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And I finally met East Side’s true heir.

Or rather, his tomb.

That’s what I dream about as I fall into a fitful slumber. The stone and the earth, the scent of dead grass, the shivery chill of the clinging winter. And then suddenly, I’m there, standing in front of it again.

The tomb is tall and regal, with arched, gothic carvings that so perfectly match the style of the Palace that it doesn’t look a day younger than a hundred. Moss has covered the flat base where his body must lay, but the name etched into the slab is still clear and stark.

Michael Claudius Ashby

Beloved son

Stolen Prince

Created in the radiance of the morning’s light

May your heavenly body reign

Always

Towering over the slab is a statue of a crouching angel–weeping, just as Wicker had said–her wings folded around her like arms. The stone is pale but weather-stained, dark spots shading the grooves like charcoal on paper. As with everything else on the grounds, the wisteria is on a mission to overtake it. The wiry brown vines have coiled around the angel’s feet, climbing her body and twisting up her neck like a gnarled noose. It’ll probably look breathtaking in the spring, the purple flowers blooming to life like teardrop bruises, but right now, it just looks like ropes.

Her eyes are so terrifyingly empty.

In my dream, I stand there just as I did earlier in the day, staring at the angel as if she were Michael himself. I didn't speak then, and I don’t speak now. I just gaze into her vacant, lifeless eyes, paralyzed with some feeling that I can’t quite place. Grief, maybe.

His gravestone says he died before his third birthday.

A gust of wind rattles the trees behind the garden, the ropey vines of the angel swaying, and I hear a sound in the air. It’s muffled, but shrill–not quite a howl, but more like…

Crying.

Ababy’scrying.

I look around, but it’s getting darker now, the sun slouching behind the trees. Twisting to look over my shoulder, the solarium–the whole Purple Palace–feels like a dozen miles away, so it can’t be coming from there. The trees, maybe? I whip back around, but I don’t see any movement in the brush. All I see is…

My eyes drop to the tomb, heart kicking like a mule when I realize where the cries are coming from.

Michael.

Stumbling back, I trip on a vine–or maybe it captured my ankle–and then I’m falling–falling–falling. I jolt upright in bed, gasping at the sound, because I know that was a dream–Iknowit–but I can still hear Michael crying, trapped underground.

Creeeak.

I grasp the blankets tightly to my throat, but the slice of light widening on the floor reveals the true source of the sound: my door, opening, and the unmistakable shape of Wicker Ashby, hair flopped over his eyes, standing in its glow.

The tension falls out of me in a shivered avalanche, only to be replaced with a dull sort of irritation. I’ve been waiting for him since last night, forgoing panties even while working outside, figuring he’d find me at some point.

Should have known he wouldn’t let his day go to waste.

Still groggy from the dream, I mentally prepare myself for the impending hasty fuck, and ask in a rusty voice, “How long do we have?”

Wicker reaches out to grab the jamb, leaning his weight there. “None.” The light from the hallway cuts hollows into his lower cheeks, and for a moment, he adopts the ghastly visage of a skull. “It’s one in the morning. Lex’s day.”

I rub my eyes, refusing to believe he’d miss his day, not after the threats and tantrum last week. “You’re not going to make a deposit?”

His skull-face smirks. “Disappointed, Red?” Sniffing, he turns his head, gazing down the hall. “Don’t be. You’re about to get what you need.”

Before I can ask what that means, he steps aside. For a long moment, the doorway is vacant, but then a shadow approaches, its towering length sharpening as it gets closer. My first glimpse of the man makes my pulse quicken, because he’s naked. Unkempt hair brushes the tops of his broad shoulders. Wiry muscles lead down toned biceps, a strong chest, a ladder of abs that cuts into a V, and a thick thatch of dark hair surrounding an obscenely hard cock. When Wicker reaches out to grasp his brother’s shoulder, turning him toward my doorway, my blood turns to ice.