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Whitaker says, “Spread her,” and Pace’s palm pushes into my ass cheek while Lex takes the other. Roughly, they spread me open for their brother.

“Just make it quick,” Pace says. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us, Wick.”

Whitaker grunts, and when I twist to look, he’s got his cock out, hand stroking angrily at the shaft. I snap forward when his gaze meets mine, but that’s not much better. Some of the PNZ guys in the audience are cupping their own crotches.

I groan, low and miserable as I feel Whitaker coming forward, snugging the head of his cock up against my abused entrance. I hold my breath, muscles seizing in anticipation of more hurt, and that’s exactly what I get.

He slams forward just as his hand grips a tight fistful of my hair.

I bury my cry into my own forearm, tasting blood as Whitaker fucks into me, fast and thoughtless. It’s nothing like I thought sex would be. There’s no kissing. No touching. There’s no shared heat or the bloom of lust quickening my way to orgasm.

It’s hard and painful and so cold that I’d reach out to any of the forty men in the room to save me, if I thought any of them would care.

I can’t see Whitaker behind me, but I can feel him–the anger rolling off of him in waves. His grip is bruising on my hip as he fucks me, these little punches of breath punctuating each thrust. There’s a moment where I try to get away from the intrusion, inching closer and closer to the table.

But he follows me.

Any space I gain is punished with a sharp growl and a harder thrust, his hips crashing against mine, until eventually, there’s no more room to run with. The edge of the table digs into my pelvis as he pins me to it, banging me into the wood.

The pain isn’t even the worst part.

It’s the sight of the other men–the PNZ men–sitting there and watching, feeling pleasure from the tears that race down my cheeks. The worst part is knowing that anything could happen to me in this room and they’d all go along with it.

I try not to look. To close my eyes and drift away. To pretend I’m back in West End, drinking with the cutsluts on top of the gym. To imagine the streets spread out before us like limbs, beckoning us home.

In the end, it could be two minutes or all damn night before Whitaker finally comes. His punches of breath turn to grunts, wild and tight, until eventually he slams into me one last time, pushing hard and deep as his cock swells.

He bends to hiss into my ear, “Take your reward,Princess,” and then I feel it. He pulses thick inside, filling me with his cum, and itstings.God, it stings like fire–like salt in a wound–and I bite my lip to avoid giving him the satisfaction of a yelp.

He shoves me forward more than he pulls away, slipping from my center with a wetness I’m afraid to think of. “Danner,” he says, breathing hard. “Take the Princess to her bed.”

Draped over the table like a defeated, broken thing, Pace and Lex don’t even bother lowering my skirts. Conversation starts around the room, the entertainment apparently over, and slowly they filter back out the main doors to the ball still going on outside.

When they’re gone, I push to my elbows and use one hand to shove down the netting and crinoline, the other to lift myself off the table.

“Goddamn fucking son of a–” an earsplitting crash follows. Looking back, I see a tall candelabra tipped over on the floor, candles snapped in pieces.

“Fuck!” Wicker shouts, fist punching into the wall. “He fucking did this just to–” His words fade out as Pace pushes him through a back door. Lex stops to pick up the piece of metal, attempting to put it back in place. It wobbles, just like my legs, unsteady and mangled. Another victim of Whitaker Ashby’s rage.

I stare as Lex follows his brothers out the door until I notice a figure next to me. Dark eyes peer out at me from behind the mask. Danner. He gives me a slight bow, and juts out the crook of his arm. “Princess, allow me to escort you to your rooms.”

I make the final push upright, and a searing burn rips through my lower body. Lifting my chin, I smooth my dress, fingers running over the drying red spot from the ink pen, and link my arm with Danner’s.

Remember who your King is.

Lavinia’s words give me strength not because of Sy, but because of where I come from.

I’m from West End.

I’m a fighter.

As Danner leads me from the room, I pretend Whitaker Ashby’s ‘reward’ isn’t dripping down my leg, along with blood, sweat, and the last remaining shreds of my dignity.

4

Verity

Sleep doesn’t come.