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He’ssalivatingfor her.

Unfortunately for him, she’s not in the mood to sleep with her stalker. She made it crystal clear on the car ride home that she knew who was responsible for the surveillance in West End. Verity may be a bitch, but she’s not stupid.

Obviously, she loathes Lex—you can feel the murderous tension brewing every time they’re in the same room. They’re in a power struggle over her body—and not in a sexy, fun way. If I hear another word about the benefit of folate, I’ll shove one of those parenting books down his throat.

It’s not like I don’t feel the urge. I miss burying my cock in tight, warm spaces; pussy, asses, mouths, tits. But the last thing I want is to put my dick anywhere in or near that girl. She’s toxic—the kind of poison that’ll get a guy killed.

“You realize what she is, don’t you?” I look between my brothers, waiting for them to come to the same conclusion I have. “She’s Michael, but with tits.”

In perfect synchronicity, Pace and Lex’s faces scrunch into grimaces.

Pace levels me with a look. “Dude.”

I’m not sure any of us have ever hated someone as comfortably and reliably as we hate Michael fucking Ashby. Our whole childhoods, he was the ideal we could never live up to. Not a day goes by that some part of him isn’t thrown in our face. We were raised in his shadow, under the boot of a man who will never stop grieving the loss of him. Perfect, flawless Michael Ashby.

“She’s his flesh and blood,” I explain, gesturing to the lazy curl of her body on the monitor. Her hair is down, cascading over her shoulders in loose, flame-like waves. “Half of her is Ashby. That means she’ll always be more important than us.” Shaking my head, I conclude, “You don’t just fuck someone like Verity Ashby. She fucks you because she has all the power. You should know that by now.”

“She’s stillourPrincess,” Lex says, but I can see the seed of indignation in his eyes. “A Prince always has dominion over his Princess.”

I release a bitter laugh. “Bro, when are you going to get it? She was never ours. She’s always beenhis.” On the monitor, I watch her rest a temple against the window, palm reaching out to clear the fog on the glass. “Give me your words.”

Pace turns away, angrily muttering, “Fine, we won’t fuck her.”

“Swear it,” I demand, reaching for the knife he keeps affixed to the bottom of his desk. “Swear it on your blood.”

Lex scoffs, watching me roll up my sleeve. “Come on, Wick. Aren’t we a little old for this?”

“Goddamn it, Wicker,” Effie screeches, head thrusting with the angry inflection. Pace sends her a look, like he’s agreeing with the sentiment.

But he still lumbers to his feet.

Thrusting out his forearm, I don’t bother ignoring the slashed scars and inked tallies already marring his skin. She’s the cause of every single one. What’s one more?

It’s what drives me to push the blade to my wrist. “It’s her or us,” I stress, slashing a shallow line into the thin skin. Then I flip the knife and hand it over to Pace.

He’s always cut deeper than me or Lex. Some of those scars on his left wrist aren’t tallies at all. They’re promises—a roadmap of vows made in secret, hushed, dark places. I still remember the first time we did one of these rituals, back when we were barely pimply middle schoolers. That promise—to never let Father’s punishments work—has never been broken.

Even more than a decade later, the sight of our bloody wrists still fills me with an odd sense of calm. Our bodies might have been made by different people, but the three of us bleed the same color.

Lex is the only one to pause, taking the knife with a furrowed brow. “Is this really necessary?” he asks. “It’s disgustingly unhygienic, not to mention—”

“Do it,” I snap.

Lex firms his jaw, cutting a shallow slash in his wrist. “Congratulations, you just bought us all tetanus shots.” He punctuates this by grasping my forearm, our wrists pressed tightly together as we shake on it.

“On my blood,” I say, holding his eye.

Lex’s eyes drop to our wrists, the blood mingling. “On my blood.”

Pace follows suit, his long fingers wrapping around my forearm. “On my blood,” he swears.

Satisfied, I give his arm a shake, swiping up the bottle of rum. One by one, we drink from it, our throats jumping with grimaced gulps.

“Now,” I say, fishing my phone from my pocket. “Pull up something recent.”

Pace’s eyes narrow. “Recent?”

I toss him the phone. “I want to see her tits.” Specifically, I want to see if they’ve changed yet. And her stomach. All of it. I want to know.