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Stella and I share a grin. “It’s shiny.”

Ballsack rolls his eyes, dealing another hand. “Gambling my best ammo to a couple of girls who don’t even know how to use them.”

When I peek at my hand, I bet a twenty-two cal, four pennies, and a stick of Big Red.

Ballsack folds.

“Sorry,” I say, restraining a smile. “I know you’d rather be at the aftergame party with the guys.” The Forsyth Royals won their second game of the championship, which I spent beside Lex, watching as Wicker and Pace stole the show on the ice. I squirm, once again remembering how in sync they are. How in sync theywere, in my bed two mornings ago.

Ballsy makes a gagging sound, falling back in his chair. “Partying with a bunch of prissy East Enders? No, thank you. I’d much rather be here getting my balls handed to me by actual hard-asses.”

“Don’t you forget it,” Stella says, and then, “Oooh, a big one!” She holds another bullet aloft, this one coppery and long, and scrunches her nose. “Aren’t they all so phallic? Do you think it's a metaphor? Like, for manhood.”

Ballsack looks like he’s got a comeback for that, but thankfully he doesn’t get the chance to make it.

My Princes come barreling-stumbling-slinking through the door.

Wicker is the stumbler. He’s wet from the rain, his blonde hair dripping a raindrop down a defined cheekbone. He draws up short when he sees us, doing a triple take. “The fuck is this?”

Pace, the barreler, enters in a Forsyth hockey sweater, the hood pulled up and glistening with rain. Without a word, he marches to the window and pulls the curtain back, surveying the gardens, which Thad is surely patrolling. Slowly, he looks at me, his tense shoulders beginning to unwind. Not too much, though. He’s still pissed at me for taking Effie to the solarium this afternoon.

Lex was the slinker, and he’s already reaching up to pull out his hair tie when he walks in, ruffling the dampness from his auburn locks. He takes in the scene—Ballsack, Stella, the cards, the stakes—and freezes, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Wordlessly, he reaches down to pluck up a bullet from Stella’s pile, fixing Ballsack with an incredulous glare. “You’re usinglive roundsas poker chips? With ourpregnantPrincess?”

Ballsack snorts. “They’re centerfire cartridges, not explosives. Perfectly safe.”

Lex always gets this way about him when he’s about to lose his shit. It’s taken me a while, but I’m starting to see. He gets eerily still. More composed than usual. Silent.

But the back of his jaw tics.

“Calm down,” I tell him, shuffling the deck. It’s monumentally difficult to look at Lex when he’s like this, all rumpled, hair down, eyes intense. “I’ve been around bullets my whole life. They’re only dangerous when they’re in a gun.”

Lex clenches his teeth. “What if there’s a fire?”

“Then I think I have bigger problems,” I say, deadpan.

Ballsy pipes in, “That thing about fires shooting bullets is a myth, anyway. It’s the high velocity from a gun that makes it lethal.”

“Oh, shit,” Wicker says, stumbling to the table we’ve set up beside the settee. “You’re playing poker, right? That DKS one—Five Card West.” He drops beside me on the settee, which is when the smell of beer and vodka hits me.

He iswasted.

Wicker slaps the table. “Deal me in. I got ammo.” But when he starts patting his back, he snorts a laugh, gesturing to Lex. “Gimme my gun, bro.”

Lex scoffs. “Yeah, that’s gonna happen. I wouldn’t even trust you with a blow dryer right now.”

Wicker thrusts a finger at him. “That was one time.One time.”

Rolling his eyes, Pace pulls a pistol from his own pants, his deft hands unlocking the clip. “Just let him play. We’ve been babysitting him all night. Let them have a turn.” He throws the clip to Wicker.

It hits him in the chin.

“Ow,” he says, but in a worryingly chipper tone.

I wrinkle my nose, leaning away from the toxic cloud emanating from him. “How much did you let him drink?”

“Letis a strong word,” Lex grumbles, dragging a chair from the corner closer to our twisted tableau. “Wicker’s never met a win he couldn’t regret in the morning.”

Ballsack says, “Hell yeah, to the victor go the spoils,” and extends a fist.