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In a mocking voice, Wicker says, “Freedom means choice, Ver.”

It’s what Lavinia Lucia had said to her on that video, and right now, Verity Sinclaire is realizing she has none of those.Choices.

Her chest caves at Wicker’s words, body going limp, like a doll whose strings have just been cut. “Wicker,” she says, green eyes already welling up. “It’s not what you think.”

“Fuck you,” he snaps. I’ve seen Wicker angry plenty of times. Shit, probably a dozen times a day. This is nothing like the usual, though. He looks like he’s been fucking gutted, every line of his face strung tight as he glares her down. “Everything I told you that night–you just went behind my back and fed it right to our fucking enemies.”

“Not everything,” she rushes to say, a tear brimming over. “I never would have told them about…that. And the other thing–they already knew.”

“You think that makes it better?” My bark of laughter is cold, sharp enough to watch it cut her with a flinch. “I knew about you from the start. I knew you’d be a disloyal cunt, stepping on the backs of anyone who got in the way of what you wanted.” I bring my palms together in a slow clap. “I’ve gotta hand it to you. You were almost good at it.”

But she’s searching my face with a frightened frown. “Why do your eyes look like that? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong with me. In fact,” reaching out, I snatch her hair in my fist, “I’ve never been more right. I wanted to take your hands, you see. But Father says you’ll need them to hold the baby we’re going to put into you tonight.” Wrenching her closer, I make sure she feels my hardness against her hip. “The jury’s still out on your toes, though.”

Her eyes get wider, not just at the threat. “You’re high.”

“And thinking more clearly than I have been in weeks.” I release her, raking my fingernails down my left forearm, the itch already settling in. “And what I’m thinking is that I’m finally going to be able to scratch one itch in particular.” My tongue darts out. “Get on the table.”

Her eyes shift to the gilded table positioned in the front of the room. The same table Wicker bent her over on her throning night. “Lex–”

“Get on the fucking table!” I roar, my heart pounding like it could rip through my sternum.

She visibly jumps, but follows my orders, stepping to the table and easing up on the edge. “Like this?”

With my brothers behind us and the frat members in front of the table, I stalk forward, hyperaware of the thickening of my cock, the way it feels nudging at the seam of my fly, every sensation in every nerve heightened from the Scratch. It’s when I unzip that panic flickers across her face.

“What is this?” she whispers, eyes zeroed in on my very hard, very thick erection.

“The Royal Cleansing is ordered when a Princess violates her contract.” I step between her legs and give my cock a long stroke. “It’s required that you’re purified again, this time not by blood, but by seed.”

Face falling, she turns her head, looking over at the frat, all forty of them waiting for a show. “In front of… everyone?”

“Something I always hated about being a PNZ member,” Wicker says from behind me. “Everyone wants the Princess, don’t they? We have to watch her get throned and claimed, fucked in public, right under our noses, but we can’t touch her. It’s like dangling a fat, juicy pork chop in front of a pack of well-trained, hungry Rottweilers.” He sounds closer when he adds, “Every man in this room would love nothing more than to split you open on his cock. To be the one to fill you up. To know that our Princess–an icon of purity and innocence–is walking around withhiscreampie growing inside of her.”

Wide-eyed, she peers over her shoulder at them, shaking now. None of them say anything. They can’t. Royal Cleansings are much like the thronings in that way.

But at least three of them already have their dicks out.

Wicker lets her sweat it for a beat. “They can’t, of course,” he says, a cold smirk in his voice. “But they still have a role in this.”

Grabbing her chin, I jerk her horrified gaze back to mine. “That’s right, Princess. You belong to PNZ. You betray one of us, you betray all of us.”

Her lip wobbles, watery eyes shining up at me. “Lex, please.”

“Oh,” I breathe, reaching out to run my knuckle along the soft cut of her jaw, “we’ll definitely take more of the begging.”

“They’ll like that,” Wicker agrees, and I don’t need to turn around to know he’s looking at the camera. “You’ll like that, won’t you, Perilini? My brother’s about to show you what happens to our defective property.”

Her head whips around, spine going rigid. “Simon?” It isn’t until her eyes land on the camera that she realizes the King of West End isn’t here.

Not physically.

“No.” The word falls out of her in a long, agonized breath. She turns to us, eyes streaming with tears now. “I’ll take the punishment. I’ll be good.” Her voice breaks. “They don’t have anything to do with this.”

Low and cutting, Wicker says, “Fuck her, Lex. I want my go at her.”

“Patience, little brother.” Grabbing her hips, I yank her forward, knocking her off balance. She falls back, but struggles to get upright, eyes filled with frantic panic.