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“Neither is this,” I insist, cradling my belly.Creation and destruction, two sides of the same coin. “I can handle it.”

Pace looks like he wants to argue, but from one glance around the room, it’s clear the men agree with Rory.

So he hands me the knife.

I’ve never killed a person before. Wicker is probably right. Murder isn’t something I can wipe away from my inner slate. The knife is heavy in my hand, but it’s also warm from the heat of forty hands. That’s the notion that consumes me as I round the purple throne, unwilling to look my father in the eye one last time.

Rufus struggles against his binds again, thrashing and shrieking. “You will tell me!” he’s crying out. “This is a naming ceremony. You will tell me the name of my heir. You will tell them it’s Michael!”

It’s sad is what it is. Rufus Ashby lost his family, and if there was ever a human morsel in his heart to begin with, he never got it back. I think of him strangling this kingdom and turning it to ash. I think of Lex’s pained eyes after that whipping. I think of the way Pace can never quite relax until he’s alone with me in a room. I think of Wicker, two nights before, and the agony in his eyes when he questioned if his love was real.

I think of my mother.

But mostly, when I grip a handful of Ashby’s hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat, I think of my son.

Of making this kingdom a home for him.

Of hope and change.

Putting the blade to his neck, I take a deep breath, letting that anger—the West End fury that flows through my veins—infusemy voice with stone. “I’d never name my creation after you,” I tell him, pushing the blade into his skin. “I’m naming him afterthis.”

The knife slices as I yank it to the side, feeling the tendon cut. A wet gurgle sounds out, but I don’t look down as I hold him by the hair. Not to watch his blood spill. Not to see the life fading from his eyes. Not even to see how long it takes for his final breath to spill out of his wound.

I watch my Princes, tall and strong, as I give them a gift almost as good as our creation.

“Justice.” Dropping the knife, I square my shoulders. “Our son will be named Justice.”

17

Lex

I’m checkingthe spray under my hand when I hear the sound of Verity’s whisper.

Shaking my wrist, I walk back toward the bedroom, peeking through the doorway. She’s walking—not pacing, not striding, just aimless, idle walking from one side of the room to the other. She looks tired but alert, a strange wildness in her eyes.

And she’s talking. “You don’t have to,” she says, giving the side of her belly a mindless rub. “But if you want it, I’ll make sure it’s yours. Your dad, Wicker—he didn’t get that. I think it’s important. But not everyone wants to be King. It might be an awful lot of work.”

I realize she’s talking to him.

Justice.

We decided we’d let her name him long ago, but until tonight, she’d been keeping her choice to herself. Likewise, she doesn’t know what my brothers and I chose for his middle name yet.

The blood on her dress doesn’t bother me, either. Maybe it’s because of my lessons in the art of torture, which Father started when we were young. Or learning to draw blood at the clinic. Or suturing older PNZs before I was even a pledge. It could be from seeing my own bloody back after Father’s punishments. Maybe a lot of it’s from a youth spent in hockey leagues where the more blood, the better.

But a small, secret part of me worries that it’s older than medical training or hockey. Something so old that the sight of sticky, congealing crimson has become a stone in my foundation. Because maybe it’s from that night, when my father killed my mother. I don’t remember much, but I’ve seen the reports.

They found me caked in my mother’s blood.

It’s something Wicker and I always had in common—being brought into this strange house of decadence under a layer of death and decay.

Verity’s origin in the palace is also marked in red, and as much as she hates it, there’s something glorious about the way she looks in that white dress, bloody handprints covering her abdomen. To steal a phrase from her Dukes…

She’s a fucking victor.

“It’ll take a minute for the water to warm up.”

She startles at the sound of my voice, but just looks up, giving me a small grin. “Oh. Sorry. I was just…” She gestures at her stomach. “Giving him the rundown.” It’s not the first time one of us has caught her doing that—giving baby Justice an outline of the day’s events.