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“Fuck ‘em.” Wicker laughs, sliding up onto the training bench. “Bunch of butt-sore losers. Rumor has it that when a Duke loses, he can’t even go home. They’re just trying to save face.” He unwinds the foil from the mouth of the bottle, and I’d almost forgotten what this looks like.

When Wicker’s unhappy–and there’s been a lot of that since I got back–everyone’s unhappy. But when Wicker’s in a good mood? The whole fucking world sparkles. Birds sing. I once saw him smile at a girl–a genuine smile, happy and smug–and I swear to god she came on the spot.

“We’ve got the whole night off,” Lex says, swiping the bottle out of Wicker’s hands. With a skilled flick of his wrist, he uncorks it, flashing me a wicked look. “And permission to get as shitfaced as we want.”

“Shit,” I say, watching my brother take a long swig. “What do you think? Trap?”

Wicker snags the bottle back for his own swig, head shaking. “Nah, you just fucking owned the Dukes on their own turf. You could probably get a new car if you asked even half nicely.”

“You’re bleeding,” Lex notes, searching through a nearby cabinet for supplies before I can even tell him not to bother.

I sit on the bench as he cleans the cuts, all three of us passing the bottle around. There’s a lightness to their laughter that I clutch at like a lifeline, letting it lead me back out of the darkness. I never really forget Rosilocks is still in the room. She just blends into the background, the spray of water a comforting white noise.

Until it isn’t.

The instant the water cuts, Lex’s eyes dart toward the showers, back straightening as he reaches for his waistband. No one would come into Duke territory not packing.

But it’s Verity who appears reluctantly around the bank of lockers, her lip trapped between her teeth as she clutches a threadbare towel around her chest. “I, uh, left my change of clothes in the cutslut’s lounge,” she explains, shuffling her feet.

I give Lex a look and he nods, standing to go to the door. With a twist of his wrist, he locks it, testing to make sure it’s secure.

Wicker swipes his tongue over his teeth, eyes drinking her in. “Looks like someone’s already collected his spoils.” He glances at me. “Shower sex?”

“Broom closet.”

Some of the brightness in his eyes dims. “That makes sense.”

Wicker’s been on edge all week, having missed two of his deposits. It’s probably the longest he’s gone without an orgasm since junior high. He pats the space next to him, eyes hungry and a touch wild. “Come celebrate with us, Princess. Just lose the towel first.” When she hesitates, her arms folding around her middle, he arches a brow. “It’s twenty minutes ‘til midnight, and I gave you Tuesday.”

She looks between the three of us. I have spare clothes in my bag, and I could even make it an order for her to cover herself, taking the decision out of her hands. Wicker would sulk, but he’d relent. But a part of me flares hot with the thought of them seeing her like this, all fucked out because of me.

She exhales, long and slow, eyes dropping as she unfastens the towel. All the casual aloofness about her nudity I’d seen before the shower is gone, a tremor in her shoulders as she shuffles toward us. She’s not used to being bared to all of us at the same time, I realize. With Father’s strict schedules, the closest we’ve come is Wicker’s hasty backseat fuck on the way to school that one time.

Lex sits across from me sightlessly, his eyes fixed to her full, heavy tits as she approaches. Wicker perks up, sliding over to make room for her between him and Lex, but when she gets within arm’s reach, I grab her hip, pulling her onto my lap.

She lands with anoomph, but then the strangest thing happens.

She curls into me, as if I’m her shield.

I wind my arm around her waist, tucking her close. “It’s still technically my day,” I tell Wicker, daring him to protest, “and I’m the one who won her.”

To my surprise, he just tips the bottle toward me in a salute, eyes roving her flesh. “Fair enough.”

She smells soapy and new, her skin still warm and pink from the shower. “All cleaned up,” I say, a thread of disappointment in my voice.

“Kind of,” she says, shifting to grab my opposite shoulder, like I won’t notice it covers her tits with her arm.

“Kind of?” I ask.

She trains her eyes to a spot on her knee. “After you come, it, um, takes a while.” She grimaces. “For it to all come out.”

Just like that, I’m rock hard, and from one glance at my brothers, I’m not the only one. Lex is slack-jawed as he freezes with the bottle to his mouth, and Wicker, eyes hooded, reaches down to adjust the obscene bulge in his khakis.

“How long?” Lex asks, finally taking that sip.

Verity gives the smallest, cutest little shrug. “All day, sometimes.” Then, with a bluntness I don't even think our Princess is capable of, she adds, “He comes like a firehose.”

Wicker’s eyebrows shoot up. “Does he, now?” He kicks out, catching my ankle. “You never came like a firehose for me, fuckhead.”