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“Princesses are chosen for their charm and poise,” Tommy says. “Which is why it was a fucking mistake to anoint a West End slut to the position. Heather was raised for all of this. She would have handled it with grace.”

“Princesses are chosen for their fresh cunts,” Wick chimes in. “Heather lost her virginity when she was fourteen on a yacht out on the river. I’m the one that popped her cherry. There is no universe where she was qualified for the position.”

“You’re blaming us and the Princess for this, but you’re all to blame,” I look out around the room at their stupid faces. “You couldn’t keep your bitches on a leash, and they got on her bad side.” I shrug. “I think it’s fucking hilarious.”

“Pace,” Lex says, trying to regain some control of the situation. I roll my eyes but shut up. “We can’t take back the fact the video is out there, but we’ll all need to do what we can to mitigate the damage of the video being released. From this day forward, there can be absolutely no continued sharing of the clip. Not by your girls. Not by you. Delete it. Trash it. Pretend it never existed.”

“What if it gets out?” Tommy says, already looking guilty.

“Then you and your girl better pack your bags and get the fuck out of Forsyth before we find out,” Wick says, tone uncharacteristically serious. “This is an exileable offense.”

Down in front, Livingston visibly swallows as he nods his head.

“And the Princess?” someone dares to ask.

“The Princess is Kevlar.” I don’t say it to whoever asked it. I say it to the room. “Same results. You mess with her, and you’re gonna be de-crowned. Am I fucking clear?”

No one seems happy about it, but the arguing stops. After the meeting, the room clears, and the three of us remain.

“You think they’ll follow orders?” Lex asks, the skepticism obvious in his expression.

“Most of them,” Wick says, “but Heather may be a problem. She was convinced Tommy was going to be named Prince and she’d be named Princess. Her attack on Verity was more than an April Fools’ joke. It was a retaliation.”

“I’ll keep an eye out online to make sure nothing is out there,” I say. “And if I find anything, I’ll trace it back.”

De-crowning and failed Princesses happen but they’re still allowed to live in East End; an exile from the territory is rare. This isn’t just the Princess we’re dealing with here. It’s our reputation as leaders. It’s Father finding out that we’re losing control. It’s reminding the men under our leadership exactly who we are.

Part of me almost hopes we get a chance to show them.

13

Verity

“I won’t fuck you,Rosi. Not until you need it enough to ask for it.“

I wake to Pace’s words echoing in my mind, eyes clamping tight against the need, as if I can force myself to go back to sleep and forget the sensation of him inside of me, throbbing. It’s not the first morning, either. This whole week has been an agonizing dance of resignation and restraint.

Resignation because I allow him in.

Restraint because I don’t ask for it.

I blink my eyes open to the faint morning light, as annoyed about waking so early on a Sunday as I am about the burning need in my core. It doesn’t help that Pace is confining me, like always. His arms are as solid and unyielding as manacles. The chest against my back is a cage. The breaths washing over my nape are liquid fire. His embrace is a prison.

So why do I always nestle back into him every morning?

How can having him inside make me feel so steady, yet so frayed?

I let myself blame Wicker and his lies because that’s easy. He gave me all those stupid fantasies with his ridiculous morning cuddles, and now Pace is actualizing it—in his own way.

I’ve gotten used to Pace removing the plug at night before nestling himself deep inside my pussy, his hands cupping my tits, our bodies fused together as I fall off to sleep. Every morning, I wake up to the feel of him thickening, my walls stretching as he grows, and the smallest rock of his hips as we rouse together, bodies before our minds, the sensation all-consuming.

It’s not sex.

Even when he comes, erupting in his sleep with a low, throaty groan, he doesn’tthrust. He fills me without even enjoying it, always waking with a satisfied grunt when he pulls out, sliding the plug into me, and it’s almost like…

It’s like the orgasm isn’t even the point of it.

This morning, I find myself wishing it were.