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It takes me a long moment to fight back the panic at seeing him, the memory of his drug-crazed, dilated eyes still fresh in my mind. The ghost of his fingertips, bruising my inner thighs. The way his teeth looked when his lips pulled back, feral and rabid.

I hold it close, important and precious.

As expected, Wicker’s the one who can’t stop looking at the dress, the way it accentuates my tits and falls over the curves of my ass.

Lex? He gave me the earrings, but he can’t stop glancing at the tiara, while Pace eyes the choker around my neck as if he’d like to give it a sharp pull.

I’m wearing all of their gifts.

I could’ve brought the shears, but someone probably would have left without an appendage.

Without question, they look handsome as sin in their expensive suits, all broad shoulders and perfect posture. There’s not a hair out of place on Lex’s head, and no one would know the scars—the truth—hidden beneath that expensive tuxedo. Wicker’s slouched against the wall, his healing lip giving him a rough, sexy vibe that manages to only make him look hotter. Their expressions are stone cold and indifferent. Exactly the way I feel inside, down deep in my chest.

Impassive.

“The party lasts three hours,” I start, ignoring the nausea rolling in my stomach. “We’ll mingle, eat some cake, smile for the camera.” I look them each in the eye. “You’ll flirt with me and pretend everything is normal.”

“Perfect,” Lex says, eyes still blazing on the tiara. For a second, I get the impression he wants to rip it off my head. I’m probably not too far off.

Locking my jaw, I ask, “So you agree?”

“No,” Wicker says with an icy glance, “everything will beperfect, not normal.”

“Princes never strive for normalcy,” Pace adds, tone hard. “But I guess that’s a concept that may be hard for West End trash to comprehend.”

I second guess my decision to not bring the shears.

Wicker pushes off the wall and stiffly offers me the crook of his elbow, “The sooner we start, the sooner this joke of a party is over.”

I catch his scent as I take his arm, and a warring emotion runs through me. He smells good, like bait on a line. Again my stomach threatens to revolt, and it takes a second to push it back as we walk through the door, Pace and Lex following close.

Danner stands on the other side of the rose arch, nodding his approval. “Good evening. You all look wonderful.”

“Just announce us, Danner,” Wicker says, running his hand through his hair, making it perfectly tousled.

“Of course.” The room spreads in front of us like something out of a movie, packed with the PNZ boys and their dates. Music swells, the orchestra playing instrumental variations of popular music. Danner gives a signal that travels through the room until the music ceases. “Presenting the Princes of Forsyth and their beautiful Princess. May they reign.”

Every eye turns to the doorway, voices echoing, “May they reign,” and my first reaction is rage. There are no masks this time to hide the perpetrators and participants. Each of these men watched as I was assaulted all those weeks ago, and again on Thursday night. One by one, they defiled me. Do their dates know? No. The cleansing is a secret affair. The only ones outside of the people in the room that night who know are my family in West End.

We smile rigidly, giving everyone happy, solemn nods. This is the part I’m not good at. The acting. It’s not in my blood–not what I was taught. A West Ender wouldn’t think to hide their fury. They’d harness it. Tap it. Embrace it.

Which is why, once the spectacle is over, I slip away from Wicker’s grip, his scent, hiseverything, and merge into the crowd with a fake smile plastered across my face. It burns to shake their hands, to be just as fake as I knew East End was, but I do it.

I do it because there will only be one outcome this evening.

Revenge.

A hand brushesagainst my lower back, and I stiffen. “Dance with me, Princess.”

Unlike the last ball, Lex isn’t asking, and I’m in no position to decline. Wordlessly, I let him take my hand and guide me to the dance floor, his movements smooth as he turns to clasp my waist, gently cradling my hand in his other.

With a grace our bodies haven’t earned, we begin gliding with the other dancers, chins up, shoulders straight.

His amber eyes barely glance into mine. “You’re different from the last ball,” he says, his firm body spinning us. “Or maybe I am, because you look nothing like the doe-eyed girl you used to be.”

He’s right. I’m no longer the nervous potential Princess, unsure in my body and pedigree. I understand who I am better now. The power my body has over these men. But I’m also more aware of the vulnerabilities.

“You’re exactly the same,” I argue, allowing my body to move with his, following his precise but fluid steps. I can’t help but see the dichotomy. The exacting, methodical Lex, versus the wild, feral Lagan.