Page 9

I’m some unfortunate mixture of both of them.

There’s the preparation, of course, rearranging my head for this next part of Father’s game. There are even absurd amounts of masturbation, standing in my shower every morning with my palm around my dick, thinking of red hair and plump tits, stroking my returned hardness until I grunt out a mediocre release.

Mostly, though, there’s this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that I can’t shake.

I think it might be misery.

Across the hall, Wicker flops into an armchair, running a hand through his hair. He shifts uncomfortably, tugging at the bow tie around his neck. Even disheveled, lip swollen from the Princess’ kiss, and with a red dot of blood marring his white collar, it all looks intentional, like he walked off a photoshoot.

Unlike her, we didn’t have the opportunity to change after the Dukes burst in, and the dichotomy of our formal wear, compared to Maddox and Rathbone in street clothes, feels like another line in the sand between all of our houses.

Remington Maddox is pacing, but it’s not the nervous kind. He’s bored out of his mind, moving from painting to painting. “Fucking cherubs,” he mutters under his breath. “Way too much blue for this place.” He slowly walks down the hallway, studying a still life of a basket of roses. He pulls a face.

Since we both attend the addiction support group on campus, he’s the Duke I’m most familiar with. I’m used to his quirky habits—the way he can’t stop moving, how he’s content to talk and have no one answer, and the long, dreamy pauses when he speaks. I can’t decide if he fried his brain on Scratch or if there’s something deeper going on with his behavior. I’ve heard rumors about mental illness, which tracks, but I’m a scientist. I don’t trade on rumors. What I’d give to look in this fucker’s medical records.

Pausing in front of a large, contemporary painting, he lifts his finger to the frame, asking, “Fuck me, is this a Richter?”

“Jesus, don’t touch the art, you mutt,” Wicker snaps. “And, of course it’s a Richter. Father isn’t usually one for contemporaries, but even he couldn’t resist the appeal of adding a modern master to his collection.”

“My old man’s been trying to track one of these down for years. What he wouldn’t give to slap one of these up in a clean, sterile hotel lobby,” Remy smirks, eyes sliding to Wicker. “Even came close at an auction two years ago, but he was outbid at the last second.”

“We know,” I say, offering him a cold smile. “Who do you think outbid him?”

Remy takes this in with a delighted snort. “Being outplayed by the King of East End. And he calls me the family embarrassment.” I’d be disappointed by his amusement—so hard to get a rise out of this one—but I don’t expect any different.

If there’s one thing the Royals have in spades, it’s daddy issues.

“So,” he says, turning to a flat space in the wall and leaning back. He crosses his long legs in the front, black leather boots sticking out from under his baggy jeans with his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing a swath of tats. I watch, unable to look away from his frenetic energy, as he pulls a marker from his pocket. “What’s it like knowing you knocked up your sister?”

“She’s not our blood sister, dumbass,” I snap, but regret it the instant I see the grin toying on his mouth. Remy may be all tattoos and scars, but he comes from money—old money that’s probably stained with blood—and he’s not stupid. “It probably feels a little like finding out DKS has been harboring an Ashby bloodline for decades.”

“That’s the difference between the Dukes and Princes,” he says, pulling off the marker cap with his teeth. “We’re not obsessed with bloodline and lineage in West End. We pick winners.” He nods at Rathbone. “Same with them. The Lords don’t need blood to reign.”

Wicker looks up at Rath, his mouth tugging into a sharp grin. “Well, just the blood that comes from popping cherries. I saw you and the Lady in the Pit. That was some high-class fuckwork, Rashbone.”

“Shut your mouth, Ashby.” Rath’s fist curls, and he gives Wick a long look that suggests he’d like to shut it for him. Instead, he rolls his eyes, sighing. “How long is all of this going to take?”

“As long as it takes for two opposing Forsyth factions to sort out possession of a pregnant Royal woman,” I say, without a trace of irony. I’m aware that outside of Forsyth, things don’t work like this, but our town is built on the seeds of corruption, crime, power, and loyalty. We were raised in this world; my brothers and I were raised forthis moment,seemingly more than we even knew. One of us impregnated Father’s secret biological daughter.

Jesus. The implications are more extensive than any of us can comprehend. We’re in uncharted territory.

Rath leans his head closer to Remy, watching my brother and me curiously. “So, whose pampered little swimmer do you think hit the mark?” He gestures down the hall and then between us. “Tweedle-Dee, Tweedle-Dumb, or Tweedle-Dick?”

“I bet it’s him.” Remy jerks his chin at me. “He interns a lot. Medical shit, right? Fifty bucks says that one made it.” His lip curls up distastefully as he stares me up and down. “Not a speck of purple on this guy. Probably jizzed into a test tube.”

I force myself not to stiffen, but only just. If that bitch told them about my deposits…

Hot rage boils beneath my skin, but before I can do more than square my shoulders, Rathbone nods at Wicker. “My money’s on the golden boy. I doubt he can go ten minutes without humping the nearest available hole.”

Wicker’s better at composure than me. He lifts his arms, casually lacing his fingers behind his head. “The flirting looks a little desperate, Rathbone. Your Lady not satisfying you? If you want a spin on my cock, all you gotta do is ask. I can lower my standards for a charitable deed.”

Rath sneers back. “Oh, you’re a little too busy disappointing your family to bother with disappointing me.”

“Christ,” Remy mutters. “Can’t she just be… what’s it called? Self-impregnating?”

I scoff. “Hermaphroditic, you idiot.”

“And trust me,” Wicker adds, smirking, “we’ve pumped your little mutt bitch with so much cum, it’s probably running through her veins.”