Page 66

“What is this?” Gina asks, voice a touch high. Her thumb is already pressing play. Around us, the room fills with the sound of deep grunts, the unmistakable precursor to a man ejaculating.

“Those are your boyfriends and your future baby daddies.” I glare around the room. “Jerking off and spraying me with their cum. They call it the Royal Cleansing, and I had to sit there and take it, just like I sat here and took your petty bullshit all day.” I finally get a look in the mirror, my stomach clenching. The green clay mask is still on my face, dried and cracking, and my hair is a slicked-back mess, looking like someone poured lacquer over it. “You can see this isn’t the first time I’ve been covered in something sticky and disgusting. So whatever the fuck you did to my hair, I’ll get over it. The same way I get over everything in this godforsaken kingdom.”

I storm out, running into Adeline on the way.

“Verity?” She looks me up and down, eyes growing more horrified with every passing second. “Oh my god. What… who did this? Oh my god.”

“Move, Adeline.” I storm past her and open up the door, determined not to let the tears welling in my eyes fall. They’d think it’s for them—that they have the power to hurt me—but that’s not it at all.

Stupid fucking pregnancy hormones.

“Danner!” I call, craning my neck to search for the black sedan. I march up and down the row of cars, yelling his name, but just as his head appears around a truck, another car comes barrelling into the drive.

It’s white and sleek.

I’d know Wicker’s ridiculous Ferrari anywhere.

It careens to a dusty halt right beside me, my reflection in the tinted window taunting me further. When it opens, however, it’s Pace who pops out, the sharp angles of his face hard as stone when he jumps out, not even cutting the ignition.

“Those fucking bitches,” he snarls, glaring up at the house. “Why is this place so out in the goddamn boonies? I could have gotten here before you woke up.”

Unable to handle him right now, I turn away. “Danner?” I’m not proud of the wobble in my voice, nor the way I flinch when Pace reaches out for me, snagging my wrist.

“Get in the car,” he orders. “I’m taking you home.”

“Home?” I explode, whirling on him. “Where is home, Pace? You’re going to take me to West End where I’m a freak show? Or are you going to take me back to the palace where I’m a prisoner? Which is it? What fucking home?!” I punctuate the last word with a punching shove against his chest.

Naturally, he’s as solid as a fucking tree.

His response to this is to lock his jaw and grab my arms, wrestling me into the breadth of his body. My instincts scream with alarm, but all he does is wrap his arms around me, hissing, “Chill, Rosi. Don’t let them see they got to you.” His chest smells like cigar smoke and cologne, and as I’m panting angry breaths into his jacket, I realize he’s dressed in a suit, the knot of the tie beneath my ear loosened.

“Danner,” I try, but Pace begins walking me around the car.

“Danner will follow us back,” he insists, all but pushing me into the passenger seat. I’d gather more strength to argue, but the well, it seems, has run dry.

By the time Pace slams my door and gets behind the wheel, I feel too wrung out and frayed around the edges to fight him when he buckles my seatbelt.

Wrenching the gear shift, he peels out, tossing a confused Danner a wave as we fly by.

We’re halfway back to the palace by the time he speaks, his deep voice cutting through the silence. “It’s glue.” His dark eyes flick to mine. “I saw the one chick take it out of her bag, but I didn’t have audio, so I was too late to—”

“You were watching?”

He gives me an unimpressed look. Of course he was watching. Eyes everywhere. “While the Princess gets primped, the frat has their own tradition,” he explains, wrist resting casually on the steering wheel. “It’s kind of like a stag party. PNZ was hosting it at Father’s club.”

The strip club.

“Good for you,” I mutter, reaching up to scratch my cheek.

Green clay flakes off onto my robe, and I don’t need a mirror to know how insane I look. The mask, my matted, ruined hair. My eyes must be red from crying. But as Pace pulls into the palace driveway, the gate sliding open, I feel him watching me.

Always watching.

It’s not his gaze that unnerves me. It’s the look in his eye.

It never changes. Not when I’m in a ballgown, or when he has me on my knees, or when I’m walking across campus.

Not when I look like this—broken down.