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“In the face of opposition,” Tommy says, lifting the knife, “fealty must be declared.”

His movements are slow and precise, and Wicker tenses next to me, ready to take action if Tommy makes a move. They called for this ceremony—I fucking planned it—but there’s nothing we can do now but see it through.

Tommy stands before my father, shoulders tipped back. Pace’s shoulders rise when Tommy lifts his left hand, and in a quick move, slices the tip of the blade across his palm. He turns to face his frat brothers, and as blood runs down his hand, he makes a fist. “I swear my fealty to the King of East End.”

He turns, but not to face my father. Instead, he stares down at me with fire in his eyes. In the corner of my vision, a flash of purple falls to the floor—the pillow.

And then Tommy Wright drops to his knees.

Startled, I lurch back, but not before Tommy has thrust out his bloody hand, placing it on the crown of my distended stomach. Holding my stunned gaze, he dips his chin. “To create,” he says, voice like steel, “isto reign.”

Warmth from the blood seeps through the dress and into my flesh. Standing, he faces Rufus, whose expression is twisted in fury. “Don’t trust him!” he hisses. “He’s the one that came to me, spilling secrets of your ill-conceived mutiny.”

“I’ve proven my loyalty,” Tommy says, wiping the blade on his thigh. “Just not to you, but to the throne. You thought I was working for you,” he smirks over his shoulder at Pace, “but in reality, I was working for them.”

From there, the dominos fall. He hands the knife to Dorian, who makes his own long, deep cut before placing his blood-soaked hand against my belly. “To create is to reign.”

Theodore Loeffler follows, and then Dexter, Mitchell, and Matt Kramus. I don’t think I even break out of the shocked daze until Rory gets on his knees before me, raising a bloody palm to my stomach.

“To create is to reign,” he says, and when I place my hand over his, holding it close, a tear slips down my cheek.

“I’m sorry we haven’t found her, Ror.”

Slowly, he shakes his head. “It wouldn’t make a difference, Princess. I know a kind heart when I see it. That’s all we need from you.”

Another twenty men kneel to stain my dress, but for the first time, I’m proud to have my white dress bloodied. With each man who looks me in the eye, pledging their oath to my son, the memory of the throning—the cleansing—grows more and more hazy and undefined. The men who watched and participated in those vile ceremonies didn’t know me, and I hadn’t yet realized how strangled their hearts were by Ashby’s rule.

There could be no greater proof of Rufus Ashby’s failed kingship than the knowledge he hadn’t snuffed everything good out of his own men.

I just hope I can keep finding more of it.

It’s harder when the line ends because now it’s just the three of them.

My Princes.

Lex takes the knife first, kneeling on the pillow with a crooked grin. “I want you to know this is fucking disgusting, and I’m running a million tests on you tomorrow.” Still, he slices his palm, placing it over the blood-soaked fabric with a grimace. “To create is to reign.”

Pace follows, licking his lips as he kneels. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

My laugh is half delirious. “Absolutely.”

He doesn’t even flinch when he slices his palm, but then he drops the knife, taking my belly in both hands. “To create is to reign,” he whispers, leaning in to brush his lips against my belly.

Wicker, however, is silent as he drops to his knees, cutting into his flesh. “To create is to reign,” he breathes.

Reaching out, I stroke my fingers through his hair, watching his eyelashes flutter. “Are you okay with this?”

His blue eyes rise to meet mine, and there’s no reservation there. Instead, the silence is heavy, filled with the weight of significance. “I never thought I’d be able to pass on a real legacy,” he says, the candlelight glinting in his eyes. “This is…” Visibly struggling to find the words, he pauses, inhaling, “everything, Red.Everything.”

Lex steps in then, clearing his throat. “Rule of law says the new King has to kill the old one. But since our son’s hands are a little too small to hold the knife, we decided it’d be?—”

“The Princess,” Rory calls out, gesturing to me. “Obviously.”

No one’s more surprised by the suggestion than me, but I can’t deny the logic.

When I meet Lex’s gaze, I don’t waver. “Until he’s born, I’m an extension of him,” I explain, unwilling to bring a failure of tradition into this. “Any wrong move could put us at risk. I’lldo it.” But when I reach for the knife, Wicker pulls it away, frowning.

“Red…” he begins, shifting uncomfortably. “Murder isn’t something you come back from.”