Page 32

If one of us doesn’t successfully impregnate the Princess and she doesn’t carry that child to term, finally giving Father an heir, we’re all fucked.

By five-o’clock,my head has settled into the fuzzy dullness of a body that’s accepted sleep isn’t on the menu. The only way I can make it down to lower East End is by telling myself if I make it just a few more hours, it’ll all be over.

One more day.

I just need to make it one more day.

“Hey.”

Blinking through the fog, I look over at Pace. He’s gotten some sleep, but that’s just how he is. Even before prison, he was always well-schooled in finding any place to fall asleep. The classroom. The bathroom. The trunk of a car. Once, he fell asleep on the roof of our boarding house in the middle of a storm so violent; it took out the power.

I’ve never envied him more.

“Hey,” he says again, grabbing my shoulder. “You gonna make it, man?”

My gaze slides to the building in front of me and I startle, remembering where we are.Right. The valet just took the car. Walking works by putting one foot in front of the other. “Yeah, of course.” I’m in my last semester of pre-med. I’m a fucking pro at going without sleep.

Wicker, on the other hand, is not. “Let’s get this over with,” he mutters, brushing past us and marching through the doors. Above our heads is a large, glowing sign that we’re all familiar with. This isn’t father’s only business, but it’s certainly his favorite.

The Gentlemen’s Chamber.

I spend a second putting myself together. Smoothing the wrinkles from my button-down shirt. Retying my hair back. Adjusting my sleeves. Walking through the door evokes a strange nostalgia, from the scent of wood and whiskey to the richly paneled walls and crystal chandeliers. Even the way we’re greeted, shuffled immediately to Father’s table, is just like everything else in this town; unchanging.

Case in point, I know before even arriving that he’ll have a rib eye, asparagus, and a half-empty glass of single malt sitting before him, and I’m not disappointed.

He cuts into the meat, glancing at us. “You’re late.”

I don’t bother looking at my phone. “Sorry, sir. My fault.” That’s a plus about a drained battery. It can’t spark enough to feel much of anything.

The signed pages of the covenant are spread out in front of him, the Princess’ signature faded into a brownish red. It’s Pace’s first time here since going to prison, and he lingers as Wick and I each take a seat, his dark eyes intent as they track a topless brunette walking toward the back.

Being here now feels exactly the same as it always does. I could be twelve, or fourteen, or seventeen. The age doesn’t matter. It’s the feeling that settles in my chest that’s familiar. It’s the three of us sitting here, avoiding the very obviously naked women dancing on the stage, watching him slice through the red meat and methodically chew. Back then we were skinny and zit-faced, fueled by hormones and rage. Shoulders back. Spines straight. Eyes forward.

Waiting.

Finally, he puts down his fork and knife, even this being part of the ritual. He places them in the center of his empty plate, perfectly parallel. “I’m aware that your Princeships have come as a surprise. Not just to you, but everyone in Forsyth. And in the spirit of being forthcoming, I didn’t expect it to happen either. There are certain criteria required for leadership roles such as this—more so for PNZ.” Wiping his mouth with a heavy linen napkin, he folds it into eighths. “We’re talking about heirs. Creating the next generation is top priority to this kingdom, and the three of you don’t exactly meet the typical standard.” He exhales, snagging his glass of whiskey. “But after the fiasco with the last set of Princes and their Princess, I needed someone in the Purple Palace I can trust. Men who have been raised correctly and understand the enormity of this position. Impregnating the new Princess is imperative. Failure is not an option.” He holds each of our gazes as he tips back the glass. “Do you understand?”

We respond as a unit. “Yes, sir.”

Father nods. “Very good. Now that negotiations have been settled with the Dukes, I thought we might take a moment to go over your responsibilities with the Princess.” The moment he pushes his plate aside, a server descends to take it away, her small, perky tits visible through her sheer, lace top.

Wicker and Pace, one just as desperate as the other, watch her ass as she leaves.

“Eyes forward,” Father commands, not ungently, and they both snap to attention. This is why he’s always brought us here. Every important meeting, from our college acceptance letters to job designations have occurred in the lust-filled shadow of skin. Tits draped with delicate gold necklaces. Smooth legs covered in intricate hosiery. Dark lipstick and the cloying scent of sugar. The women never speak to us–never look at us–because they’ve been ordered not to, and everyone follows the rules.

This, like everything else, is an exercise in endurance.

“You’re all familiar with the text by now, surely,” he says, flipping through the papers. Pulling one out, he rests it on top, our signatures scrawled at the bottom. None of us spare it more than a quick glance, understanding the gesture for what it is. A reminder. “Tell me.”

“The Prince’s seed is exclusive to his Princess,” I begin, reciting the covenants from memory. “He will not spill it for any purpose other than to fulfill his biological obligations.”

Pace’s laconic voice continues, “The Prince will nurture his body to provide his Princess with the strongest seed.”

“The Prince will protect,” Wicker grits out, “nourish, and sustain his Princess.”

There are dozens of these–far more for her–but all of them boil down to a general understanding. No sex with anyone else. No masturbation. No sex that isn’t done for the sole purpose of creation. A Prince spills his seed for one reason and one reason alone. The first time I read a covenant that wrapped the forbiddance of blowjobs into contractual jargon, it made me laugh. Now, I want to hit something.

The Prince might not belong to his Princess, but his dick sure as hell does.