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Bruce doesn’t scream quite as satisfyingly when Pace pushes the glowing metal into his neck. His teeth clench as he traps the howl inside his chest, the tendons in his neck popping, but nothing comes out.

I give my brothers an exasperated look.

They always scream less by the third one.

“Switch to pliers,” I say, standing back and crossing my arms. “Save the rest of his flesh for the sharps.”

But when Pace approaches him with the pliers, Bruce shouts, “Stop!” His bare chest is gleaming with sweat, face turning a deep, turnip red as his muscles flex. “I’ll give you a reason. A good one!”

“We’re waiting,” I say.

“Not you.” His eyes flick to Pace. “Him.”

Pace’s eyes narrow. “What about me?”

Panting, Bruce shifts, face drawn. “You were adopted, right? Out of foster care?”

“Yeah?” It’s not uncommon knowledge, but Ashby has made it known far and wide that we’re to be considered blood, as much as his own son. He grabs Bruce’s hand, holding the plier up to his fingernail. “What’s it to you?”

Bruce’s teeth grit, and a whimper comes out of his mouth as Pace closes the metal clamp around the nail of his forefinger. “I heard something. About your father.” The pliers begin tugging, and then Bruce hastily clarifies, “Not Ashby. Yourrealfather.”

Pace freezes.

All three of us do.

There’s a moment of tense silence, but it doesn’t last long–not before I lunge for him, grabbing his sweaty hair in one fist and the hot poker in the other. I put the hot metal a bare inch from his eyes, snarling, “What did you hear?”

Bruce shrieks, “He’s West! West End!” When I remain there, unmoving, he stares at the poker and frantically goes on, “My dad and his buddies, I’ve heard them talking about it. They said Lucia–the Duchess–it reminded them of what happened back in their day with another Duke hopeful. Knocked up some chick from East End.”

“What chick?” I growl.

But Bruce shakes his head. “Man, I don’t know! I just heard it was a huge scandal. If I had to guess–”

I move the poker closer. “Oh, you have to.”

He swallows, pushing back against my grip. “If I had to guess, I’d say she was someone important.” His eyes flick up to Pace’s. “Someone Royal.”

Lurching back, the branding iron hangs heavily at my side as I meet my brothers’ gazes. They’re both thinking the same thing I am. Someone important. Someone Royal.

Someone like a Princess.

I can’t even rememberthe last time I was in danger of having a wet dream.

This one is hazy but agonizing, the slow, gentle drag of red fingernails up and down my shaft. I can’t see who they belong to, but I know that she’s wearing a sweater and I’m pulling it up, revealing two soft, round tits. I feel more than see her mount me, my cock suddenly engulfed in wet, tight heat. That’s all it is, a disconnected series of images and sensations, but even though it feels good knowing my release is on the horizon, something niggles at the back of my thoughts. It’s bad. I can’t remember why it’s bad, but I know that I can’t.

I can’t come.

It’s agony to stave it off as I wade through the fog to remember why. It feels urgent. Life or death. Something I’ll regret later, and that’s not a long list.

When it hits me, I jolt awake with a grunt, jamming my hand into my boxers to squeeze the base of my aching cock. It twitches angrily in my palm, and it hurts–god, it fucking hurts to will it back, but I try. I take deep, gulping breaths and flop back onto the mattress, feeling the fine sheet of sweat covering my bare chest.

I need it.

I need it so bad that I find myself reaching for the phone, wondering, hoping, praying…

11:55 pm.

Leaping from the bed, I cross my room and throw open my door. Uncaring of the fact that I’m marching down the hallway with my fist shoved down my boxers, I make a beeline for her bedroom.Ourbedroom, technically speaking. That’s what I tell myself as I ease the door open and duck inside. I still have five minutes–three now–until my day is up.