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I know without needing to ask that she means the cleansing. She told Lavinia and Story, and while they were orchestrating my escape, I was orchestrating my revenge. “Thank you,” I say. “Not for telling, but for…nottelling them.” Because I know that’s the harder task. Especially now, as I’m sleeping beside the Princes, making deals, and capitulating for the sake of the endgame. “I don’t think they’d understand.”

Her brow puckers. “I think you underestimate what they’ve gone through, too. That’s part of the sickness, isn’t it? That women in Forsyth are humiliated so much, we can’t bear to humiliate ourselves by bringing it into the light.”

Snorting, I say, “There are a lot of other factors to consider. Like… take my mother, for instance. Or your sister. Or the Dukes. Or hell, even Lavinia and Story. If everyone knew what happened in this house, they’d want to get me out of it.” I squirm, trying to stretch out in the cramped space. “But I made the decision to see this through, and finding out Ashby is my biological father only reinforces my commitment. We have to find a way to stop this cycle, and the only way out is through.”

I think back to what Rory said on campus the other day.‘East End has a habit of throwing its Princesses away.’But it’s not just the Autumns and Pipers out there. From Leticia and Lavinia Lucia to Story Austin, the sickness Stella speaks of doesn’t know Royal class. It doesn’t know blood. It doesn’t know names.

It only knows gender.

It probably knows where these missing girls are, too.

“I’m tired of women in Forsyth being disposable.” I reach out and take her hand, squeezing it. “Royal or not.”

She squeezes back, but then abruptly blurts, “We were together when the Princes came in.”

I frown. “We who?”

“Me and Eugene.” Even in the dim light, I can see the blush rise on her cheeks. “They walked in on us together. I mean, we weren’t likethat,” she rushes to add, her words getting faster as she tries to explain, “but we weren’tnotlike that either. It was after-hours, you know? And you were already in bed. I know it’s inappropriate, especially with the delicate nature of our houses not being aligned—”

“Stella.” I squeeze her hands together. “Breathe.”

She takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

“I think it’s good. Eugene is a great guy. He’s sweet, which isn’t something I can say about all of the guys in DKS. He’ll treat you right.”

She straightens, her grin wide. “He’s so nice, isn’t he? I’ve never had a guy want to do that to me before, and oh my god,” she gushes, “he has such a good tongue…”

“Okay!” I hold out my hand. “Ballsack is like a cousin to me. I’m happy for you, but I really don’t want to knowanythingabout his tongue.”

She giggles. “Gotcha.”

A moment later, there’s a grinding sound, and Stella and I both spring to our feet, her hand brandishing the knife. But when the wall slides away, it’s just Wicker, still shirtless and pantless, his blonde hair even more disheveled.

“Whoa, yeah,” Wicker says, plucking the knife from her hand. “I’ll take that.”

“Everything okay?” I ask, feeling his gaze sweep down my body. I got the feeling before that he made me wear his jersey just to piss me off, but seeing the glint of satisfaction in his eyes makes me wonder if he’s just getting off on it.

“Everything’s clear. Whoever was on the property is long gone.” He offers his hand, and I take it, allowing him to help me out of the compartment. Ballsack moves around us, fluidly offering Stella his own hand.

Aww.

“You can go,” Wicker says to Ballsack, who moves to hand him the gun. But Wicker shakes his head. “Keep it. Just in case there’s another alarm.”

“That was bold,” I tell him once they’ve left. “Letting Ballsack keep a weapon.”

“They’re loyal to you,” he says, checking the window. “I don’t trust him, but I trust that he doesn’t want to see you dead, which is a sentiment East End is running a little low on.” Glancing back, he explains, “A couple of people on the security team were at your cleansing.”

“Oh.” I tug at the hem of the jersey, realizing this means I’m responsible for what’s probably their messy breakups. Not that I feel much sympathy, but I suppose I didn’t do myself many favors with the frat. “Where’s Pace?”

“Obsessing.” Wicker drops heavily onto the bed, raking his hands through his hair. He looks exhausted, and the fact it’s the middle of the night hits home. We’ve all had a long day. Tomorrow’s going to suck. “This kind of shit fucks with him. He’ll blame himself even though no one got in because of all the measures put in place.”

Frowning, I glance at the door. “Should I go talk to him?”

He considers it. “Probably wouldn’t hurt. Let him know you’re okay.”

But I don’t get the chance. He appears in the doorway as I’m watching it, Effie’s cage in one hand, a tablet in the other.

Unlike Wicker, Pace has gotten dressed. Fully. Dark hoodie, a pair of gray joggers, socks, shoes, and all. “Is it okay if she stays in here?” he asks, setting her cage on my dresser. He fidgets with the placement for a beat, his twists falling in front of his eyes. “I’d feel better knowing she’s in here with someone.”