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Let this be the one.

After my thirty minutes are up, I walk upstairs from the clinic alone, through the quiet halls of the massive palace. It’s late. One benefit to Lex’s disinterest is that he’s apparently content to make only a single deposit, and now that he has, I have a whole day of freedom stretched out before me–or as close to freedom as I’ll be seeing for the foreseeable future.

Tomorrow is my day off.

I’m not sure where the Princes are. If what I experienced two days ago is accurate, Pace is holed up in his room, watching. Wicker is probably out partying or doing whatever he can to keep his dick in his pants. And Lex? Maybe he’s behind that locked door, secure for the night, dreaming of things that make him wish he weren’t.

The activities and the people inside the Purple Palace are nothing like they seem from the outside. The clear skin and shiny hair, the perfect teeth and expensive clothes… none of it is indicative of what really goes on here. And I don’t just mean the covenant I signed—the agreement to create an heir. I mean the rest of it. The brothers clearly have their own issues from being raised in the Royalty. I’ve seen it before in the dark shadows of Killian Payne’s eyes, in the careful way Nick watches his back, and in Lavinia’s sharp anger and distrust of others.

I’d known from my mother that Ashby was ruthlessly controlling—it’s almost his brand—but I think I’m only just beginning to understand that his own sons may be ground zero for it.

When I arrive at the landing, I find myself unable to climb the last flight of stairs to reach my bedroom. If I do, I’ll have to clean myself up. I’ll have to look at my naked body in the mirror and ask myself what Lex has seen. I’ll have to slip into that enormous, cold, empty bed and wonder if it’s happened yet. Pregnancy. Motherhood. The more I think about it, the more my mind recedes at the idea, unable to grasp it.

Instead, I walk toward the wall and begin prodding curiously at the dark wood panels. I have a rare opportunity to explore, and I search all around me, knowing this is where Wicker pulled me into the passageway. The panel itself appears seamless, so there must be some lever or switch or something.

I inspect the paintings, and then the bookshelf, tugging on random volumes. East Endwouldbe a cliché, wouldn't they? Only none of the books are anything but dusty old times. Encyclopedias from the ‘20s. History books. Anthologies. Roster books from the days of yore.

I give up on that idea after a while, turning my eyes to the dim light of a wall sconce.

There’s a spot on the bottom of it where the gold has been rubbed shiny.

Jackpot.

I strain up to grab it, yanking it down, and hear a softclickbehind me. When I turn, I see the cut of shadow in the panel, a crack appearing.

My heart pounds, and I glance around before pulling it open.

I don’t exhale until I’m on the other side.

Without Wicker here, I’m able to get a better look around. It’s just a narrow hallway that goes in both directions. There’s bits of anemic light, seemingly from small openings or peepholes into the house. Once my eyes acclimate, it’s enough to get my bearings. The left should go down my wing. The right? I’m guessing toward the rest of the house.

Taking the right, I tread carefully, the boards beneath my feet soft and dusty. I can’t help but stop occasionally to peer through the small openings, getting a glimpse of the staircase, a library, even something that I terrifyingly suspect might be Ashby’s office. Someone could get lost in here.

Someone couldhidein here.

I eventually find myself at an odd juncture that takes me a moment to parse. One is a staircase, I realize, narrow and so dark that it might as well just be another wall. But it leads down, and after being in the clinic, the last thing I want to see is more basement nightmares. I take the turn instead, following it all the way to the end. I pause, convinced I hear the soft strains of music, but maybe it’s the wind rattling in this old house, through the drafty passageway. The music guides me until it’s nothing but a long note reverberating down the corridor. It stops just as I discover a shaft of pale, gloomy light filtering in. I look through a knothole in the wood. All I can see is translucent glass. With my fingers, I feel around, searching until I find a switch. It ends up being a lever just above the opening it creates, a pocket door lurching free.

I step out slowly, eyes drinking in the sight before me. Moonlight shines through the domed, milky glass above, but the dry vines tangled there do their best to cloak it. It casts a spider web of shadows onto the ground, which might have been smooth, creamy stone at one point, but now is covered with the vestiges of decayed moss and wiry weeds.

The walls are glass too, tall and regal, overlooking the garden behind the house. There’s a stillness here, an odd hush that makes my neck prickle.

“That didn’t take long.” The voice makes me yelp and I jump, whirling around to find a figure silhouetted near the back. I have to squint to make out the squat shape of him, only he’s not stooping at all. He’s sitting.

There’s a cello between his knees.

My heart is lodged into my throat, and it takes multiple attempts to squeak out anything. “Wicker?”

He lifts the bow in his hand, draping his arm around the neck of the instrument. The music I heard was his playing. The concept is hard to reconcile. “Found the sconce, right? I bet you checked the books first.”

My mouth works around an aborted response. “I was–I mean, I got lost, and–”

“Don’t bother, Red. You’re a fucking terrible liar.” He sighs, and something about the curve of his shoulders is a little too loose. I realize why when he reaches down to snatch up a beer bottle. “You can relax. It’s not my night. You’re safe from my cock for another couple days. Throw a fucking party.”

I wait for the surge of anger that always seems to arrive whenever Wicker is near, but the slump of his shoulders, the caustic softness of his voice, mostly just makes me nervous.

“I’m guessing you’re not here to pay your respects.” He gestures with the neck of the bottle to the massive panels of windows that face the garden. When I turn to follow his gaze, I’m startled to realize the garden outside the windows isn’t just a garden. A few headstones peek up in the distance, crooked like teeth. “To Michael Ashby,” Wicker slurs, raising the beer in a toast. “The most annoying fucker I never met.”

My brows draw together as I assess him. “You mean… Ashby’s son is buried out there?”