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“Heneedsto trim up for Mother’s Day,” Father sharply insists. To Wicker, he explains, “You’re escorting in four events that weekend, and I won’t have you looking like some beast. They like you to be lean and unthreatening.”

The table rattles as Wicker slams down his fork. “Am I your whore or your prestige athlete? You can’t have both.”

“You’re whatever I damn well say you are!” Father roars. Beside me, Verity flinches so hard she drops her own cutlery. Father notices, too, visibly reining in his temper. “There has been far too much insolence from all four of you lately. Out of four children, at least one should do as they’re told.”

I glance up, locking eyes with Pace. Father has been pissed at us for listening to the heartbeat without him. Even knowing it’s his grandchild, I wasn’t expecting this level of possessiveness. It’s almost like she’s having his baby instead of ours. If it were up to him, we’d have no part in it whatsoever.

For a tense moment, I wonder what his precious daughter has done to earn his ire.

Not for long.

“Verity,” he grinds out, glaring down the table at her. “I presume you have an announcement to make this evening.”

Her green eyes rise, but only meet his for a blink before dipping back down to her plate. I’m not sure why she withers at first, her shoulders curling inward with a long sigh. “I choose Lex to sleep with me this week,” she says, stabbing into her sweet potato.

“Oh, thank fuck.” Wicker groans. “If I had to spend one more night listening to you puke up that milk…”

Her incensed gaze snaps to him. “Yes, I imagine not waking up to your face every morning will take care of the nausea.”

Wicker’s eyes burn with a vicious smirk. “And maybe without you hanging all over me every night, I’ll actually get some rest.”

Her jaw drops. “Mehanging all overyou?!”

In the bickering, it’s easy to miss the way Pace shuts down, pushing his plate away to glare at the table silently. Just fucking great. As if dealing with Father’s possessiveness isn’t bad enough, now I have to handle Pace and his sour grapes at not being chosen to baby her every night.

Dealing with their emotions is the last thing on my mind, what with Verity’s tits threatening to crumble my resolve. Not to mention her announcement about sleeping arrangements—clearly set up by Father. I barely contained myself during today’s exam and have forced myself away from her on campus, lest we have another run-in like the one in the stairwell.

My brothers and I made a pact, and those are taken seriously between the three of us. Trust and loyalty are all we have—because we sure as fuck aren’t bound by blood.

Which is why Wicker’s little stunt pisses me off so bad. It’s why I don’t believe him when he grins happily across the table, chewing a mouthful of his salad. Sleeping with Verity isn’t an honor like Father thinks it is. It’s a test.

And there’s nothing I hate more than failing one of those.

* * *

I wasnine when I told my father that I planned to enter medicine when I grew up. Although I can’t remember the exact moment I made the decision, I do recall being in triage with Pace a week earlier when he broke his collarbone. There was no part of it that didn’t capture me wholly, from the x-rays to the sharp scent of disinfectant to the pinch of annoyed pain on my brother’s face when they strapped him into that harness and started cranking it back to set the break. I’d never seen that before—people being put back together instead of taken apart. His doctor was a small but stern Vietnamese woman who I’m pretty sure could still take me to this day. That was a part of it, too.

There’s power in healing.

So when my Father collected us from the boarding school for parents’ weekend, gathering us in his office for our routine skill report, I looked him in the eye, squared my shoulders, and said that I wanted to start down the academic path of becoming a physician. I planned this meticulously, knowing that medicine would be a discipline that would serve him well. Father had no need for a bone-setter, but a doctor could do other things. If I’d understood better the nature ofcreation, I would have probably tried for obstetrics. But I was nine. Vaginas were gross. Bones were cool as hell.

Naturally, he laughed in my face.

“You’re going totake careof people?” he asked mockingly. “You’re going to hold their hands, patch their boo-boos, and dab away their little tears?You?”

“Why not?” I asked.

“If you really want to follow a path in medicine, I suggest you do a little research on genetics. I can only mold what I’ve been given, and you, son, will never be a healer.”

That was the first time I understood that medicine required a certain emotional finesse that isn’t innate to me. The older I got, the more I learned, and the better I saw how valid his cruel laughter probably was. I don’t have it in me to be soothing and steadying.

Chilling.

That’s what my case worker called me, believing her whisper to East End’s King couldn’t be heard through the cracked door of the police station. I only remember small snatches from the night my parents died, but that one might be clearest. I heard how the police found me secondhand; a toddler sitting among the bodies, tiny hands clinging to my mother’s bloody dress. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s part of the reason I wanted to be a healer. Not to prove them wrong, but to be on the other side of that door—someone who fixes instead of breaks.

Like everything else in my life, what I want isn’t part of the equation. The pathway to medical school has a gatekeeper beyond passing Organic Chem, acing my examinations, and having the highest GPA in my class. The biggest obstacle to my future is my father. It’s his money, his connections, his leverage that will get me in the door. Get me matched with the best program. Get me into the right clubs and situations where I gain acceptance and opportunity. Rufus Ashby, as always, holds the keys to my life, and I’ve had no option but to bend to his will.

I will not be a doctor who heals.