Page 15

Dragging in a long, shaky breath, I turn to the room, seeing the faces of PNZ. Each man is watchful, all of them dressed in black tuxedos of their own, but some are looking more eager than others.

Some are fucking smiling.

I tell myself it’s not a big deal as I lift my skirts, glancing behind me to judge the distance. My virginity was always meant for something like this. I never had a chance to get attached to a perfect, romantic first-time experience. I tell myself it’s worth it if it means being able to call Story and Lavinia tonight, a victor with all my spoils.

Somehow, I did it. I’m in. When this weird ceremony is over, I’ll be an East Ender behind the pretty, secure walls.

Except when I look up again, Ashby stands in front of me, his gaze as reverent as his voice. “Verity Sinclaire, tonight embarks your journey as the vessel for the next great heir. Any woman can have a womb, but yours has been chosen.” He steps forward and presses a hand to my stomach. “Blessed.”

It takes everything in me to not physically flinch.

“Pierce your body, dear girl,” he whispers, eyes flashing with an intensity that frightens me. “Spill your blood, and agree to the covenants of this honor.”

Feeling movement behind me, I turn, finding a man draped in a black cloak. It’s the man from the ballroom, I realize–the first one to clap for me. He’s holding a small golden vial, the mouth tipped into his palm. I watch as he dips his finger inside, then uses it to rub the tip of the phallus in a thin coat of oil. He looks to Ashby, nodding as his deep voice says, “It’s been anointed.”

“Very good,” Ashby commands. “Sit, Verity.”

I bend my knees, reluctantly lowering myself toward the seat. I feel the tip of the…thing… graze my backside, hard and cold, so I readjust, grasping the arms of the throne to pull myself further back. My face screws up into a grimace as I shimmy, getting it into position.

The moment the tip settles against my entrance, I take a long, steeling breath, eyes sliding closed.

And people thought the Barons were weird…

I’m so preoccupied with hyping myself up to the fact this is actually happening, preparing myself to justtake it, that I barely feel the gentle weight of two hands settling on each of my shoulders.

If I thought they were there to soothe my anxiety, then I’m the biggest fool in Forsyth.

Because theyshove.

White-hot agony rips through me as I meet the seat, eyes flying wide. The ensuing scream is feral, clawing wetly from my throat as I fight against the grip. Whitaker’s hands clamp down hard, forcing me flush with the throne. My skin tears, the device ripping through me, cold and foreign and excruciatingly invasive. I reach up to frantically pry his hands away, but Pace and Lex each take one of my own, pinning them to the arms of the chair.

The thorns of the roses stab into my wrists.

“Stop!” I cry, struggling against their holds. “It hurts, stop!”

Whitaker just presses harder, fingertips digging into me.

I kick out, but that just makes it worse, all my weight driving me down. I plant both feet on the floor, feeling the heel of my shoe snap as I buck, trying desperately to get away from the piercinghurtof it.

Hot tears instantly fill my eyes, brimming over with my shrieks of torment. Every second I’m on it scorches through me like a searing, hot poker. It’s an urgency I’ve never felt before–the all-consuming instinct toget away.

“Breathe, child,” comes Ashby’s voice, but even though he’s right in front of me, crouched down to catch my gaze, I can’t see him.

All I see are stars.

“Let me go,” I sob. “It hurts, ithurts–please! Please, I’ll do anything.” It smarts to know I’m begging, but I can’t feel the shame of it. The only thing I can feel is the fire between my legs.

“The longer you fight, the longer it’ll take,” comes a voice at my side.Lex. “Relax, Princess.” He sounds calm, assured, and I use that to take a deep breath and force myself to calm down–to get through this.

It takes a Herculean effort to still my body, to ignore the throb as I pry my eyes open to meet Ashby’s gaze.

He’s doubled over, and I don’t understand why at first. He seems to be doing something beneath the throne, and when he snaps back, he’s holding a small glass vial up to the candlelight, scrutinizing the red inside of it.

Ashby’s mouth tips up into a soft grin. “We were right,” he tells the cloaked man. “Look how much she’s bled. The Princess arrives to us pure of body.” Bile rushes toward my throat as I realize what he’s holding.

My blood.

Blood from thethinginvading my body.