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“Oh, Wicker…” Tilting my head, I look up into his blue eyes, reaching up to touch the bruise hidden on his neck. “There’s no competition.”

When I leave, he’s still standing there, gaping in outrage in my wake.

* * *

There’s never been a biggerand more absurd performance for a Princess than receiving my Monday morning offerings from the frat.

Lately, I’ve begun saving all the roses for compost in the solarium. It’s a sort of catharsis, tearing them all to shreds as I plan where exactly to let them rot. There’s something fitting about it, too—these symbols of my pain contributing to new life.

So when I arrive at the fountain this morning, I’m thinking of the warmth from the sun. Spring is coming, cutting its teeth in the ungodly chill of winter, and there’s a row of zinnias in the garden that could benefit from some nitrate. The shredded, rotting roses will be useful there.

But I don’t receive white roses.

Not today.

The first PNZ member to approach me is Tommy Wright, Heather’s boyfriend.Oops—ex-boyfriend. “To my beautiful Princess,” he says, eyes narrowed into slits. “May she reign.” He all but hurls the rose at me. It’s black and wilted, but the worst part is the smell; acrid and cutting, strikingly close to ammonia.

When I screw my nose up to pluck it from my lap, I gasp, thumb catching on one of its long, severe thorns.

Tommy is gone before I have a chance to react, and while I’m nursing my thumb, Dorian Baxter approaches to throw another one at me. “To my beautiful Princess,” he snarls. “May she reign.”

I get better at schooling my reaction by the third one, remembering Pace’s advice from the spa.

“Chill, Rosi. Don’t let them see they got to you.”

“Thank you.” To a glaring sophomore, I try to channel Stella when I gush, “Don’t you just love black? It goes with everything!”

The bundle of roses eventually gets difficult to hold, not to mention absolutely rancid-smelling. These thorns are so unlike the soft ones on the white roses. Those thorns might still prick, but thesecut. Halfway through the line of pissed-off PNZs, I make a point of shoving them to the fountain’s edge.

Rory Livingston is the only one who goes off-script. “You know why we have Royal Cleansings?” he asks, squinting against the sun. The only reason I hold his gaze is because it’s unlike the others. Where their expressions are stony and vicious, he just looks…

Sad.

“When a Princess breaks a covenant, there are only two options: de-throning or a cleansing.” He looks off into the distance, eyes dark. “You’ve never seen a de-throning, Princess.”

I cradle a stinging finger, squeezing a bead of blood from the tip. “I’ve seen a throning, so I can use my imagination.”

“No, you can’t.” His curt voice draws my eyes up. “I’ve seen two in the last three years. A de-throning makes a throning look like a birthday party.” Shifting uncomfortably, he goes on, “It’s really hard on Royal girls. We saw it with Autumn, then again with Piper. East End has a habit of throwing its Princesses away.” He looks down, and I realize he’s holding a white rose. “The truth is, we haven’t done a cleansing in a really long time, which is good, because it’s barbaric and disgusting. But we did it for you. Not because we hate you.” Meeting my gaze, he places the white rose on my lap. “But because we don’t.”

I clench my jaw against the wave of dueling emotions, but one wins out. “You’re saying you participated in that barbaric and disgusting act formy sake?” Raggedly, I laugh. “This must be why men have testicles. They need somewhere to store all the fucking audacity.”

Shoving his fists into his pockets, he shrugs. “You’re not the only one with contractual obligations, Princess. A cleansing can only be done with full fraternity participation,” he says, nodding. “We both know there are guys who did it for those other reasons. I won’t defend them. But I wanted you to know… not all of us were there just to hurt you.”

When he turns to leave, I catch a glimpse of the remaining PNZs, all but maybe two of them holding the painful black roses, and my stomach sinks. Just as I’m bracing myself to receive them, someone begins pushing through the line, the knot atop his head the only thing I can make out.

Until Lex stands before me, brows crouched low in annoyance, a cup of coffee clutched in his hand. Pace and Wicker file in behind them.

Someone has the balls to clear their throat—a boy from the line of PNZs—and one by the one, the Princes turn a slow, menacing glare on him.

Pace is the one to approach the guy, staring him up and down. “Hughes. Do you have something for the Princess this morning?” he asks in a low, threatening voice.

The guy backs up a step, glancing at me over Pace’s shoulder. “Favors are compulsory,” is his answer, but even though the words are confident, his gaze drops. “Sir.”

Lex marches forward to rip the rose out of his hand, not even wincing at the thorns. “This?” he demands, furious gaze passing down the row. He holds up his hand, which is when I see the blood beading on his palm. Raising his voice, he barks, “There must be some mistake, Hughes. Surely my frat brothers wouldn’t give our Princess something that would cut her.” There’s silence along the row as Lex glares them down. “Because such an act goes directly against the orders we explicitly gave you, not to mention your fraternal covenants.” He reaches back to point at me, holding their gazes. “I’m about to check her hands. If there’s one scratch on her, you’re all getting de-crowned.” He glances at his brothers, lips twitching. “Unless someone tells us who organized this.”

Hughes immediately drops the rose, raising his hands. “It was Tommy.”

Wicker’s cold eyes snap to him near the back. “Well, then Tommy can spend practice on his knees cleaning the locker room with a toothbrush. And the rest of you,” his eyes scan the group, “for violating a direct order, are skating lines until you puke, then Tommy can clean that up too.”