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A little too lightly, I wonder, “What did you do with yours?”

“I threw it back in Nicky’s face.” Her smile widens. “But Remy’s anatomy drawing professor has this tank of beetles that cleans bones, so he put it in there for a few days, bleached them, and then mounted it in our entryway.” Her brow ticks up. “A warning to the others.”

“Naturally.”

“What did you do with yours?” she asks.

“I buried it in the woods behind the Palace.”

“Nice.”

After a beat, I note, “We have really weird conversations.”

She laughs, and it’s a warm sound, filled with an undercurrent of happiness. “Just wait until it’s a severed head.”

I grimace. “Did he mount that in the entryway too?”

“Living room.”

I can’t help but laugh. “That has some nice irony to it.”

“Remy thought so.”

Friday isthe first time I’ve ever been slightly bummed to see my period go.

The week has been energizing, though. Perspective. That’s what I think about as I watch every frat get flattened by DKS from up in the balcony. My former club is on a tear, including Ballsack, who has jumped on the ropes, arms raised to the crowd in victory, while some poor kid from LDZ peels himself off the mat.

Ballsack’s match is the last one before the intermission, directly preceding the main event: Pace Ashby vs. Remington Maddox.

“Tucker, get your ass off the mat!” a voice shouts. I look across the room and see Dimitri Rathbone leaning over the railing, shouting to the flattened frat boy below. Since Killian is King now, they have the right to sit with the others. Sy could too, I suppose, but those boys love the raucous energy from the stands.

Story sits next to her King, his massive tattooed arm wrapped around her shoulder, holding her close. He whispers something in her ear, and she smiles, genuine and content. She must sense my attention, because her eyes flick up and meet mine for a beat, and I can hear her words in my head.“They want a partner. Someone who can match them.”

I’m wearing one of the approved outfits from the closet, tagged specifically for Friday Night Fury. White jeans paired with a soft, purple V-neck sweater. Appropriate but sexy, the colors representative of our house. I definitely look the part, even if I don’t feel it.

My eyes dart away before anyone notices the exchange, and they land on the Baron King, mask affixed, a pretty girl sitting on his lap. The box next to him is empty. There are no Counts left to fill it. Theirs isn’t the only empty box. Ashby hasn’t shown up yet.

Or I thought he hadn’t.

“Unseemly, isn’t it?”

My heart lunges to my throat at his voice, memories of my throning rushing back like frigid, brackish water. I feel the anxiety in my gut. Did he notice Story looking at me? Could he read our minds? I put nothing past these men.

I force myself to turn.

“King Ashby.” I lower into an awkward and unnecessary curtsey. “I didn’t know you were here.”

He moves next to me and takes in the view. “I’ve been watching you up here.”

Freezing, I wonder if it was wrong of me to climb the stairs to the loft. A good Princess would have probably been sitting up in the VIP box with her King. “I… I was just—”

“Observing. Yes. I like to do it myself. Getting a lay of the land.” He gestures to the Lords across the ring. “A good leader always knows where his opponents are.” I’ve seen his security set up in Pace’s room. This man has more eyes than a nest of spiders. He stands in his crisp white suit, eyes moving over the crowd. He’s wearing an expression that drips with distaste. “I’ve never been much for fighting. It’s a waste of a good figurehead to have him down there, using his fists. In East End, we fight with our minds. Our legacies.”

Or your wallets.

“It’s tradition,” I say, following his gaze to where Wicker is disappearing through the doors to the back.

“It’s beneath us,” he argues. Even though his voice is mild and contemplative, it still makes me tense. One should never argue with their King, which makes his next words all the more stress-inducing. “I was disappointed to learn you weren’t successful this cycle, Princess.”