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I’m going to tell him no.

It’s my right.

It’ll probably start a huge fight, which I’m not crazy about. The past few days have been so quiet and calm. My Princes have been out of the house more than usual, which is saying a lot. The only time we’re all together is during the ride to campus, and just from those quick moments, it’s seemed like none of them really care about me, each man appearing absorbed in his own thoughts.

Something’s wrong–I know that much. It’s not all terrible. They’re more civil when we’re in public, and no one’s sneaking up on me or forcing me on my knees since I’ve had my period all week. It’s just… something’s off. There’s a quiet tension that they all share. Like something happened and I’m not privy to it. Lex is acting weirder than usual, carrying himself like he’s hurt. Pace seems to be hiding, even when we’re in the car together, his hood pulled up like a shield. And Wicker…

His finger gives a lock of my hair another twirl, making me tense. “Christ, would you relax? I’m not going to fuck you.” When I slide my gaze to him, I find his eyes still trained on the book, a highlighter marking a passage. “Even though I’d be well within my rights.”

“I’d tell you no.”

His eyes tighten. “You’d try.”

Sighing hard, I wonder, “Why are we here then?”

“People are talking. Speculating.” His gaze lifts to a group of girls over by the study room, heads leaned in close as they whisper. “Gossiping.” Just then, one of the girls looks toward us, flinching when she meets my glare.

Without the constant fear of having him bend me over a table, it’s easier to settle into the role of Princess in public. When a group of students strolls by, I’m quick to lean against his shoulder, placing a hand on his knee.

Wicker adds, “We need to show them you’re still in the game. You looked like shit during your offerings yesterday.”

The Monday morning public offerings, I’ve found, are worse when I’m cramping, miserable, and burdened with the disappointment of being very muchnotpregnant in front of a group of men who are asking me to be.

“I think it went fine,” I argue.

He scoffs. “Well, everyone else thinks you looked unhappy.”

“Gee, I wonder why.”

Quiet but scathing, he mutters, “You think you’re the only one who has to put aside how you feel in order to play your part? I do it every goddamn day.” He finally looks at me, those blue eyes blazing with annoyance. “Kiss me.” When all I do is gape at him, his jaw grows taut. “Now.” Hearing the threat in his tone, I clench my fist and dip forward to press our mouths together.

It’s instantly scorching.

His mouth parts, tongue delving between my lips in a skilled, sensuous lick. More than that is the way he touches me, his palm reaching up to cup my cheek as he guides the kiss deeper. I don’t need to wonder how it must look to everyone else, because it even feels sweet, not a trace of his ire present when he retreats only to dive back in.

If kissing is an art, then Wicker Ashby is Picasso. He’s so good at this, these soft, delicious kisses. If I were standing, I know my knees would be wobbling, and for a moment, I fall into the kiss like it’s a bed of fucking rose petals.

And then I reach down to cup his erection.

If I'm expecting him to freeze, then I’m disappointed. He just pulls me closer, his tongue delving deeper around a low, hungry sound. The plan is to tease him–to make him suffer blue balls until his next appointed day–but instead, I find myself intrigued, squeezing the hard length beneath my palm and enjoying the way it makes him shudder. It’s like having a remote in my hand. Pressure against the tip makes his thighs flex. A squeeze against the base makes his breathing hard and gritty.

He puts his hand over mine, and somewhere between long, slick loops of his tongue around mine, he pushes it down, grinding up into my grip.

And then he snatches it away, lacing our fingers together andsqueezing, the bones in my fingers straining against the grip.

I flinch at the pain, whimpering.

He pulls back just far enough to stare into my eyes. “Don’t push me, Red. There are a lot of places in this building where no cameras reach. Every second I don’t have you bent over something, crying for mercy, is a goddamn gift.”

He releases me with a smug, dazed look that I know is just for show. Across the room, the girls are staring at us with disappointed expressions.

They want to see me fail, I realize.

I focus back on my online quiz, answering the last two questions quickly. Suddenly, this loveseat is way too hot, sweat beading on the back of my neck. When everything is submitted, I close my laptop and dig out the journal where I’ve been taking notes for the solarium. I have a list of titles to look for in the horticulture section.

“Is it okay if I go look for some books?” I ask, sitting up.

Wicker curls the strand of my hair around his finger, as if I’ve forgotten I’m just a dog on a leash. “Stay close,” he says. “We’re leaving in thirty-minutes for practice.”