their good behavior. Having one in the palace will be like a bull in a china shop.

“If nothing else, you’re guaranteed to get all of him back.” Lex gives them a chilly grin, popping a square of gum into his mouth. “More or less.”

* * *

We eat dinner together.

“As a family,” Father had said.

It’s a fucking joke.

He’s at the head of the table, which has been decorated with roses and candles, the crystal chandelier overhead sparkling just as much as our glasses.

Across from me, Pace fidgets with the collar of his shirt. All of us were ordered to dress for the occasion, but Pace was the only one who actually needed to change. Verity sits at the other end of the table, gazing emptily at her salad course.

“How has your stomach been faring?” Father asks, cutting into his chicken.

Verity’s eyes rise to stare at him over the absurd centerpiece. “It hasn’t.”

Humming, he takes a bite. “Pity. Miranda never had morning sickness. She stepped out of bed every day feeling full of life. So much energy, you’d think she was carrying a battery.” His soft bout of laughter is met with silence. Father doesn’t care. He sips from his wine glass, adding, “But your mother was of an inferior stock. It’s a shame what some parents pass down.”

Verity goes stock-still while Pace and I share a look. Miranda was Father’s Princess, the mother of his first child, Michael. We’re used to having her used as a low-key dig at us, but Verity is gripping her fork so tightly that her knuckles whiten.

She responds, “You have no idea.”

“But those family dinners you attend in West End do seem so…quaint.” He says the last word like it’s sour. “Since this is your home now, I thought we should offer you a similar occasion.”

Verity glances at me, the corner of her mouth turning up into a tense grimace. “Thanks.”

Fucking gag me.

Ashby’s don’tdofamily dinners. The closest we come are steaks at the Gentlemen’s Chamber as naked women wag their asses in the background. Even those are more business dinners than anything. This whole charade is another thorn in my foot because it’s yet another reminder that he’s changing things for her sake.

“I’ve let Frank go,” Father suddenly announces. “The safety of the palace is a much higher priority than my own personal security. In his stead, I’ve promoted Thaddius to head of grounds security, so all matters concerning protection of our perimeter should go through him and his team.” He glances at Pace. “Is that clear?”