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When we reach the first floor, I’m struck by a wave of unsteadiness. Some of it’s the ache between my legs, the distance between my rooms and the dining room practically a football field. But a lot of it is the sudden swell of nerves about facing the men.

A lot of it is fear.

I press a hand to the wall, breathing in short, panicked bursts, and for a moment, I don’t hear anything at all.

There’s a soft sigh, and then Stella rests a gentle hand on my hip, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. “I know last night must have been really hard, but the best thing to do—theonlything to do—is to put on a good face and get through it.” When I turn, she’s giving me yet another smile. This one, however, radiates a sympathy I’m not expecting. “One step at a time. We’ll make it through, because that’s what we do.”

The words themselves are generic and trite, but the look in her eyes when she says them…

I suspect Stella knows a thing or two about needing to push through pain.

Taking a deep breath, I nod. I can show good behavior at the breakfast table. Sure, I grew up around the chaos of Family Dinner, but I’d been trained for this. Today is the time to put all those lessons into action.

My back achesfrom how stiffly I’m sitting in my chair, eyes fixed to the box sitting in front of me. It’s big enough to cover the whole plate it’s resting on, wrapped with a golden bow.

“Go on,” Ashby says from the head of the table. It’s startling to see the King sitting there–plate full, cup of coffee in one hand, the New York Times in the other. Even though his gesture is politely encouraging, I take it for the demand that it is.

The King has filled his plate, but the Princes, I’m told, can’t eat before their Princess does.

Pace is glaring daggers at his empty plate.

With an unsteady hand, I reach out, gently plucking the end of the bow. Everyone in Forsyth talks about the Princess getting all her gifts. How they’re elaborate and expensive, indulgent and amazing. The cutsluts love to gossip about them on Fridays as they’re getting ready for the Fury. With stars in their eyes, they always gush over the jewelry, the cars, the flowers, the bling. Usually, this would be followed by grumpy mutters about the Dukes not favoring material possessions, because romance looks very different to a fighter.

I won’t deny being one of the girls who’d daydream. It always seemed so luxurious, thinking of being showered with the Princes’ riches. Now that it’s actually happening, I look at this ornately wrapped box, and all I feel is numb.

Ashby sips his coffee. “Typically, the Princes would give their Princess something truly exceptional the morning after her throning. Since they didn’t have time last night to procure you an appropriate gift, I’ve taken it upon myself to raid the Royal coffers for something… fitting.”

They all watch as I mechanically unwrap it, pulling the top off to reveal a purple velvet box nested inside. My heart sinks, and I don’t really understand why–not at first–but when I pull up the top, my stomach churns with dread.

Looking frighteningly pleased with himself, Ashby explains, “That tiara belonged to the very first Princess.”

It’s gold, with delicate filigree and crystals–maybe evendiamonds–inset like glitter. The center comes up to a curving point that frames a large purple amethyst gem. Around it are smaller amethysts–three of them–and at the very tip of the center point sits another. The metal combs on the back are weathered with age. Maybe it’d be different if it were something new, but this isn’t just any old tiara. This is arelic.

I look up into Ashby’s eyes. “I can’t accept this.”Too much, my mind is screaming. Something this important comes with a price, and given as this is a priceless object, I don’t want to even fucking imagine.

“You can,” he says, lifting his coffee to his mouth. “In fact, it’s one of the covenants that youwillaccept it. This, and all other gifts.”

Strangely, the Princes seem more bothered by the gift than I am, Lex’s expression full of stiff confusion. Pace tries to be subtle when he turns his head, eyes rolling, but even if his father doesn’t see it, I do. Wicker’s face pinches, like he’s smelled something off-putting.

“Er… thank you, King Ashby.” Slowly, I close the box, but his sharpah-ahmakes me freeze.

Eyebrows raised, he orders, “Put it on.”

Flustered, I tuck my hands close, not even wanting to touch it. “But… I wouldn’t want to break it. It’s basically a piece of Forsyth history.”

“No,” Lex corrects me, his amber eyes blazing. “It’s a piece ofEast Endhistory.”

Ashby argues, “Pretty things are meant to be worn by pretty girls,” and stands. “Allow me.”

It takes more restraint than I think myself capable of to not cringe away when Ashby rounds the table, plucking the tiara from its bed of molded silk. It’s almost worse when he’s behind me, his presence looming above like a distressing shadow.

I remain rigidly still, eyes cast down as he places the tiara on my head. I feel the combs making purchase, the prickly tug on my scalp, and force down a shiver.

It’s heavy.

“There,” Ashby says, rounding the table to assess me. I muster up the closest approximation to a smile I can, fighting the urge to squirm. “Aren’t you a vision?” he simpers, eyes sparkling. When silence follows, his gaze cuts to his sons, voice sharpening. “I said,isn’t she a vision?”

A chorus of ‘yes sirs’ follows, each of them unique. Lex’s is crisp, while Pace sounds annoyed.