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“Not happening,” I say, mirroring his words from Monday morning. “I think I’ll just ice it and have Stella do one of her fabulous cover-up jobs.” On the outside, I’m the one smirking now. On the inside, I’m a warring conflict. “And you can hope none of the other men in this house find out.”

Whipping off my nightgown, I almost enjoy the way his eyes dip right down to my exposed breasts. He can reject me over and over, but I know who is going to ultimately win this low-burning battle between me and Whitaker Ashby. There is no other option.

It has to be me.

* * *

“Jesus, it’s cold in here.”

“It’s a hockey arena, Ballsack, of course, it’s cold.” I glance over at his beat-up leather jacket. It’s thin and doesn’t provide much warmth. “I told you to bundle up.”

“Gloves are for pussies,” he mutters, huffing into his cupped hands to warm them up. “And don’t even get me started about scarves. Do you really have to come here every day?” Ballsy would never say it, but he’s bored in East End. I see the restlessness in him, how he always falters when it’s time to go back to the palace. Nothing there is familiar or welcoming, a stark contrast to West End.

He might be the only person in this city who comes close to understanding how I’ve felt these past three months.

“Not every day. Just when Lex has to work at the clinic.” I’ve got my tablet open and should be working on a design for class, but I keep getting distracted by the sounds below. “You get used to it.”

Surprisingly, I’ve started to like coming to the arena. Unlike Ballsy, I’m prepared, wearing a coat, hat, and gloves. The cold air helps with my nausea, keeping the sticky hot flashes at bay. And it definitely beats sitting around the palace all afternoon, aware that my every move is tracked on Pace’s surveillance cameras.

The first week back in East End hasn’t been easy. It’s not just the cameras. It’s Danner lurking behind every corner. It’s Lex’s stupid meal plans where every calorie, every ingredient, every nutritional component is measured and counted. It’s waking up to a Prince wrapped around me and dreading his disgusted grunt as he peels himself off—or like this morning, lashes out.

“I eat your cunt, you keep your mouth shut.”

On the ice below, Wicker is gliding effortlessly, almost lazily. Between drills, he spits out his mouth guard, only to then chew distractedly on the plastic strap, his obnoxious smirk amplified by pink flashes of his tongue.

The man clearly has an oral fixation.

My sudden shiver has nothing to do with the cold.

Ballsack chuckles and nods down at the ice. “At least there’s the added benefit of watching the Ashby brothers chase each other in circles and get the snot beat out of them every once in a while.”

I follow his gaze, watching as one of the big defender guys slams into Pace. Some of the other spectators dotting the stands flinch at thecrackof the hit, but I don’t. I’m used to watching guys beat the snot out of each other. I’m used to bloody grins and sweaty, stinky bodies.

What I’m not used to is one of them glancing constantly up at me from the ice, a thread of anxiety in his blue eyes. The ridge of my brow is still tender from the fall, but it’s barely a knot now. Some of that might be attributed to the sweating ice pack that awaited me after my morning shower, sitting on the very same nightstand that necessitated it. No note. No barked instruction. No rose.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think Wicker was worried about me.

Since Idoknow better, I understand that he’s worried about himself.

“See, the thing is,” Ballsack says, eyes tracking the players as they scrimmage, “I’m not discrediting their skills. These guys are tough, and if you put me in a pair of skates, I’d fall on my ass, but there’s so muchbullshitbetween them and their opponent. And I don’t just mean all the pads and their helmets and protective gloves.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and leans forward. “With boxing, every match is personal. Man to man. Fist to fist. Skin to skin. Bloody and fierce. There’s no hiding. No penalty box. There’s just the winner. Whoever lasts the longest.”

I’ve slowly become obsessed with how the Ashby brothers move with one another on the ice, every pass and transition aligned. Even more so than they were when I first started coming back in January. They were still good then, but Pace was obviously rusty, and his frustration showed. Now they move like they’re performing choreography—except only they know the steps.

Over the past two months, I’ve learned that this connection, this unparalleled bond, is the crux of their power. There’s no relief from their oppression. If one lightens up for a single moment, the other snaps into place.

That’s the lesson I learned from the Royal Cleansing.

“But if you go down in the ring, you’re finished,” I point out, carrying on the train of thought. “With this team, someone always has their back. You have to get through four more guys and the goalie. They’re impenetrable.”

The players zip around the ice, and I watch how Pace uses his body to keep the other side from advancing—boxing out, is what I think I heard one of them call it. He snags the puck and powers forward, arm rocketing back, and slings it over to his brother. Wicker moves so fast that I barely see the puck. One minute he’s deking out a defender, and the next, he’s slapping it into the net.

His blue eyes seek mine for the briefest moment, ticking an inch upward to where my bruise is hidden, but he quickly flits away, down the ice, all focus once again.

“They don’t have to last the longest—they have to trust one another, work together, and stay focused.”

I think about this long after we’ve left the arena, sitting in the SUV, trapped by the strong, clean scent of athletes just out of the shower. Wicker’s glances have ceased entirely, but Pace’s dark, piercing eyes are glued to me the whole way. He doesn’t speak. He just watches unabashedly, gaze slithering from my mouth to my bare thighs, then back up again. My body has long since lost its impulse to squirm beneath the heat of his stare, but even worse is that I find myself growing confoundingly less tense when he does it so openly, right in front of me. At least like this, I’m not wondering if he’s watching, always looking over my shoulder, feeling crazy that I sense the weight of it when I can’t actually know.

The longer he looks, the more Wicker’s expression becomes pinched.