Page 27

Gripping the steering wheel, I breathe, letting the craving come, and then letting it go. That’s what Dusty, the group counselor at my weekly meetings, says to do. It’s mostly bullshit, but following directions is what I was built to do. Yet again, I’m struck by dizzying relief that I hadn’t been the one chosen to claim her in front of the frat last night. It doesn’t mean it wasn’t a shitshow, though.

I hit a pothole, and I don’t miss the low hiss under her breath, or the way her hand grips the door handle. She was limping when she walked in the breakfast room. That, and the way she’s gingerly holding herself, is a good indicator she suffered some internal bruising from both the phallus and the relentless fucking Wicker gave her afterward.

Wicker. Jesus. He’s the reason I declared I would be driving the Princess to the meet up. Sure, Pace hasn’t been alone with a woman in nearly two years, and I haven’t been able to get a firm handle on his mental state since he returned. But Wicker? After last night, it’s clear he can’t be trusted to be alone with her right now. None of us are happy about this, but we all handle it differently. Wicker proved he’s too fucking impulsive, and after the fiasco with the last set of Princes and their cheating whore, Father wouldn’t handle losing another Princess well.

Not at all.

Wicker is a loaded fuse. Being pissy that his goal of fucking his way through Forsyth has been hamstrung by a real obligation is one thing. But this position isn’t easy on any of us. Him acting like a brat will only make it worse.

I feel her eyes on me and cut my gaze to the side, irritated. “What?”

“I danced with you last night.” She tilts her head, her green eyes searching my face. “I didn’t realize it until just now. You said it was your twelfth ball. I guess that makes sense knowing who your father is.”

I grunt in response, not wanting to talk about balls or my father, but apparently, she’s not finished.

She casts her gaze to her lap, voice softening. “You didn’t expect to be one of the Princes. None of you did, did you?”

“No,” I admit through clenched teeth.

“And you don’t…” Her voice trails off, like she’s putting this all together. “None of youwantto be a Prince.”

I glare at her. “Does this feel like a celebration to you?”

Her mouth twists unhappily, but she gives a heavy nod. “That’s why Wicker was so… harsh.” No doubt reliving how Wick fucking railed her last night, she gulps. She’d taken the phallus better than expected. Oh, she fought. Her muscles tensed up, resisting the invasion, but she took it. It felt so good to push her down, too–to push back against something, to take control.

I snap, “Wicker rode you hard because he’s Wicker.” I make a sharp left, the old building in the distance. “That’s the thing about you chicks. You all think Princes are going to make love to you on a bed of goddamn roses. We’remen. If you came here looking for a romance, then you’re a child. That’s not how the world works,Princess.”

There’s a long stretch of silence as I search for a spot, and I feel more than see her eyes turn flinty. “I can make a few guesses as to why Wicker wants to hurt me,” she says. “And Pace blames me for something I didn’t even know about. But you? You don’t even know me.”

Shrugging, I say, “I know where you come from. That’s enough.”

“So you hate me for being West End,” she concludes, and I’m not even surprised. Of course she’d be stupid on top of being shallow and selfish.

“Exactly.” I take another sharp turn, my movements short and controlled.

Aside from the obvious lack of my having a choice, the funny thing is, if she’d been someone from East End–someone deserving of the position–I might have actually felt honored to do this. Maybe it makes me just as much of an idiot as it makes her, but there for a while, I’d actually bought into the whole Princess thing. She’s meant to be resplendent. Iconic. A goddess. My first few years at Forsyth, I’d actually looked forward to making my public offerings. It’s a requirement of PNZ to show appreciation and affection for the mother of our house, and since I’ve never been one for mediocrity, I excelled at it. Most of the guys in the frat would present her with flowers or jewelry, but not me. I’d make a real effort to find each one something extraordinary, bespoke to her interests and ambitions.

The thought of having to shower the woman beside me with gifts makes me sick.

“Well, just so you know, I didn’t see this—anyof this–coming either.” A shiny tear builds in the corner of her eye, but she sniffs it off, blinking it away. “Not the invitation, or being chosen, or anything else that happened.”

I press back in my seat, laughing darkly. “Sympathy? Really? Is that what you want?” She looks up, seeming startled at the callousness of my tone. “Before you delude yourself into thinking we’re all in this together, let me be clear. We’re not. My brothers and I are Ashby’s namesakes, and you’re a West End cubslut with a functioning womb. Our lives as men are fucked, but as long as those ovaries work?” I offer a cold smirk, reaching up to flick the sparkling tiara on her head. “You’ve just won the golden ticket.”

She gapes at me, and I see the hot anger welling in her eyes. It’s the fire Father had mentioned the night before. This, apparently, makes her an attractive candidate, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why.

“You think what happened last night is a golden ticket?” She thrusts a finger at the tiara, voice belligerent and incredulous. “That I can be paid off with shiny things?!”

I slam the brakes, throw the truck into park, and whirl toward her, seething, “That’s exactly what happened. You accepted that invitation because you’re desperate for the fairytale, and worse than that? You were willing to sell out your own house–your own fucking people–to get it. I don’t hate you for being West End,” I clarify, pinning her with my stare. “I hate you for selling it out.”

Her expression snaps into slack shock. “What?”

“You’re a fucking traitor,” I say, basking in the tears that swim in her eyes, spilling over. “Which makes you useless as a Princess, because you’ll turn on us the second something shinier and more impressive comes along. You have no fucking concept of loyalty or allegiance. You’re the worst kind of person.”

She blinks, face paling, but when she looks away, it’s with a clenched jaw. “You don’t know anything about the reason I’m here.”

“I know you came to East End for a fantasy; the Palace, the Princes, and the happily-fucking-ever-after.” I reach out and grab her chin, jerking her gaze to mine. “But guess what? That fairytale you were so quick to sell your soul for? It’s not real. It may look real on the outside, but on the inside, it’s just more of what you got last night. Torture.” I open my door. “For all of us.”

My father glancesat his watch, which is the closest he’ll come to admitting how much of an inconvenience this all is. The first day of a Princeship is full of obligations and planning and strategy, and sitting in an old courthouse, glaring across the long table at Simon Perilini and his street rats, isn’t one of them.