Page 209

Wicker follows my gaze before flopping hard on his back, blue eyes gazing unblinkingly at the ceiling. “Fuck,” he says, and then, clutching at his hair, “Fuckingfuck.”

I discreetly wipe my mouth. “Sounds about right.”

“Trying to get me killed is one thing,” Wicker bites out, scowling. “But Stockholming my dick? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No.” Wicker and I both swing our gazes to the bathroom door, where Lex is looking like a drowned rat, hair in his face. He glares at us. “You know the rules. No fooling around in the bed we sleep in. It’s weird and annoying.”

“Relax,” I mutter as Wicker rolls his eyes, twisting to find some underwear. “We all have broken dicks now, apparently.”

“Do we?” Lex’s jaw hardens, teeth clenching as he yanks the towel around his hips off. “Because mine seems to have gotten with the program.”

Wicker and I both gape at the sight of Lex’s thick cock, which is currently standing at full pornographic salute.

Wicker’s eyes narrow. “You said you flushed the rest of the–”

“I’ve been clean since Thursday night,” Lex insists, eyes flashing.

“Christ.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Like your fuse hasn’t been short enough.”

He climbs into bed with us minutes later, the tense silence settled around him like a storm cloud. It’s only once we’ve all settled, some mundane sitcom playing on the TV, that he has anything to say. “Sorry I’ve been a shit.”

I glance across Wicker’s bare back, seeing the light play over Lex’s furrowed brow. “It’s not your fault.” None of this is our fault. We didn’t ask for it. We didn’t even volunteer. We weren’t created to be Princes, but Father made us ones anyway.

“For what it’s worth,” Lex adds, staring straight ahead, “It wasn’t just you two. I thought she could be ours, too.”

32

Verity

Looking over the ballroom,I have to give my mother credit. She’d prepared me for this day. All those Family Dinners. All those fundraisers and Screw Year’s Eve’s.

Verity Sinclaire knows how to throw a party.

The grand room looks majestic, with soft lavenders against creamy whites. No gaudy hot pink, like the Princesses who came before me. No, the Princes are in love with love, but they’re meant to be classy about it, just like the massive arch of white and pale purple roses over the door. There are fountains quietly bubbling over with French champagne, a dessert table covered in delicious confections, including trays of dark chocolate-covered strawberries and a six-tiered, ornate wedding cake. An orchestra tunes their instruments in the corner, and the crystal chandeliers have never sparkled more.

“It’s perfect,” Stella says from behind me. We’re at the side door taking one last look, and she sounds stunned. “I can’t believe you managed all this in just two days.”

“I didn’t,” I tell her, watching as Danner brushes the wrinkle out of a tablecloth. “We did.” Turning to send her a grateful look, I fret, “Do you think the photographers are too much? Is the photo booth area tacky?”

“No way, the girls will love it. Those, too.” She nods at the men stationed by the front with baskets of roses. “It’s elegant and sophisticated.”

I exhale, scanning the ballroom one last time. “Good. I want everyone to like it.”

She places a hand on my arm, giving me a soft, confident smile. “You made the right decision, Princess.”

Satisfied, I nod. “Let’s go get me dressed.”

I spenda lot of time on my makeup, covering the dark circles beneath my eyes, accentuating my lips, trying to soften the hollows in my cheeks. The fading bruises on my neck get dabbed with concealer, and then I start on my hair, curling it into long, methodical ringlets.

I always thought being a Princess would be glamorous, and for once, that’s true. The dress I slip into is a lot like the ballroom in that I’ve taken it up to a ten. It’s unlike the ballroom in that I’ve forgone the illusion of purity and class, because it’s siren red, sequined, and so tight that it fits like a second skin, the swell of my breasts peeking out the top. I may as well wear it while I can.

I look at myself in the mirror before reaching for the jewelry box, plucking out the golden chainmail choker.

“Allow me.”

I freeze, eyes flicking to the reflection in the mirror.

Pace is blocking the bathroom doorway with a sleek, artful lean, dressed to kill in a black tuxedo. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, eyes searing through me like evil onyx orbs. “I did pick it out, after all.”