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In the end, I relent, going through all of the authentications to bring up the Palace’s feeds. I check the front gates first, out of habit. Then the downstairs–dining room, kitchens, parlor–and the staircases.

Wicker, as impatient as ever, says, “Just look in her room.”

My thumb pauses over the button, but I finally press it, bringing up the stream. I feel Wicker tense, just before he realizes it’s empty. Her bed is rumpled, a tray sitting askew on the table beside it. There’s a robe draped over the chaise, and a bra sitting on the top of the dresser.

But no one is there.

His eyes narrow. “Keep looking.”

“What are you hoping to find, exactly?” Despite my question, I keep flipping through the cameras, but it’s the next pick that does it.

She’s in the bathroom.

Wicker and I both suck in a quiet breath when she comes on the screen. Part of it is that she’s stark naked, standing at the vanity.

Part of it is that she’s looking right at us.

Her hands are braced on the edge of the counter in such a perfect mirror to Wicker’s pose from moments ago that it’s startling. Her hair is down, tumbling over her pale shoulders and perky tits. There are thumbprint bruises on her waist and dark circles beneath her eyes. Her nipples are erect, pink lips pressed together in a stoic line.

Her green eyes look right through me.

“You think she knows?” he asks, eyebrows pulled together.

“That the camera is in the mirror?” I shake my head, even though I can’t know for sure. “She’s just primping.”

Only she keeps staring.

We watch her for a long while, the eerie sensation of being watched back tickling on the edge of my awareness. Her skin looks soft. That’s the dangerous thing about Verity; she looks so goddamn inviting. Maybe Wicker had it right before. Maybe we’re deprived of something she knows to give us. It’s not just the softness or the sweetness. It’s the way it feels to have that soft sweetness beneath our rough hands.

Suddenly, I realize why I haven’t been able to see her yet. It’s not even about the cleansing. Not about savoring the destruction, nor feeling remorse for it. It’s because now I know.

I know that even after everything, I still want her.

In a low, gruff voice, Wicker asks, “Do you ever wish that she really could have been…”

“Ours?” I turn, meeting his gaze. I know my answer to that question. I feel it in the pull, because it’s instinctive. There’s no reason it should be. I only had her for a few weeks. But before I can begin trying to put that disappointment into words, I need to know, “Do you?”

It’s not like Wicker.

Sex has always been easiest for him. Lex needs the perfect specimen–someone who’ll understand that they’re just body parts, chasing a biological high. I need something more complicated. The tug in my gut. The spark of curiosity. The flare of possessive fire, even if it’s fleeting, that tells me she has to be mine.

Wicker’s never needed more than a warm body, and from the tinge of alarm in his eyes, he’s realizing that Verity showed him something he wants, and it’s more than a hot, slick pussy.

I’m not even surprised when he pushes his mouth to mine. It’s not the first time we’ve kissed. It’s not even the first time we’ve kissed since I got back from prison. The thing about Wicker is that he only knows two ways of coping with any given thing: hurt something or fuck it. And it’s usually the latter–sometimes both. It’s not his fault, it’s just what being Father’s product has shaped him into. I hate it. I’vealwayshated it. From the first night he came back to boarding school and told Lex and I, smirking, about the sweet piece of ass he bagged over the weekend, I didn’t feel jealous like Lex did. I felt fucking sick at the thought of someone owning him like that, because for all his boasting and bluster, I could see the uncertainty and hurt lurking beneath it.

Wicker didn’t want it.

He doesn’t want this, either.

He’s just not ready to admit it.

So I kiss him back, threading my fingers through his damp hair, because fuck. It’d be easy–so much fucking easier–to want this instead ofher. I lick into his mouth and he meets me with a determination that forces a grunt from my throat. He rolls into me, a hand grabbing for the waistband of my boxers, but when I palm his side, the muscles are flexed and strained, and when I cradle his jaw, it’s all hard angles, his chest broad planes. There’s no softness. No silky hair under my fingers. No plush lips or soft thighs, the sweet scent of roses distressingly absent.

It’s nothing like our bored, drunken makeout sessions freshman year, our hands quick on each other’s cocks as we raced to the finish line. It’s not exactly a hardship. Wicker’s always been a really fucking intense kisser, and it’s not even really about his lack of having a pussy. It’s that this is desperation without any of the fire. Need without any of the want. Bitter without any of the sweet.

We break away when we hear the shower cut off, blue eyes staring back at me instead of green, and the way my stomach plummets pretty much seals it.

I finally answer. “Yeah, I wish she could have really been ours.” Glancing down at his cock, barely half-hard, I raise an eyebrow. “And I guess you do, too.”