Page 33

I’ve barely had time to think of the covenants. I was reeling from the whole night. Father announcing we’re the new Princes was whiplash enough, but it being followed by the throning of some random red-headed West Ender was almost as shocking.

Wicker shifts next to me, fuming. This is going to be the hardest on him. Pace has already gone years without sex. One woman is more than the zero he had in prison. Schoolwork, studying for the MCAT, frat responsibilities, and my reliance on Viper Scratch pushed relationships or even hookups down my priority list. But Wicker? His singular focus since turning sixteen has been consuming as much pussy as humanly possible.

He’s as addicted to it as I am to Scratch.

Father adds, “Furthermore, there will be a schedule. Each of you will have two days of the week with the Princess. That time should be used for making Royal deposits and nothing more. Although there is no limit to the number of deposits she can receive each day, I don’t need to remind you that she’s a vessel,” his eyes flick to Wicker, “not a plaything.”

“Twice a week?” Wick asks, voice an octave too high. “We only get two days to fuck?”

“Language.” Father frowns, glancing around him as if he can possibly be scandalized in his own fucking strip club. “And yes. She gets a day of rest, and of course, a week off during her cycle. Assuming she has one.”

“But we can’t have sex with anyone else either.” He says this like he’s trying to make two pieces of a puzzle fit together.

Father’s eyes narrow in on my brother. “I know for a fact that you possess a remarkable reading comprehension. Don’t test my patience with willful ignorance.”

Wicker’s nostrils flare wide, mouth pulling back into a snarl. “You’re not doing this because you trust us. You’re doing this to punish us! You’re angry at Pace for Spring Break, me for having fun, and Lex for—” My brother looks me up and down, scoffing. “Fornothing, because Lex is the cyborg you wish we’d all be. He never steps out of line. But since he’s busy being Dr. Perfect Son, even he doesn’t have the time to be on Princess pussy patrol.” Wicker slams his palms onto the table, hotly adding, “You just wanted us back under your thumb again. Admit it! This is the only way you can keep us under your control.”

Shit.

“Wick,” I say quietly.

Pace’s leg bounces, the movement growing more rapid with every word that comes out of Wicker’s mouth. He’s not wrong, but it’s like the strippers. We know they’re there, but we can’t acknowledge them. There are things we just don’t say aloud.

Father leans back in his chair, appraising my brother. Wicker’s always been the first to flare up. Even a childhood spent under Father’s heel couldn’t wring the brattiness out of him. As always, Father’s long, intense stare seems to get through Wicker’s meltdown. It hurts to see it, almost worse than the possibility of me getting an appointment.

Wicker slowly pulls back from the table, back straight, eyes forward.

He falls back in line.

This. This is what I remember the most about being at this table. The waiting. Waiting for expectations to be laid out. For tantrums and breaking under pressure. For appointments to be scheduled.

Father picks up a small slip of paper.

“The schedule will be as follows: Sunday and Wednesday: Lex. Monday and Friday: Pace.” His eyes meet Wicker’s. “Saturday and Tuesday: Whitaker.”

“Tuesday…” Wicker says under his breath. “You’re saying I’m not going to get to bust a nut for two more days?”

“That is exactly what I’m saying,” Father says through gritted teeth, “although with more decorum.”

“You forced me to spend my last night of freedom with some DKS slut!”

“Do not,” Father roars, standing and slamming his hand on the table, “refer to the Princess as a slut or any other derogatory term!” He leans forward, elbows locked. “And yes, Whitaker, that is the reason I had you go first. Because you do not respect me, and that means I do not have to respect you.”

Wicker’s gone pale, his furious expression losing all its tightness. Each of us can probably count on one hand the number of times Father has lost his composure in public. It makes Pace and I go rigid just from habit–this thing that only belongs behind closed doors.

Wicker stammers out, “W-what? I respect you! I do everything you ask me to.”

Father tilts his head, a small grin twisting his mouth. “What color was your tuxedo the other night? Midnight blue or indigo?” When Wick doesn’t answer, Father’s gaze shifts to me. “Lex, do you know?”

I stare at his crisp white lapel. “No sir, I don’t.”

“I guess it will remain a mystery.” He sits, finished with his tantrum, apparently. “Do you boys understand your responsibilities?”

All three of us echo, “Yes, sir.”

He nods. “Lex will stay, but you two may go.”

Neither of my brothers move, but I barely notice. Dread blooms in my stomach, the skin on my back feeling tight and itchy.