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“Father, I’m—”

“I thought you had your situation under control,” Father snaps.

“I do.” He swallows thickly. “I’ve made strides to compensate for any physical failings by maximizing our efforts.” Lex’s back is straight and he looks our father in the eye, adopting full robot mode. “In addition to my deposits, I’ve researched methods to encourage fertility and fertilization. I’m monitoring her diet, her hormone levels, and her ovulation cycles. I’ve begun genetic testing. Additionally, I’m keeping everyone on schedule and enforcing the adherence to the covenants.”

Father’s eyes are icy, a familiar cruelness shining through. “So what you’re saying is that you’re doing everything but giving the Princess a good, old-fashionedfucking.”

Lex flounders. “I—”

“Whitaker,” Father says, “get the box.”

No.

Fuck no.

Every instinct I possess is screaming for me to snarl it into his face. To scream. To sweep that notebook off his desk and tell him if he wants something, he can get it his goddamn self. But I stand like a good little soldier and stride across the room to open the cabinet behind Father’s desk. Inside, always waiting, is a rectangular wooden box, the top and sides carved with the PNZ crest. Bile threatens to rise in the back of my throat, but I swallow it back down, forcing myself to take the box out of the cabinet. When I turn, Lex is already standing by his chair, unbuttoning his shirt. Pace is still in his seat, staring at a spot on the floor, eyes empty—his expression impassive and still.

He shrugs off the shirt, and since he’s Lex, he turns to hang it neatly over the back of the chair, giving me a full view of the crisscross of old, puckered scars etched into his back.

“Father,” I say, keeping my voice even—removing all traces of emotion, “Pace and I can contribute more deposits if—”

“This isn’t about deposits, Whitaker.” Father slowly rolls up his sleeves, his motions jerky and precise. It’s never a good sign when his anger is visible like this. “This is about Lagan giving me his word and then failing to fulfill it. He’s allowed a weakness to stand in the way of his purpose.”

Pace flinches, the memory of spring break still somehow fresh for all of us.

Especially here.

Like this.

Father circles the desk, and without another glance at my brother, commands, “Fireplace.”

It’s always the same spot in front of the roaring flames. With his arms at his sides, Lex lowers himself to his knees, assuming the same old position. I’m still holding the box, the urge to toss it in the fireplace more powerful than any other desire in my life. More than scoring goals. More than fucking. Only one thing supersedes it: the need to grab my brothers and run from this nightmare of a hellscape.

But even that desire is tempered with harsh reality. If we left, we’d have no other family. No access to our trust funds. Nothing but the clothes on our backs, and knowing Father, he’d take those too. What’s outside of these walls? The South Side? West? The rubble of the North?

The Barons’ shadows?

A hysterical laugh bubbles in my chest, and I hold it back doggedly. We’re fucked. We know it, Father knows it.

“Whitaker,” Father says, snapping me back to the moment. He pulls a single black leather glove over his right hand. “Give your brother the box.”

Pace and I make eye contact as I hand him the carved box. We both pretend not to notice the tremor in my hand as the weight shifts to him. Instinctively, I know we’re both brimming with the same fear.

This isn’t how it goes.

Punishing someone so directly like this isn’t Father’s style. I can’t remember the last time Lex got an appointment for something Pace or I weren’t responsible for. It’s how Father’s always kept us in line. Either of us fuck up, and Lex gets the punishment. And if Lex fucks up, it’d be Pace who takes the brunt of it. Shoved into one dark hole or another, cut off and isolated as Lex grieved about it.

It’s been so long since Lex stepped a single foot out of line that it’s easy to forget how it used to be. The way Lex would torture himself about it, desperate to search Pace out and bring him back, but just as desperate to not make it worse by being disobedient. It’s been a decade since Lex last crumpled into a heap, clawing at the floorboards in an attempt to dig his way to the dungeon to get our brother.

With rigid elbows, Pace carries the box to father, opening the lid. Father reaches in and pulls out the strap, fingers flexing around the handle. The strap unfurls, three feet of razor-sharp leather. It dangles innocuously, like a sleeping viper.

Lex’s body is rigid, eyes staring into the fire. Crying won’t work. We all know that. Neither will pleading. Both will only lead to more trouble. As Father approaches him, the room grows unbearably hot, the collar of my shirt closing in around my throat. There’s no warning, just the crack in the air, the length landing with a hard snap, the tail end of the whip biting into the backside of his bicep. Lex keels forward but stays upright, his jaw tensing from swallowing back a scream. He’d never admit it, but Father is rusty, the punishments less frequent when we were living on our own.

Father sneers out, “Four lashings for each of your deposits. And an additional four to get you to the same level as your brother.” Pace flinches at the last remark. “Be thankful I’m not holding you to Whitaker’s standards.”

“Yes, sir,” Lex replies before the whip slices through the air and cuts into his skin once again. His eyes shut, pain crossing his face. Anger wells in my blood. Hot and dangerous. The following strikes are worse than the ones before. Lex’s back crisscrossed with new wounds, the flesh raw, beading with blood. Father throws himself into it, each lashing deeper than the last, until all eight have been administered. Sweat drips from his forehead, and he reaches into his pocket for a pristine, white handkerchief, which he uses to mop his brow.

Jesus Christ.