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She’s right. I can’t just be a Princess. Not if I want to survive.

I need to betheirPrincess.

Family Dinneron Thursday is even more uncomfortable than usual. It’s bad enough that I’ve become a figurehead of a rival house, but tomorrow night is going to be impossibly worse.

Remy sits across from me, drawing a large gargoyle on Lav’s forearm, when he pauses and holds the marker out to me. “Here you go, Princess.”

I look at the marker. “What’s that for?”

“I figure you can go ahead and draw a template of my victory tatt. Save some time.”

I glance at Lav, hoping she has a clue as to what he’s talking about. Remy’s not known for coherency. She just shrugs. “I’m going to need a little more, Rem. What are you talking about?”

“No fucking way your boy takes me out tomorrow night.” He points to a spattering of stars on his ribs–one for each victory since becoming Duke. I shift uncomfortably, reminded of the stick and poke ink Pace showed me of his day tallies in prison. Remy smirks. “I know he’s your Prince and all, but I’ve still got to stomp him.”

“My Prince?” The conversation slams home how disconnected I’ve been the past few weeks. I hadn’t even thought about one of the Princes taking a turn at the Fury, and the Princes have been so occupied that we’ve barely spoken. “Um, which one is fighting?”

“The felon,” Nick says, licking banana pudding off a spoon. “He’s up for an ass kicking. Long deserved if you ask me.”

Pace.

I frown down into my own dessert. “Not sure you should count him out just yet. I’ve seen him play hockey. He’s fast and strong.” And ruthless and calculated andmean.

“Please, those guys are all padding and fiddling with sticks.” Remy rolls his eyes. “They wearhelmets, for Christ’s sake.”

“I don’t know, Rem,” Ballsack chimes in from down the table, “with the number of concussions you’ve had over the years, you may need a helmet too.”

Remy points the marker at him. “That’s rich coming from the dumbass who got himself trapped in the Princes’ basement.”

Ballsack’s expression floods with outrage. “Hey! I got ambushed. That wouldn’t have happened if—"

“Anyway,” Lavinia says loudly, catching my eye. She’s been quieter than usual tonight, an odd sadness swimming in her eyes. “That means you’ll be here for sure tomorrow night, right?”

Thinking, I guess, “Probably.” Especially if we’re needing to stop any gossip going around. The thought captures me and I realize people are going to be salivating for the drama of this fight. No doubt attendance will rival even Nick’s first match as Duke.

Lavinia grins. “Who would’ve thought six months ago, the two of us would be on opposing sides of the ring, supporting our men during their fights.”

“Fuck,” Nick says, eyes darting between us, “tell me this means you’ll get in a catfight or something mid-match. These matches always lack a little girl-on-girl action if you ask me.”

“No one is asking you,” Lavina says.

“Hair pulling,” Remy adds. “Tit slapping. Maybe a thong wedgie?”

“Leave them alone,” Sy says, arm loping around Lav’s neck. “No one is touching the Duchess’ tits but us. And anyway, Verity’s the Princess now. I’m pretty sure Ashby would lose his mind if she got in a brawl.”

Every eye at the table darts to my stomach.

“Stop looking at my uterus,” I say, slowly rising. “I’m not getting in a girl fight with Lavinia just to entertain you.” I shoot Remy a look. “And a little advice? Don’t underestimate my Princes. They’re far more vicious than they look.”

I grab my plates and shove my chair under the table.

“You mad?” Remy asks, brows knitted up. “You know we’re just fooling. I promise not to hurt the felon’s babymaker.”

I shake my head. “I’m not mad. I just need…” I jerk my thumb toward the lounge. “Excuse me.”

I cross the gym, making note of my mother’s closed office door and the drawn shades. Danner slowly shuffles behind me, keeping me in sight.

“I’m going to the ladies’ room again,” I tell him.