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Whitaker mostly sounds bored. “Can we eat now?”

Sighing, Ashby returns to his seat. “You’ll have to forgive my sons, Princess. They’re terribly untutored in the art of flattery. I’ve been assured their proficiency will improve.” The dispassionate flick of his eyes toward Wicker makes it clear that this assurance wasn’t given freely. Ashby gestures to the now empty velvet box. “And with luck, that may be a ring very soon.”

His hopeful grin makes me want to heave.

A Princess only receives her ring once she’s conceived. I’ve glimpsed it a couple times on past Princesses, the ring gold and simple, the silhouette shaped much like the tiara on my head. To be given the ring is a ceremony more serious than marriage. It means your fate is sealed–that a woman’s life will be inextricably linked to her Princes for eternity.

Apparently losing interest in the show, Ashby flicks a hand. “You may serve yourself now, Verity.”

No one looks at me as I stand, setting the box aside and producing my plate. The sideboard is filled with a dozen dishes of breakfast food, and approaching it, I fill my plate with dazed disinterest. A tablespoon of oatmeal, a slice of melon, a scoop of scrambled eggs. I take my seat again without even processing the food in front of me.

My stomach roils at the idea of consuming anything.

The sons go next, lurching from their seats and descending on the spread like vultures. The uncharacteristic lack of manners doesn’t seem to bother the King, who sips primly at his coffee, eyes fixed on the paper in front of him.

Lex and Pace return to the table in short order, but Wicker…

He hovers over the sideboard, his blonde hair messier than I’m used to seeing as he glares down at the offerings. “Is there a reason there are no bagels?”

“I can add that to the grocery list, sir.” This comes from the old guy I’d seen last night–Danner. He hadn’t said one word to me as he led me to my rooms, not bothering to help when I stumbled, tears still tracking down my face. He just stood a careful arm’s length away, waiting patiently as I gathered myself.

Now, he’s standing by the entrance to the kitchens, so unobtrusive that he could be a part of the golden damask wallpaper. With his hands folded behind his back, the man seems more like a butler than anything. Old, balding, black suit, and apparently in charge of ordering food.

“Wicker will choose from what has been made available to him,” Ashby announces, shaking out his paper to a new page. “Stop making a scene.”

With tight, angry movements, Wicker scoops a heaping pile of eggs on his plate, shoving two pieces of toast into his mouth at once before returning to the table. His seat is directly across from mine, giving me an involuntary view of his jaw tensing as he scoots his chair up. I get the sense there’s an arrangement to the table–that if Ashby had a Queen, she’d be sitting at the seat closest to me, across from her King.

It’s just empty.

Lex is next to Wicker, eating his sausage with a surgical precision that lacks any enjoyment. Every stroke of the knife, every fork tine being delicately stabbed into the meat, each shift of his jaw as he chews, feels painstakingly deliberate.

If it weren’t for Pace, the whole breakfast might feel like a performance, but the brown-skinned man beside me is shoveling food into his mouth at a dizzying speed. More than that, he’s got his arm curled around his plate, as if he’s expecting someone to reach over and swipe his slices of bacon. In stark opposition to Lex’s tidy meal, Pace doesn’t even use a napkin, licking out to catch any wayward crumbs. I hesitate to make any fast movements, almost certain he’d give a possessive snarl.

It makes a wave of homesickness spark in my chest.

He eats like a Duke.

The sound of paper crinkles, and Ashby sets it on the table. “How did you sleep, Princess?”

I flinch, head snapping up. “Fine, thank you.” The answer is rapid and automatic, as if my brain recognizes this as the path of least resistance.

“Excellent. An expectant mother should always be well-rested.” His eyes survey me, and unsettled by the implication of his words, I look down, picking at my food. “I see you met your handmaiden. I’ve been assured she’s a perfect fit for your specific needs.”

Wicker snorts. “He means she’s a South Side whore—a Hideaway reject.” He takes another bite out of his toast and gives me a cold smirk. “She’s experienced in the business of overworked pussies.”

Ashby frowns at him in disapproval. “Son, I’m aware that my announcement was unexpected, and things aren’t going exactly as you planned, but that doesn’t make this kind of language appropriate for the breakfast table.”

Wicker’s fist curls around his fork. “Sorry, Father. Should we take it elsewhere? The library perhaps? The bowling alley in the basement? Possibly the wine cellar? Oh!” He snaps his fingers. “The graveyard out back.”

Lex stiffens next to him. Even Pace drags his eyes from his food. But all Ashby does is fold his paper and meet Wicker’s gaze. A low boiling tension bubbles under the surface. Silent conversation jumps around the room, a language I don’t understand, but I do get the sense it’s dangerous.

“Wick.” Lex’s quiet, but no less sharp voice cuts through the silence. I watch as Wicker drops his eyes, and I’ve been around fighters long enough to recognize what’s just happened here.

“Sorry, sir,” he mutters.

A defeat.

My heart begins hammering before I’ve even cleared my throat, all my nerves flaring to life as Ashby’s attention is drawn to me. “I was wondering…” My voice cracks and I wince. I’d spent all night up in that bed crafting the most diplomatic way of asking, but the request emerges stilted, as if my tongue finds it foreign and unwieldy. I try again, strengthening my voice. “I was wondering if I could get a copy of the covenants. I’d like to… familiarize myself with my responsibilities and Royal obligations.”