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“Over the years, I’ve learned it’s best not to show favoritism with my sons. It breeds jealousy and contempt—each of them vying for my attention and approval. It makes them sloppy and self-absorbed. Ruling a territory in Forsyth requires constant vigilance toward those around you. Are they enemies or allies? Do you have leverage or a weakness?” Ashby taps his temple. “My sons must be able to ascertain all of these in the blink of an eye. They must be sharp. They are my eyes, ears, and fists. They’ve been trained to be that for you, too.”

I think back to Lex being lashed. Pace locked down in the dungeon. Wicker being sold. He’s got them held tight, conditioned to his every whim, controlled to do his bidding. But I don’t see the picture Ashby is painting. They aren’t jealous and vying for his attention. His attention is the last thing any of them want. I’ve seen that myself. He hasn’t bred sycophants, but instead a codependency.

Ashby walks down the path, hands clasped behind his back, inspecting the beds. There’s an area in the back that I haven’t gotten to. It’s overgrown with wild, thorny vines sprawled across the top. He stops in front of it and rocks back on his heels.

“Do you know why, in each fraternity, the Royals are given a female of their own?”

I wrinkle my nose at the term.Females, as if we’re a different species. A million reasons flood my mind, but none are good.

He explains, “The other houses are given a woman to fight for, to keep them in line, so their King has a string to pull. But East End isn’t a house of animals. We’re creators. We create beautiful things, like this palace. Or this garden.” He nudges one of the tangled vines with the toe of his shoe. “We also create destruction. We create pain. We create power.” He turns and walks back to me. To my horror, his hands reach out, palms pressing into my stomach. “We create life. My boys were raised to protect and nourish that life. In turn, you must protect and nourish them.Equally.” His touch makes my skin crawl, like my body is emitting a warning. He holds my eyes, his voice growing disgustingly intimate. “I see so much of myself in you, in the way your mind works. I know you think that you’re punishing them with these little games, but I won’t have you toying with their delicate little psyches. I spent too long building them up for you to use your wiles to tear them down. I’m watching, Verity. Do your duty. Don’t make me interfere.”

My throat clicks with a gulp. “Yes, King Ashby.”

“Oh, Verity.” He grins, touching my cheek fondly. “Daughter. It’s more appropriate for you to call me Father, don’t you think?” I know instantly this isn’t a suggestion.

“Yes,” I swallow back bile, “Father.”

His eyes spark with satisfaction. “Good. Now, keep up the work on the garden. It’s lovely to see. Although,” he tilts his head toward the back, “watch the bed on the northwest corner. It’s overrun with stinging nettles. It’s best you leave it alone and focus on the rest of the garden. Now isn’t the time for you to test your immune system in any way.” Winking, he strides away, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

I don’t let myself exhale until he’s out of sight.

9

Lex

She’s wearinga low-cut sweater this evening. It’s why I don’t look at her directly, my gaze drawn to the crevice of her cleavage like a magnet. I watch from my periphery as Verity cuts through her chicken, her knife and fork scraping against the china. Good potassium, lean protein, and there are pumpkin seeds in the pesto, too. Her labs from Friday showed low magnesium. It’s been stressing me out.

Which is good.

Stress, I can handle.

The way every cell of my being decides to go into stimulus overdrive the second I lay eyes on her? Not so much.

I lean to the side. “You haven’t touched your sweet potatoes,” I whisper. Father still hears, his head tipping up from his soup to watch our exchange.

Verity’s eyes tighten. “I don’t like sweet potatoes.”

Reaching out, I nudge the plate of sweet potatoes closer to her. “The fetusdoes.”

“Princesses have been eating Jay Cuthbert’s meal plan since the seventies,” Father says, pointing to her plate with his fork. “It’s everything the baby needs.”

Pace and I share a look.

Jay Cuthbert was a Prince back in the Stone Ages, and if Father actually knew anything about that guy’s carefully constructed Royal nutritional plan, he’d know I threw that archaic bullshit out the night of negotiations. It’s the twenty-first century. There have been a million studies done since Jay Cuthbert resided here. Luckily, Father had never dined with a Princess before his daughter became one. He won’t notice anything amiss.

Across the table, Wicker is picking at his salad, casting Pace’s plate of chicken a morose glance. “Sweet potatoes are gross,” he grumbles. “And so is this salad. What is this? I’m not the one who’s pregnant. Why am I eating rabbit food?”

Stiffly, I reply, “I’m not your nutritionist. If you don’t like it, go get something else.”

“At least you get cheese,” Verity mutters under her breath. But I see the way she eyes the feta sprinkled over Wicker’s salad. Like I’m letting her get listeria on my watch.

I avoid looking Wicker in the eye, because if I do, I’m going to fly over this table and strangle him. Neither he nor Pace understand how much harder I have it with this stupid pact. The first time my dick has worked in months, and now I’m not allowed to use it. They’re not the ones spreading her thighs in the exam room, sliding their fingers into her soft, wet heat. They’re not the ones palming her tits to measure her. They’re not the ones who have to sit on that stool and shove down the need that’s somehow become more potent than the urge for a hit of Scratch.

Apparently, Father isn’t too happy with him either, his gaze burning into Wicker. “You’ve gained too much weight this season.”

“I’m training,” Wicker says through gritted teeth. “It’s muscle mass. Practice makes perfect, doesn’t it?”

Sighing, Pace curls over his plate, muttering, “He needs protein and carbs, or he’s going to collapse on the ice. Coach has us practicing twice a day right now.”