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I grab a chair and move it in front of him, spinning it around to straddle the seat. No fucking way I can lean my back against the hard metal surface. Resting my arms on the back I say, “I hear you want to talk.”

He licks his cracked bottom lip, eyes darting to Pace by the tool bench. “Yeah, but you have to promise he’ll stay away from me with the branding iron.”

I stare up into the corner of the room, pretending to mull it over. “Give us something useful, and maybe we can deal.”

He exhales, fingers flexing and unflexing around the curve of the chair arm. “Clive Kayes is dead.”

I don’t blink. “The Baron King.” Behind me, Wick has gone still, and I don’t need to look back to know Oakfield has his attention. As far as Forsyth at large is concerned, the Barons’ crown hasn’t changed heads at all. The average person is under the impression Clive Kayes is still kicking.

Bruce shifts, wincing. “Former King. He got bumped off years ago in a coup inside the frat.”

My eyes narrow. “How long ago?”

He shrugs. “Fifteen or so years ago.”

Twenty.

He goes on, voice hoarse and dry, “Long enough that whoever’s wearing that mask has way more power than anyone realizes. They’re completely incognito, running that crypt with zero Royal oversight.” He sniffs. “He might participate in the mandatory trials and events, but no one knows who the fuck he is, so it doesn’t matter.”

It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. “So you’re saying Clive Kayes was murdered, but you have no idea who killed him.”

“His killer is right there!” Bruce snaps. “Whoever it is that’s wearing that nightmare mask and disposing of dead bodies in Forsyth.”

Wicker moves next to me, arms crossed over his chest. All pretense gone, it’s a posture of intimidation, his biceps bulging against the fabric of his shirt. “What kind of proof do you have?”

Panic flickers in Bruce’s eyes. “My father can corroborate.”

Fuck.

Wicker scoffs. “Your father would sell his right nut to get you back. Try harder.”

Groaning, Bruce squirms against his binds. “Come on, guys. My father is the financial manager for all of the Kings’ personal assets. Kayes accounts haven’t been touched. His social security number hasn’t been used. He hasn’t paid a dime in taxes.” Pace makes a loud noise over by the workbench and Bruce straightens up. “That’s proof, right?”

We know this already. Wicker’s known the truth about his father’s death since we were kids. What we don’t know iswhois behind the mask. Who killed Clive Kayes and why he’s gotten away with it.

“What good is this information,” Wick asks, “if you can’t tell us who did it?”

“Maybe you can find out? The Dukes and Lords… they don’t know. No one does–just me and my dad. That’s leverage.” He shifts in his seat and glances at Pace. “That’s enough, right? To keep him from branding me again?”

Pace and I share a look, and the moment our gazes meet, it’s as if some hidden fault line shifts, knitting the earth back together at our feet. An energy passes between us. It’s a frisson. An awareness.

He dips his chin in a small nod.

“For now,” I lie, scooting my chair closer. “But I’ve been wondering. How many women did you brand your initial into?”

Bruce’s forehead furrows. “This again? Why the fuck do you care about some whores?” He nods down to where Pace branded him last time with the LDZ skull. I’d tended to the wounds, making sure that if he gets out of here alive, he’ll be marked like the little bitch he is.

“I’m not talking about a whore,” I say, voice curt with impatience. “I’m talking about a girl who belongs to East End. You feel me?”

His face draws blank, like he’s flipping through a catalog of possible victims. “I’ve never touched any of your Princess bitches. At least not any who didn’t get booted out of here for failing.” His lips curve into something smug but Wicker clears his throat in warning. Then recognition strikes. “Wait, you mean Sinclaire? She wasn’t even yours then.” Bruce’s gaze pings between us, flashing hot at the mention of her name, and I finally see what I’ve been looking for.

Bruce had gotten attached to the idea of having a Duchess. The thought of having dominion over her. Owning her.

When his lips pull back in a snarl, the bitterness is tangible. “She was supposed to be mine.”

Pace’s fist cracks against his jaw, snapping his head sideways. “She was supposed to be mine, actually.” Despite the low, even timbre of his voice, I can sense the savage energy rolling off him in waves. It makes my blood run faster.

“And what she is,” I add, rising painfully from the chair, “isours.”