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“Make mine with extra bacon,” Pace calls out, grabbing the chair seat between his legs and scooting forward.

“Real eggs,” Wicker says with a touch of brattiness. “I can’t do any more egg whites.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Danner says, vanishing through the swinging door.

These two rarely show up for breakfast; the three of them usually hole up in their bedroom every morning. There have been no more morning-after gifts since the deposits stopped, so there’s little reason to see one another until we get in the car for school.

Keeping an eye on them, I pick up the envelope and inspect it.

Pace doesn’t talk to me directly that often. I can always feel him watching, but it’s a rare occasion that he steps forward to interact with me like an actual person. Apparently, right now is one of them. “Where did that come from?” Pace asks, eyes narrowing.

Shrugging, I say, “I don’t know. Danner said it came this morning.” He leans over and snatches it out of my hand. “Hey!” I snap, lunging for it, but he holds it out of my reach. “It has my name on it!”

“You know he’s got to know what’s in there, Red.” Wicker laughs darkly, slathering his muffin with butter. “He’s like a warden going over prison letters. Gotta make sure you’re not plotting a jailbreak, right?”

There’s not a touch of humor in Wicker’s voice. I’m starting to think he sees the palace for exactly what it is—a prison.

“It could be correspondence from one of your cubsluts,” he grumbles, using the point of his knife to slide underneath the flap, opening it with a loud rip. “Or an assassination attempt.”

The knife snags on the corner of the envelope, and a sudden shower of glittery pink and silver sparkles explodes from within, scattering all over the table. A fine layer coats the stick of butter, Pace frozen as he stares in bafflement at the crafty devastation.

I lean over and press my thumb into one, identifying the cutout shape. A stork.

“What the fuck?” Pace growls, looking at the mess.

“I don’t think it’s anthrax,” Wicker adds unhelpfully. He leans over to swipe the card, his blue eyes darting over the words. “Oh. It’s an invitation to celebrate your pregnancy. Gross.” He flings it back at me like a Frisbee, and it lands on my placemat.

“An invitation from who?” I wonder, skimming the details. It’s tomorrow, 4-6 p.m., held at the Gilded Rose Spa, and signed by ‘The Court.’ “What is this, and who are these people?”

“Those peopleare the other girls in East End,” Wicker says, eyes rolling as he speaks in a tone intended for a five-year-old. “You see, effective little Royal cum dumpsters like yourself get a golden ticket to facial peels and pretense. It’s a tradition; a women’s-only celebration of the sentient creampie you’re baking in that oven of yours.”

Wicker, I’ve learned, is on a mission to goad me until I’m miserable.

I don’t let him. “So it’s like a baby shower?” My mother insisted on being involved with the baby shower.

“You think you’re getting out of this with only one event commemorating your fertile eggs?” Wicker asks, snorting. “This is just round one. And speaking of eggs…” He turns to look hungrily at the door when Danner comes in carrying a tray with three plates.

If Danner notices the glitter explosion, and I’m sure he does, he ignores it, setting the plates in front of each of us. I eye theirs with jealousy. They both have a pile of cheesy scrambled eggs, bacon, and a couple of thick, buttery pancakes. In contrast, I have a bowl of fresh fruit, yogurt, and this terrible high-protein, vitamin-infused porridge Lex has ordered me to eat every day. Pace notices and snorts, shaking his head at my misery, then shoves a piece of crispy bacon in his mouth, licking the grease off his fingertips.

My mouth waters, and I’m not sure if it’s the bacon or his tongue that I’m salivating over. Pregnancy hormones have been a rollercoaster of frustration, hot flashes, random crying jags, and, last but definitely not least, unimaginable horniness.

“Anyway,” I say, dragging my eyes away from the food porn and picking up my spoon, “I don’t think I’m going to accept.”

“Why?” Wicker smirks meanly. “Worried Heather remembers you hit her with a frying pan when she was flirting with me?”

“No.” I scowl. “Well, now I am.” Shit, I forgot about that—about the whole night. I had to stake my claim with those vultures, and Wicker had been so turned on by it. He ate me out in the hallway and then carried me off to fuck me in someone’s room. Sure, it was rough and impersonal, but now that I actually need it, he’s on some revenge-based sex ban. With horror, I imagine that I wouldn’t mind it so much if it happened again. “I mean, what do people even do at a spa?”

“Fuck if I know,” Pace says, digging into his meal.

“Probably the basics,” Wicker says, layering his pancakes with eggs and bacon, making a perverse and delicious-looking sandwich. “Pedicures and foot massages. A facial to clean up those pores. Gossip. Oh, and don’t forget the pussy and asshole waxing.”

Pace snaps his head at me. “Leave your bush alone. It’s finally grown back out the way I like it.”

“Jesus,” I mutter, pushing my oatmeal away. My appetite has vanished. “Yeah, there’s no chance I’m going to that.”

“Oh, you’ll go, Princess. It’s tradition, and you know how Father feels about those.” Wicker’s damp shirt clings to his biceps, molding against his muscles. “But here’s a little more advice—”

“Unsolicitedadvice,” I make sure to note.