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She sneers down at the label. “It’shis, isn’t it?”

A shrug. “Yours now.”

Mama hums and I all but die when she just grabs the polished wooden cork andpulls.

“Mama!” I hiss, but thankfully, it doesn’t just pop open.

She strains with the effort of trying though, animosity burning in her glare.

And then Pace, as if he’s on some weird, dutiful Prince autopilot, reaches for the bottle and effortlessly yanks the stopper free for her. Snatching it back, Mama holds his stare as she tips it up, taking a long, aggressive swig.

I shake my head in disbelief. “That’s a five-figure bottle of rum! You can’t just?—”

But Pace doesn’t miss a beat when she hands it back to him, smoothly taking a pull from the mouth of the bottle.

Almost in unison, they pull a face.

“Always knew this’d taste like ass,” he mutters, handing it back.

Mama replaces the stopper. “We don’t coddle our liquor around here,” she says, handing it to the first passing DKS member she sees.

Kaz’s eyes twinkle in delight. “Fuck yeah, booze!” Pace’s incensed stare follows as Kaz takes it to the table like a bear parading its kill.

“Well, come on,” Mama says, ignoring Pace as she bodily ushers me into a seat. “The girls and I made lasagna tonight. Remington’s trying to learn to cook. I’m not sure my kitchen will ever recover.” She catches my excited glance at the buffet table. “I’ll bring you a plate.”

“I’llbring you a plate,” Pace interjects ridiculously. What are they going to do, poison me? But then he starts for the buffet and I have to snatch his arm.

“Not yet.”

He looks around, realizing no one has a plate, and gives me an uncomfortable look. “We’re not going to have to say grace or something, are we?”

“The King and his Queen serve themselves first,” Mama says, eyeing him like an alien.

Everyone waits patiently as Sy and Lavinia approach the buffet, filling their plates. I catch the glance she casts toward Remy, whose attention is fixed on a sketchbook, and I don’t miss the soft grin on her face when she piles up with extra garlic bread.Smart. There’s no way there’ll be any left by the time he surfaces.

After that, I’m expecting the frantic energy of the ensuing free-for-all, but Pace isn’t. He goes tense, strung tight as the DKS and cutsluts clamor for the buffet, their voices rising to a deafening pitch.

I place my hand over his, noticing it inching toward the gun. “How about I fix the plates?”

Pace slides me an insulted look. “I spent eighteen months in the Forsyth Pen, Rosi. I’m not scared of hungry frat boys.” And with that, he sweeps into the buffet line.

Dinner itself is a strangely lonely affair. Mama talks my ear off for a bit regarding her summer project of clearing out the old garage—although it sounds more like DKS’ summer project with all the suckers she’s talked into doing the actual labor. But other than that, no one talks to me or Pace. At the head of the table, the Dukes cast us the spare, discomfited glance, but none of them pull me into conversation.

I know it’s not about me.

It’s about the Prince at my side.

I remember the first time I saw Pace eat a meal at the palace. The dining room there is so formal and cold, but seeing him huddled possessively over his plate had set some part of me at ease, and reminded me of home.

He doesn’t look at home here, though. “Stop,” he mutters, fork scraping across his plate.

“Stop what?”

“Stop looking at me like you’re waiting for me to lose it.” Despite this, he eventually whispers, “They seriously just go up and talk to him while he’s eating? Whenever they want?”

I laugh, watching Sy’s long-suffering expression as a boisterous sophomore stands beside him, gesturing wildly. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Pace nearly seems offended on Sy’s behalf. “He’s the King.”