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“That’s a fair deal, Ashby.” Sy nods. “One month here, one month there.”

Ashby looks at him, openly seething. “It’s anything but fair. This ismyheir. I won’t have it at the mercy of your West End mongrels.”

Killian straightens, too, obviously sensing some hope. “You can take precautions. Send a Prince with her.”

“No,” Sy says, the tone brooking no argument. “You can send someone with her, but it can’t be a Royal.”

“Danner,” I suggest, perking up at the prospect. An entire month back home without Ashby or any of the Princes breathing down my neck. Suddenly, I’m curling my hands into fists to hide their shaking.

“I need Danner here.” There’s a vein in Ashby’s forehead that’s protruding oddly, and I realize why.

He’s going toagree.

What the fuck does ‘dungeon twins’ mean?

“We’ll send her handmaid,” he says, picking up his pen. The muscles in his face are taut as if he’s gnashing his teeth.

My mother chimes in, “We want someone with her when she’s here, too. One of my boys.”

“Ballsack,” Sy decides, nodding. “He’s a good kid, strong fighter. And you’ve had him in your dungeon before. He’ll behave himself.”

Ashby’s fingers flex around the pen. “Fine,” he grits out. “One month, then she returns here,” his gaze flicks to Sy, “and the Dukes give us an arms shipment of our choice.”

“We can accommodate that,” he says, eyeing my mother for approval. “She can return here for medical care. We all trust you have the baby's best interest at heart.”

Ashby’s glower rises to Sy. “I’ve waited twenty years for this. I assure you, I’ll spare no expense.”

Around me, the negotiations continue—stipulations like how I’ll be required to fulfill my duties on campus and all fraternity-related events. I can barely believe it. This morning, I signed my life away—for the second time—and now my mother’s gained me a morsel of it back.

When the next nine months are finally hashed out, Killian runs a palm through his hair and clears his throat. “So everyone is in agreement?”

Everyone, that is, except me.

But I’ve known, for a long time now, no one cares about what I want.

I’m just a pawn in a larger game.

A vessel to carry an heir.

2

Lex

Tick…tick...tick…

It’s the only sound out here, emerging from an ornate clock at the end of the hall. Seems appropriate considering that, right now, the palace hall may as well be a minefield. Nick Bruin made the smart decision to leave the minute the Lords arrived, announcing he would head back to West End to keep an eye on the Duchess. Pace grunted and offered to escort him out.

I haven’t heard gunshots yet.

Probably as close to optimistic as this can get.

I don’t expect Pace to return. Not with Dimitri Rathbone standing in front of the conference room door, arms crossed over his chest like some kind of emo prison guard. He idly toys with the piercing on his lip, clearly preferring to be anywhere else. I watch him with my face pinched in disgust, holding back a comment about the high risk of infection that comes with piercings near the mouth.

I’m not sure if he’s here to keep us out of the meeting or to make sure we don’t kill each other, but I have a strong suspicion it was determined we need a babysitter.

The quiet isn’t new. The palace has been quiet since Valentine’s Day. Even Wicker. Although, considering our covenants changed the moment Verity revealed the positive pregnancy test, he’s probably been jacking his dick raw. Our bodies are no longer a temple, and our seed isn’t valuable anymore. It’s still locked down—can’t risk having a second pregnancy out there—but the chains around our dicks have been loosened, as the ropes around our necks have tightened.

Pace has been the most silent. Even for me, he’s hard to read. It’s not anger—not exactly. It’s almost like he’s just waiting for the next punishment or conflict. It's like he’s busy preparing something in his head, and he doesn’t have space for anything else. Last night, I caught him fixated on the video feed of her bedroom, idly skating his lower knuckles over his tense lips, over and over.