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Lex snorts, falling back onto the couch. “Well, that didn’t last long.”

“I’m not stone, prick. The pact is to not fuck her,” I remind him. “Jerking off will be crucial to keeping my dick locked down. Practice,” I remind them, “makes perfect.”

Pace sends our brother an unimpressed look. “Yeah, this is doomed. But yeah, sure, fuck it. I’ve got the perfect spank bank material.”

Five minutes later, he’s copying a video that’s clearly been taken through the window of that old newspaper building. Although it’s now calledRoyal Ink, according to the articles of incorporation that were filed last month. Seems like the Dukes are turning Forsyth’s ancientRoyal Gazetteinto some shitty tattoo parlor.

And they’ve had our Princess showering in the loft above it.

“Here,” he says, trading me the phone for the bottle of rum. “But take your dick into the other room. I don’t want Effie watching you jack off. You’ve corrupted her enough.”

As if to seal his point, the bird flaps her wings, trilling out,“Suck my balls.”

“If only you could, pretty bird,” I say, stroking her beak before leaving the room. My cock got hard the second I saw the first image of Verity stepping out of that decrepit West End shower.Fuck, it’s been a while since I’ve seen all that naked, wet, smooth skin. I flop back on the bed and hold the phone in one hand while gripping my cock with the other. “Come on, Princess. Bend over and show me your sexy little ass.”

This video was obviously taken before she realized she was being watched because she walks around the bathroom with a shamelessness she’s never displayed here in the palace. There’s not a trace of tension in her shoulders as she towel dries her hair, the red locks two shades darker and hanging limply down her back. Hanging the towel, she stands back in front of the mirror. The picture is slightly distorted, as if the lens is zooming to the edge of its capabilities. Doesn’t matter. I can still see plain as day when she palms her tits, as if checking to see if they’ve grown. Then she drops her hand, skimming it over her belly. My cock thickens in my hand, and I give it a long, practiced stroke.

Since being liberated from the original covenants, I’ve used every medium to get off. Live shots from Father’s Gentlemen’s Chamber, hard-core porn sites, and even Pace’s old-school magazines. But as much as I wish it didn’t, nothing gets me hard like seeing the Princess unknowingly being recorded. She thinks she got one over on us by moving out of the house. Fuck that.

I didn’t ask Pace how he got cameras into West End, but it does rankle to know she’s not even covering her goddamn windows. She might not be ours in any true sense, but she’s still meant for us and us alone.

I watch as she sighs, grabs a bottle of lotion, and sits on the edge of the bath, propping her foot up on the edge. She squirts out a white glob. Her hands massage the lotion down her calf, giving me a direct shot of her pussy. My cock leaks, and I spread it over the tip with my thumb, feeling my balls draw up tight.

“That’s it, bitch.” Her hands move higher, rubbing up her thighs. “Miss us? Wish that was some of your Prince’s cum you’re rubbing all over?”

I allow my mind to wander, remembering how good it felt to be balls-deep in that cunt. The sex was never anything to write home about. It wasn’t athletic. It wasn’t passionate. It wasn’t even skilled.

So why does the memory of squirting a fat load into her make my balls draw up so tight?

Good pussy is good pussy.

And Verity Sinclaire might just have the best pussy in Forsyth. Unbidden, I wonder if it’ll change like the rest of her. Experimentally, I imagine fucking her while she’s round and full. Looking down and seeing her swollen belly, knowing I’ve put something inside of her. Her tits plumper than ever, maybe even weeping, engorged, and desperate for relief.

Dropping the phone, I grab my balls and squeeze, stroking my cock with wild abandon. Groaning, I pop off like a rocket, cum shooting all over my belly.

Jesus.

So I guessthat’sa thing I’m into now.

It doesn’t take me long to clean up and strip down. I falter a moment as I pull up a clean pair of boxers. I haven’t slept in anything more than this since high school. Gritting my teeth, I dig deep into my drawer for a pair of old running sweats, angrily jabbing my feet through the legs.

After, I march down the hall toward her bedroom, only to find Danner waiting just outside the enormous door.

He’s balancing a glass and a mug on a tray. “Warm milk for the Princess,” he says, nodding, “and a cup of sleepy-time tea for you.” He reaches inside his jacket and retrieves a gun. “For the Princess’ protection.”

“Don’t worry, Danner,” I sigh, taking the tray. “I’m already packing.”

The Princess’ bed is equipped with hidden drawers and cabinets. Guns, knives, tasers… you name it, Verity’s been sleeping on top of it. She doesn’t know, of course, because she’d use them to castrate one of us in the middle of the night. But no one is getting to our Princess without a fight.

Securing the tray, I step inside without bothering to knock. She’s sitting at her desk now, laptop open, a thick textbook fanned open next to it. She barely spares me a glance, but when she does, I see her eyes dart down to my bare chest, then back to my face.

Her eyes narrow. “What’s wrong with your face?”

I snort. “You and I both know there’s nothing wrong with my face, Princess. God broke the mold when he made this one.”

“No.” She closes the laptop and stands, revealing a silk robe and little fuzzy slippers. “You’re all…” she waves her hand around her face, “flushed.”

“You mean the natural, masculine glow of my seething hatred for you?” I drop the tray on the bedside table, liquid sloshing, and flop out on the bed. Placing one of the massive pillows down the middle, I rest my arm on top and pluck up my mug of tea.