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Somewhere between the ointment and the bandages, Pace bites out, “This is bullshit.”

Quietly, Wicker agrees, “Yeah.”

“It’s not like you can help–” Pace’s words clip off, though. Futile. Useless.

Father didn’t adopt him until Pace was almost six. He was small and quiet, with angry, guarded eyes that Wicker and I would know anywhere. We saw that wild, haunted look in each other every day. I don’t need to remember when I started feeling protective of Pace. It happened the first second of the first minute I met him. Somehow, I just knew he was meant to be ours. Strong but fragile. Paranoid and curious. Hostile but desperately lonely.

Which is why I’m expecting it when he cautiously asks, “Have you tried fucking her?”

“Yes,” I answer, but it’s neither a lie nor the truth. “I’ve tried to try,” I clarify, the words feeling inadequate.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Wicker’s soothing fingers are combing through my hair. “What’s it like? When you try?”

My eyes flutter closed. “It’s like… it’s just not there anymore. The urge is, but the physical response isn’t.”

“So you want to fuck her,” Pace says, and I don’t even need to think about it. The scratch didn’t take away my libido, just gave me the inability to get–andstay–hard.

I give a single, weak nod.

Wicker points out, “But you can jack off.”

“It takes forever,” I say, wincing as Pace pushes a bandage into my skin. I’ve thought about taking a hit, just one, but I’m not a fool. The trade-offs aren’t worth it.

“Maybe I could be with you,” Wicker reasons, leaning down to catch my gaze. “I could help–”

“No.” My answer is immediate, unyielding. The thought of using Wicker like that makes me feel fucking sick. “I’m going to fix it.”

Wicker doesn’t look disappointed.

He looks worried.

“Fuck!” I rise off the bed, a sharp pain stabbing across my flesh.

“Sorry!” Pace says, eyes wide with worry. “My hand slipped.”

I flop back down and grind out, “Finish it up.” My eyes flutter shut, and a few minutes later, they still. “Thank you.”

The mattress sinks and a hand brushes my hair back. “Take these.” Wick pushes the pills into my mouth and helps me with a swallow of water. He settles in next to me, hand on my head, running his fingers through my hair in soothing strokes.

“Stay with him,” Pace says, jumping off the bed. “I’ll go secure the recording.”

My body jostles with a silent, bitter laughter as he leaves. “Evidence,” I rasp out, chuckling.

“Don’t.” I can feel Wicker’s gaze on me as he lays at my side, and when I pry my eyes open, it’s to the sight of his frown. “Don’t forget the plan.”

The plan to use the evidence of Father’s abuse as leverage to escape was dead in the water a decade ago. Father’s got so much shit on us that it’s laughable. We just go through the motions of collecting it out of habit, chasing some dream of finally being free of him.

If Verity gets pregnant, we’ll belong to him forever.

And that’s the best case.

“She was right.” My head feels heavy, fists curling as I fight the urge to scratch the wounds. “I am deficient.”

Wicker’s face twists angrily. “She’s just some gutter slut from West End, Lex. She doesn’t know us.”

She will.

That’s the fear in my mind, the deeper into this we go. If we’d gotten her pregnant in the first month, then maybe we could have avoided it. Sharing a space with this girl is going to pull her closer into our shadows, magnetic and inevitable.