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The day Pace was released from prison, Father didn’t go with us to pick him up. It was probably the kindest thing he’s ever done, letting Wicker and I be the ones to greet our brother as he exited the building. There were no eyes on us. No pressure to perform. No urge to hold back.

I can’t remember ever hugging anyone as hard as I did that day. The sound of his and Wicker’s laughter was like balm to a wound. I was still shaky from withdrawal, wrung out and unsteady. But Pace held me up, grinning from ear to ear as he yanked on my ponytail.

Wicker just about tackled the poor guy, blue eyes sparkling. I’ve never seen him smile so genuinely, landing a playful punch to Pace’s stomach. “Think the big house has made you tough, huh?” he said, and I laughed as I watched the two of them pretend to spar. We went out for steak afterward, and it didn’t even matter that the conversation lulled in places, an awkward darkness settling over us.

Even with the nausea and itching, getting my brother back was probably the best day of my life.

Now, I can do nothing but sit back down, as though every cell of my being isn’t compelled to go to him. And in the confusing avalanche of emotions, one thought comes to me loud and clear.

I wish Verity were here to see him.

She’s not like us. She’s had no reluctance in voicing her worry about Pace these last few days. Even during my lone, mediocre deposit yesterday, her legs spread wide in the stirrups, hands wringing against her belly, she was asking when Pace might be back.

But I only get a second to look at him before Father sweeps in, commanding the room.

“Pace, pull up the screen,” he says, shoes echoing on the floor. In my periphery, I notice that Pace doesn’t assume his position between us, instead walking to the computer on the other side of the room. With the press of a button, a TV screen rises from the floor, blocking the fireplace. “Your brother,” Father says, finally regarding us, “apparently has something to show us.”

Father moves to the leather chair that faces the screen. Wicker and I follow, taking our expected positions, flanking each side of his chair. Behind Father’s back, we dare a look at one another, but Wick shrugs, also confused.

Pace is wearing the same clothes he was sent down there with: athletic shorts and a plain black tee. The mini twists in his hair were growing out even before he went into the dungeon, but now it’s even more obvious, his textured hair beginning to loc. His skin has gone a concerning gray, the circles under his bloodshot eyes pronounced. The hollows of his cheeks are sharper, and if I had to guess, he hasn’t been eating much off the trays I’ve been sending down with Frank.

There are two new cuts on his arm.

Gnashing my teeth, I try my best to put it out of my mind as I watch him click around on the computer.

“It’s here,” Pace says, voice rough as he squints at the screen. The TV blinks to life with an image of what I know is the computer screen. Pace navigates to the main directory before drilling down into folders labeled with location codes and dates. “The night of the Fury, I placed a bug in the cutslut’s lounge. Motion activated,” he says, only sparing Wicker and I the briefest glance. In it, I can see hesitation, like he’s not so sure this is something he should be sharing. Regardless, he explains, “With the Princess going to the gym every week, it just seemed like a good idea.”

I’d be impressed with his ingenuity, except I know my brother. He didn’t plant that bug there for intel. He just couldn’t stand knowing his Princess was somewhere he couldn’t surveil. “Did you find anything?” I ask.

“Yes.” He presses play and a video appears on the TV. It’s women–blatantly West End women–in various states of dress and undress. The volume is loud, unclear because of so many high-pitched voices all at once, but Pace walks over and uses his finger to point at the screen. “Verity’s right here.”

She walks in and greets the other women, her posture casual and relaxed. It makes sense—these are her friends and family. But one by one, the girls leave the room, until it’s just Verity and one other woman: Lavinia Lucia. The Duchess.

Pace reaches down to the keyboard, pausing the video.

It freezes on a frame of Verity pitching forward, smiling at the Duchess.

“This is a violation of the covenants,” Wicker says, scowling at the frozen image. “She was specifically told that engagement with other Royals—including the women–is off the table.”

Father stares at it, expressionless. “This happened a week ago.”

“I asked her about it, but before I could verify any of her answers, I was…” Pace clears his throat, giving our father a nervous glance. “Uh, made unavailable.”

“What were her answers to this?” Father asks, tapping his finger methodically against his knee.

Pace flicks his dark gaze to us. “She blew it off. Said they weren’t close at all. But obviously, she lied. As you can tell, they’re… friendly. At the very least.”

“Very friendly,” I reply, seeing the smile they share. It isn’t just the polite, casual smile of acquaintances either. It’s wide and comfortable.Intimate.

Well. Fuck.

Pace allows the video to continue to run, and we watch as Verity and Lavinia leave the locker room.

“Thank you, Pace, for taking the initiative of placing that recording device in the DKS facility.” Father looks up to meet my brother’s gaze, and my spine loosens at what I see there. He could have easily penalized Pace for taking so long to bring this up, but instead, he looks satisfied. Proud.Forgiving. Father nods at him. “That’s exactly the kind of dedication I like to see from you.”

For one, bright moment, it seems as though everything is going to be okay. Sure, the Princess has a friend in the Duchess, but that can be stamped out. Pace has made amends by discovering this. Wicker is on the mend. No one is getting any appointments, isolations, or dates.

The world rights itself.