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It’s these tiny, incremental things over the last few months that have shaped a new, fragile brotherhood.

“And if they don’t?” Wick asks. He tucks a flask into his jacket pocket as he walks up. I frown at the dark smudges under his eyes, which are still a touch troubled. He hasn’t slept well since they found Danner, two mornings ago. At night, he curls next to me, holding on tighter than ever, but there’s no sense of peace. Maybe this will help.

“They will,” Pace says, with utter confidence. “Our son is the heir, and Verity is Father’s blood…” He nods again. “They’ll be on the side of creation.”

I have to hope he’s right, but I also know we’re in Forsyth, a place where ‘right’ doesn’t always mean much.

“You promised I’d get through the night without getting blood on my dress,” I remind Lex.

For some reason, he glances at Pace, mouth tightening. “I’ll do my best.” He squeezes my hand. Pace’s dark eyes hold mine as he places a hand on my belly and pulls me in for a kiss justhard enough to leave me breathless before he follows his brother to the door of the ceremonial room.

Wicker, as the father of the child, waits with me. It’s another one of the reveals—officially, anyway. Word has spread, like gossip always does in Forsyth, that Wicker is most likely the biological father.

“Guess we’re doing this.” Running his hand through his hair, he tousles the blonde locks in that way I know is meant to make himself look like he doesn’t care. They all have their armor on today. Lex’s hair is pulled back. Pace has the palace crawling with security. Every inch of Wicker’s body, from his hair to the casual way he stands, is adjusted into an air of giving zero fucks, which means he’s on high alert. They’ve promised me everything will go smoothly, but I guess years of trauma-filled ceremonies will give even the strongest man some reservations. “But if you want to turn back now, hop in the car and go for burritos, I’ve got the keys.”

It’s all I can do not to drool, groaning instead. “As enticing as that sounds, they’ll just drag us back and make us do it again later, so we may as well face it now.” I adjust my dress, making sure my overripe tits aren’t going to spill out. “I’m not sure I’m getting into this dress a second time anyway.”

Lex gives Loeffler the go-ahead to open the doors, revealing the ceremonial room for us. We’re met with the overpowering scent of roses. I asked Adeline for guidance, making sure to follow the traditions for an East End baby-naming ceremony. She’d been thrilled, digging through her archives with photographs and announcements for prior events. She helped me by contacting the caterer and Fran the florist, and even helped me unearth the traditional decor for the event.

‘People, Verity,’ she told me, while flipping through a photo book, ‘especially like those in Forsyth, crave consistency. Ina time of change, it’s important to show them that you’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe.’

That’s why, despite the chill of the massive room, there’s warmth from the lit candelabras mounted in every arched window sill, and the purple carpet rolled out before us softens our footsteps on the marble floors. Wicker offers me the crook of his arm, and I slip mine into his.

For security reasons, Pace insisted we make this a PNZ-only event—no outsiders, not even Ballsy—and the men of the frat flank the carpet, creating a safe channel for us to walk through.

I look into each pair of eyes, skeptical but defiant.

It’s impossible to forget the last time I made this walk. I’d been filled with both rage and fear. I was newly pregnant, the almost fully formed baby I’m carrying tonight barely a cluster of cells. I’d betrayed my Princes, publicly and harshly, and I’d been punished for it. Tonight, everything feels different, though. I’m not being forced down the aisle; I’m being escorted. The anger and hatred I felt directed at me by the PNZs that night are replaced by gentler expressions now, smiles, and even some genuine encouragement.

Part of me wants to yell and scream, to tell them to get on their knees and let me ruin them the way they ruined me, but I’m made for something bigger than a moment of revenge.

I’m made to be the mother of a king.

Ahead, at the end of the royal carpet, four men wait. Lex and Pace are in the center, while Matt and Rory stand on each side. As we get closer, they step aside, revealing a backward throne. It doesn’t matter that it’s not the throne I was forced to bleed and ache on. For a brief moment, I stiffen, remembering the sensation of being torn into and held down. Next to the backward throne is a table covered in a white cloth that’s been embroidered in gold thread. There’s an object in the center,wrapped in white linen, and the setting doesn’t give me any comfort.

I didn’t arrange or approve either of these.

“I never apologized for that night,” Wick whispers, his eyes pinned to the table as well. “The way I claimed you after your throning…” His jaw tightens, which is the only reason I realize it’s the same table he bent me over, stealing my virginity and innocence with untethered brutality. “I was just so fucking angry,” he says, blue eyes swimming with the memory. It’s impossible not to remember the words he said to me that night after giving Danner the tea.

Sometimes it really fucks me up to know that everything I’ve come to love was given to me by Father…

Wicker isn’t the type to say words like that aloud. I understood what he was trying to tell me then, and I didn’t need the words because I felt them.

So it brings me up short to hear him say these.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is low but strained, and when he glances at me, I see the regret. “I thought he was chaining me to him, and I resented you—everything about you. But I’m starting to realize that’s what he wanted. He never wanted us to think of you as a gift.” He rests his hand on top of mine and gives it a squeeze. “But you were, Red. You were a gift. And that’s what this is. Remember that.”

An apology by Wicker Ashby is enough to steal my breath, but the gut punch comes a moment later when Rory and Matt move to turn the throne, and it’s not empty.

My father is sitting in it.

A quiet murmur rushes through the crowd, revealing that I’m not the only one surprised. It’s not just his presence that’s shocking, but the state of him. Their King isn’t just sitting on the throne, he’s strapped in, limbs secured at the ankles and wrists. Someone cleaned him up and dressed him in a tux, but there’slittle hiding the abuse he suffered. A welt on his cheek. Burn marks peeking out from beneath his collar. Thin strips of tape suturing a deep, raw cut on his forehead. The hand resting on the arm of the throne is missing two fingers, the stumps purple and grotesque.

And that’s just what they cansee, the pentagram Wicker carved into his chest hidden from view.

The only reason Ashby isn’t spewing his toxicity is the gag in his mouth. Unfortunately, he isn’t blindfolded because his blue eyes are trained on me. They dip down to my stomach, widening, and he tugs futilely against his restraints. Wicker lifts his chin but keeps his gait easy as he encourages me to walk all the way to his brothers.

The first thing out of my mouth is, “Why the fuck is he here?”