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“Hey,” I say, voice sharpening. “You leave Lavinia out of this!”

“They traded you–my daughter–like a piece of fucking meat?”

I guess none of the Dukes told her about that part.

Oops.

I send a silent apology to Sy. “Mama, they only did it because I asked them to.” Chancing a tense smile, I offer, “They actually came to rescue me first.”

“I can see they did a bang up job!” she bursts, bracelets rattling at the fling of her hands. “For Pete’s sake, Verity, do you even know what you’ve gotten yourself into? With Ashby? Withthoseboys?”

I can’t stop the incredulous laugh that punches from my chest. “Oh, now you care what kind of boy I’m serving? Because before Nick Bruin came back, we were pretty much certain Bruce Oakfield was going to be my third Duke.” I raise my eyebrows, but it’s unnecessary. I can tell from the shadow crossing her face that she remembers that day in the gym, dabbing my wound with antiseptic and a stoic frown. “You didn’t seem to have any reservations about that.”

Her shrewd eyes burn into mine. “You don’t know anything about my reservations. You think Nick Bruin waltzed back into West End and took that Dukeship because of hischarm?” The smirk she gives is slow and sharp. “That’s right. The Bruins have the teeth, but baby, I’ve got the claws.”

Mama has always overstated her influence. But it’s true that Saul Cartwright was malleable to the right kind of person. “Even if that’s true,” I say, “even if you had somethingminorto do with Nick replacing Bruce, you still expected me to–”

“Expectations?” she snaps, eyes widening. “Yes, let’s discuss expectations. Do you know what Ashby and his sons expect of you?”

“I do.” Even when she laughs, unhinged and disbelieving, I remain calm, collected. “I’m not as stupid and naive as you think I am. This Princess gig? It’s a farce. I’m just a vessel to them. They don’t want me–they want the thing I’ll create.” Shrugging, I add, “I didn’t go into this blindly, mother. Youtrainedme for this. Every etiquette lesson. Every dance class. All those nights of staying home while the other girls went on dates. The fucking obsession over my virginity.” It comes out in a rush, like a dam has broken in my chest.

“You’re mad at me,” she says, eyes hardening. “Fine. Be mad that I trained you to be Duchess. Hate me. Get mad, get even. But becoming Princess is a fight you’re not ready for.”

I scoff. “You didn’t train me to be a Duchess. The Dukes, the Lords—even the Counts, before they were blown to hell and back–prefer virgins, but none of them require it. There’s only one house who has that requirement.The Princes.” I feel the ache between my legs, deep in my core where that phallus ripped my hymen apart. “That’s who you groomed me to be ready for, whether you intended to or not. And if being a Princess is a fight? Then all the better, because I’m still West End.” I sling my bag over my shoulder, straightening my spine. “I’ll win.”

My mother has always kept her emotions close, and now is no different. But she can’t hide the look in her eye—something I’m not sure I’ve ever witnessed before.

Fear.

My mother is afraid.

Notofme.Forme.

“Oh, Verity. Can’t you see?” Her chin trembles as she takes me in, head shaking. “Baby, you’ve already lost.”

9

Pace

I grip my shaft,running my hand along the hard surface, squeezing my fingers tight. This part always feels natural, like my body and soul meet in this place of transcendence. Everything is fluid, easy, a swift rhythm that results in the best kind of euphoria.

For the first time since being back, I’m able to narrow my awareness down to nothing but the motion of my hands.

“What’s the ransom on that puck, Ashby? Stop holding it hostage and shoot the fucking biscuit!”

Coach’s voice gets past the filter and my eyes dart to Turner, who’s open on wing, then back to the net. Wicker and I have been zipping up and down the ice all fucking day, but I haven’t taken the shot yet. I was so pissed when Father told me I’d be gunning for center again, but now that I’m here, I don’t want to let it go. Makes me greedy. Selfish.

I want it all to myself.

My eyes meet my brother’s, and he gives me the nod. The gap closes and I take the shot, hiking my elbow back, giving the puck a hard slap. I hear the crack, the best fucking sound in the world–other than my name on a woman’s lips as she’s coming her brains out–and watch as the puck sails past the goalie’s outstretched arms and into the net.

It’s almost depressing how much I want to skate over there and take it back, get lost in the glide and push.

Back in the locker room, that sense of serenity melts away. The sound of the showers, the cold tile floor, men walking around in towels or butt naked. It’s all like sandpaper to my psyche, the fringes of my awareness raw with the instinct to be alert. The locker room should be soothing. It’s part of why I got on so well in lockup. After a childhood of group homes, boarding schools, and hockey, being packed in a mildew-scented sardine can with a bunch of smelly, raucous shitheads is uniquely familiar. Also familiar is the feel of my teammates' curious gazes, checking me out. In prison, that assessment was life or death, men twice my age measuring me up, wondering whether or not they could take me. A lot of them liked to test me.

A lot of them lost.

The guys here are measuring me up too, but for different reasons. These aren’t heathens who are doing eight to twelve for armed robbery. These are East Enders–soft even when they’re being hard. They’re wondering what one of their own looks like after two years behind bars.