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Ashby jabs the point of his pen in Pace’s direction. “That’s the way it’s done. A Princess like Verity will need a steady hand. Consistency, patience, reinforcement.”

“I agree,” Pace replies, nodding. “The Princess is everything you said she is. Willful, proud, combative. But she shows moments of… dedication. Being Princess is her own project. She wants to succeed.”

The King’s eyebrows tick up. “Is that so?”

Pace explains, “She seemed disappointed that she isn’t pregnant yet.”

It’s galling to hear these men talk about me–about the commitment I’ve shown to being their Princess. The thought of them sitting around, talking about how much I want their baby inside of me, makes my fucking skin crawl.

Ashby appears to take this in favorably before turning his gaze to Lex. “And how many deposits did you make during this cycle, Lagan?”

“Four,” Lex says, and then, “No. Five.”

Ashby leans back, a pause stretching on. “Which is it? Four or five?”

Lex stammers, “Well, I–one of my deposits was comprised of two–”

“You made four,” Ashby snaps.

Lex’s head bows. “Yes, sir. One on each of my assigned days.”

Ashby drags in a loud breath. “I’d like to congratulate you as I have your brothers, but one deposit per day is the bare minimum. A disappointment. Mediocrity. It’s unacceptable.”

Lex tries, “Father, I’m—”

“I thought you had your situation under control!”

Even from the elevated view, Lex looks sick. “I do. I’ve made strides to compensate for any physical failings by maximizing our efforts.In addition to my deposits, I’ve researched methods to encourage fertility and fertilization. I’m monitoring her diet, her hormone levels, and her ovulation cycles. I’ve begun genetic testing. Additionally, I’m keeping everyone on schedule and enforcing the adherence to the covenants.”

Ashby stares at his son for a long, suspended moment. “So what you’re saying is that you’re doing everything but giving the Princess a good, old-fashioned fucking.” I flinch at the words, stomach churning.

Lex flounders. “I—”

“Whitaker,” the King says, “get the box.”

I watch, baffled as Wicker stands and strides across the room, opening the cabinet behind Ashby’s desk. Lex stands next, unbuttoning his shirt before shrugging it off and hanging it neatly over the back of the chair. When he turns, I catch a glimpse of the scars etched into his back.

“Father,” Wicker says, “Pace and I can contribute more deposits if—”

Ashby rolls up his sleeves. “This isn’t about deposits, Whitaker. This is about Lagan giving me his word, and then failing to fulfill it. He’s allowed a weakness to stand in the way of his purpose.” Then, Ashby commands, “Fireplace.”

I watch in growing horror as Ashby–their father–extracts a long whip from the box. Lex’s body is rigid, eyes staring into the fire as the King approaches him. Suddenly, there’s a loud crack, the long strap landing on Lex’s back.

The scars.

This is the source of them, I realize.

That night he came to me, asleep and animalistic,thesewere the wounds on his back, created by Ashby’s whip. The look on his face as he does it is cold and unyielding.

“Four lashings for each of your deposits. And an additional four to get you to the same level as your brother.Be thankful I’m not holding you to Whitaker’s standards.”

“Yes, sir,” Lex replies before the whip slices through the air and cuts into his skin once again. I can’t see the pain on his face–not from the camera’s vantage–but I can hear it in his voice. Maybe I should feel bad for him, but mostly what I feel is an oddly detached satisfaction. This was the man–the Prince–who held me down and fucked me in front of his frat. He’s the man who held me down while his brothers did the same. He’s the monster who stood aside and ordered the cleansing, watching as all those men spilled onto my body.

Still…

The whipping continues and I see the blood. The way Ashby slams his elbow back for a final, vicious lash, and the sound it makes when it connects, sharp and wet...

I feel bile rising in my throat once again, and throwing the headphones aside, I search frantically for somewhere to heave it. The trashcan under the desk becomes home to it, my back contracting as the vomit tears its way up my throat.