Page 31

Looking up to meet their gazes, Father says, “Consider it a deal. Have the details ready by six this evening. The boys will work up a plan.”

“And then you’ll release Ballsack?” Nick’s eyes flick to his friend. “Withnoadditional damage?”

“Immediately.”

“Wait!” Lavinia blurts, glaring at her King. A silent conversation passes between them, and if the circumstances weren’t so tense, I’d bust his balls for being so pussy-whipped. It’s pretty damn clear that his Duchess wants something, and he’s going to get it for her.

“Two more things.” He turns back to the table, sighing. “One, we want daily, unsupervised contact with Verity.”

My head snaps up, the answer hard and final. “Absolutely fucking not.”

No one seems as surprised by my vehemence as my Father, who puts his pen down. He dips his chin approvingly, telling Simon, “This is for my sons to decide. She’s their Princess–their responsibility. If you want contact with her, you’ll have to convince them.”

“Not much of a hostage if we can’t regularly evaluate her safety,” Simon says, cutting his eyes to Verity. He offers, “Every two days.”

I remain perfectly still. “No.”

Fuck no.

In no goddamn universe.

Pace is the one to lift his head, cutting in, “Weekly.”

I whirl around, glaring at him. “Are you listening to me? I said–”

The look Pace gives me brings me up short. His eyes, dark and empty–just as they have been since he returned–spark with something meaningful. It’s been almost two years now, but I can still read them. They’re the same eyes that stared at me through the glass divider as he demanded Wicker and I stop visiting.

“It makes it worse,” he’d said before marching away, back to his cell.

He’s not suggesting it because he feels sympathy for her. This won’t be a favor or a kindness. He’s offering it because he knows how fucking awful it’ll feel.

Catching on, I turn to Simon. “One hour, weekly, with a non-Royal escort.”

The idiots look so pleased with themselves that it’s a struggle not to smirk at my brothers. Wicker’s caught on too, but he’s good at hiding it, leaning forward with an intimidating look.

“We’re going to tag her,” he adds.

Nick shrugs. “Who wouldn’t?”

“What was the second?” Father asks, returning to his paper. If he’s upset at the concession, then he doesn’t make it apparent, all business.

Remy’s the one to pitch closer, raising his chin defiantly. “When–ifshe gets pregnant, we want to revisit negotiations.”

“When she has all the leverage, you mean?” Wicker scoffs. “Not a chance.”

But Father shuts his notebook, removing his pair of glasses. “I agree to those terms.” Ignoring my brother’s incredulous stare, he adds, “If the Princess conceives in three months, then we’ll reconvene. And in the meantime, if she rebels, defects, or otherwise severs the covenants she’s willfully agreed to, then all terms are off.” He pauses, meeting Simon’s gaze. “Allterms.”

The air in the room grows heavy as we all silently acknowledge what this would mean.

War.

Simon looks at Verity. I don’t know what he sees in her face–couldn’t possibly care less, if I’m honest–but whatever it is, it must assure him that she’s up to the task of being a Royal cum dumpster for three months.

Simon nods. “I agree to your terms, Ashby.”

The deal is made quietly, with such careful, meticulous tedium that it could only have been arranged by my father. The pages are signed, witnessed and stamped with the seal of Forsyth. This all happens around me, slow and disjointed because I’m stuck on the three month deadline, and what no one’s had the guts to ask: what happens to the Princess–toall of us–if she doesn’t conceive?

No one asks, because they don’t need to.