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I’m pretty sure the Baron King, the closest thing to a truly neutral party, yawns beneath his ornate mask. “Let’s begin.” Out in the lobby stand his Barons, who confiscated all our weapons before we were granted admittance.

Wicker’s always particularly uneasy around any of the Barons, but in the presence of their King, he’s downright electric. The two of them have never so much as spoken a word to one another, but the animosity rolls off my brother in waves.

That’s bad enough, but now I have to sit beside the Princess of sluts as if she’s worth all the hassle.

“I want to know why the girl is here,” Father says, looking deceptively casual in his seat. Since the Kings love nothing more than posturing, he and Simon are on opposite ends of the table, while the King of the Barons sits behind the court bench, overseeing it. “This doesn’t concern her.”

“She’s my Queen,” Simon says with an insolence no one else would dare to show. “And you’ll show her the respect a Queen deserves.”

It’s all I can do to hold back my snort.

Father, however, doesn’t bother holding back his own, looking amused. “There’s a reason East End doesn’t have Queens. Princesses, sure. Mothers, all the time. But no woman has ever ascended to Royal parity in our house, and they never will.”

Wicker gives a banal smile. “So much less drama that way.”

“That’s not the way I hear it.” Lavinia Lucia is perched in one of the seats like it’s a throne.

Queen of traitors, if you ask me. She sold out her Count legacy–real, organic,bloodlegacy–and if the rumors are true, even killed her own father, all to become Bruin trash. No wonder Verity Sinclaire has no sense of loyalty. Her own Queen clearly doesn’t understand the concept of fealty. It grates something inside of me that the Lucia bitch has the nerve to speak, but the way she rolls her eyes makes it worse.

“Seems like all you guys have is drama. It bleeds over territory lines constantly. Autumn, her name is?”

Father answers her while looking at Simon. “Your house knows quite a lot about bleeding over territory lines, don’t they?”

I almost don’t catch it, the flash of panic in the Duchess’ eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. “My boys are hot-headed,” she says, glowering at the three of them. “If they’dwaited, I could have told them that barging through your gates was a bad idea.” From the nonplussed looks on their faces, I’m guessing this is an argument they’ve been having all morning.

Nagging.

Another reason we don’t have a Queen.

Father is bad enough.

The Princess is sitting in the chair opposite Lavinia. They’re a story of contrasts, the Duchess wearing a sweater that exposes both her shoulders and the Dukes markings on her back. One is a tattoo, the other the patented duke brand. She wrinkled her nose at the Princess’ pink dress, but other than that, the two don’t exchange much more than a small nod in greeting.

Good.

If Lucia has a shred of intelligence, she’ll see Sinclaire for the Judas she is.

Sy clears his throat and says, “Look, Verity assures us that she accepted the invitation to compete for Princess of her own free will. She also claims she signed your covenant agreement and has asked us to allow her to fulfill her duties.” He rests an elbow on the table, fist-up, and the large, gaudy ring on his finger gleams. “The problem is that she belongs to West End, and regardless of how freely her choices were made, we’re not going to give her to you without getting something in return.”

“The price has already been paid,” Father says, looking bored. “Let me be very clear, Perilini. We didn’t come here to negotiate.”

There’s a loaded silence after his words as everyone digests what that means.

Nick Bruin leans back in his seat, lacing his hands behind his head. “I was really hoping you’d say that.” The look on his face is one of cruel satisfaction.

“We’re the Dukes,” Remington Maddox says, tapping a marker against the table. “You think we aren't ready for a war?”

Nick smirks. “Our fighters are creaming their pants for it.”

“Oh, I know. We all know,” Father says, looking unconcerned as he rests a hand on Verity’s shoulder. “That’s why Miss Sinclaire here isn’t the prize.” He gives the Dukes a placid grin. “She’s the hostage.”

Simon straightens, eyes turning murderous. “Excuse me?”

In a patronizing tone, Father explains, “You're a volatile house with a new King who possesses all the hunger and stupidity of youth. Young men want war. Those of us who are a bit more… seasoned,” he glances at the Baron King, “know the score.”

“It’s funny you think we’re playing a game,” Simon says, teeth clenched. “But humor me, what score is that?”

“One to two.” Father releases Verity, who looks like someone just slapped her clear across the face. “That game started the night Nick Bruin killed my kin.”