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“You bringing your new Princess?” Turner asks, looking excited. These fuckers, all salivating for a chance to earn her favor like a nice dress and a tiara makes hernotWest End trash.

A week ago, they all would have been dogging her.

Wicker looks in the square mirror on this locker door and fusses with his hair. “Not fucking likely. She’ll be tucked into bed and out of our hair by nine.”

The locker room empties until it’s me waiting on Wicker to finally get dressed. “I’m not going,” I tell him, still twitchy about hanging back. I never would have dreamed of doing that back in the Pen. That’s a recipe for an ambush, and my veins rush with the instinct to keep moving.

Wick’s head snaps up. “Why the fuck not? I know you’ve got to bang the Princess, but it’s been two years, Pace. How long do you really think that’s going to last?”

My fists curl, but I shove the anger down–deep. “I’ve got business to handle, feeds to watch, and deposits to make.”

He grimaces at the word ‘deposit.’ “Jesus, that term. Only Father could manage to strip every ounce of feeling from sex. And seriously, checking feeds? Is that a euphemism now?”

We both know it’s not, but I do spend a lot of time looking through security, keeping track of people, and being aware of who’s where. Father probably assumes I’m trying to be a good soldier, always having an eye on his assets, but the reality is, I can’t stop. It’s the only thing that makes this jagged torsion in my chest ease the fuck up.

Mostly, though, I have big plans for Rosilocks. Plans that are going to take a lot longer than whatever he’s got in store for her tomorrow. I wasn’t lying when I told her she was the only benefit for me. Knowing–not fantasizing or wishing–that my dick is going to be buried into her rosy cunt in a few hours is the only thing worth savoring.

Finally.

My turn.

Pushing my hair back, I approach my next question with quiet caution. “Are you really going? Because—”

He rolls his eyes. “I know. Keep my dick to myself. I do havesomeself-control, you know.”

No, he doesn’t. The Nu Zoo is East End’s party house. No one lives there. The frat pools together the funds to pay for rent and repairs, and in return, it’s exactly what the name describes. A zoo. Wicker’s been a regular since senior year of high school.

He shrugs on his jacket, the Forsyth U hockey logo on the chest. “I can get through a party without getting off. I mean,” he winks, “there’s no covenant against watching.”

I stare at him, wondering if he really believes that, because I don’t for a minute. “It’s not you who’ll pay if you fuck up, Wick. Remember that.”

The line of his shoulders goes tense, and he turns, fixing me with a flinty stare. “You’reremindingme?” he asks, eyes narrowing. “Who do you think was piecing Lex back together after you left? I’m the one who stayed up with him every night for three fucking weeks, making sure he didn’t tear his stitches or walk out into traffic. I’m the one who was going out to North Side at three in the morning to score him Scratch. I’m the one who tied him down when Father made him go cold turkey.”

The guilt is the most familiar thing of all–like a knife in the stomach–and I feel the blood draining from my face. That’s the only way to beat it. To be numb. To be nothing. To be gone.

Wicker goes on, “Maybe it was really fucked up for you in there. I wouldn’t know–you refuse to talk about it. But when it comes to Lex, you never have to remind me what’s at stake.”

Averting my eyes, I try to find my voice. “I know. I only meant…”

In my periphery, I see him flinch. “Fuck.” He pushes forefinger and thumb into his forehead, eyes closing. “Goddamn it. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s what he wants–for you to think we blame you.” When our gazes meet again, his eyes are full of the same bitter regret I feel. “We don’t.”

“You both keep saying that,” I point out, offering a tense grin.

Weakly, he shrugs. “Maybe you’ll start believing it.”

“Maybe.” Probably not.

There’s a long, heavy pause, but neither of us says we’re sorry. We don’t need to. That’s the thing about the three of us. We were molded to hurt, cut, and deceive, but no matter how much Father hoped it’d be against each other, it never has been. We made that pact years ago. In blood. In darkness. In agony.

We’re a Cerberus–three heads, one heart.

That’s why I can’t be mad. It’s why I have to watch my brother fuck Verity–hold her open for him, if I must–and keep my mouth shut. It’s why I have to help Lex find the best way of getting his seed into her. It’s why I have to look them both in the eye and pretend it doesn’t make me want to fucking explode.

Because that’s what Father would want.

Wicker’s the one to break the silence, propping his shoulder against a locker. “Hey.” He bobs his chin up, eyes hopeful. “You horny?”

I snort, all the futile guilt and useless anger melting away. “Not for you.”