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The shower pounds behind me. Since Wick and Pace stayed back to call the Barons and secure the palace, leaving me and Verity to get her cleaned up and into bed, I beckon her into the bathroom. Once she’s there, I move behind her, unzipping the back of the dress to reveal creamy, soft skin. I push the fabricover her shoulders, down her arms, and over her belly, until it falls in a heap around her feet. “Anything hurt?” I ask. “Any pain?”

She shakes her head. “I feel fine. Just tired, yet also… wired?” She sighs, one I know is from exhaustion, and I place my hands under her belly and lift, taking some of the burden.

She shudders out a breath, leaning into me. “God, that’s so much better.”

I feel the weight of it—our son—and ask the question I’ve been dreading. “Are you… bothered? By what you did?” The first kill is always the worst. Victor or not, I don’t like to think of Verity as a killer. To me, she’s the embodiment of creation. To tarnish that with death and violence…

“Should I be?” She turns just enough to show me the curve of her cheek, brow furrowed. “I should feel remorse, right?”

I pull in the scent of her hair. “You should feel whatever you feel.”

Her mouth works around a stilted reply. “I feel… relieved, mostly. He was a monster who helped bring me into this world, and I helped take him out of it.”

I bend to kiss that place on her neck. “That’s the Royal way.”

She hums. “Do you think that makes me a terrible person?”

Pausing, I keep hold of the weight of her belly as I dredge up the memory. “I remember feeling fascinated with my first kill. The way his lungs shook—the sight of his flesh torn open—it was the first time I looked at a human body and saw a machine. And I was… well, annoyed, to be honest,” I confess, hoping she doesn’t think less of me. “I remember it taking a lot longer than I was expecting, and it made me super late for lunch.”

She strains her neck to glance at me, like she’s trying to decide if I’m lying or not.

Gravely, I explain, “It was my favorite casserole.”

What I don’t say is that my first murder victim was a rapist of princesses, too. An ex-Count, to be exact. Lionel Lucia and Father gave him to my brothers and me for experimenting. For training. For… experience.

Verity doesn’t need to know that part. She only needs to know this: “You did such a good job tonight.” I lave my tongue over her throat, tasting copper. “I’m sorry we didn’t give you the heads-up. Everything had to play out just right.” I let her lean into me, tipping her head back to rest on my shoulder. Her hand wanders above my head, finding the tie holding my hair back and tugging it loose.

She whispers, “I think I understand.”

But I still explain, “There was no way of knowing if Rufus would come to his senses and actually abdicate, or if he did have a mole in the group and not just Tommy pretending to give him what he wanted. It needed to unfold as organically as possible so no one can say we manipulated it.”

Her fingers comb idly through my hair. “Did you know they would choose him?”

“Honestly, we weren’t sure. They could have picked any of us.” I graze my thumbs up and down the underside of her belly. “But I think they made the right decision. We’re more mature now, and we’ve proven we can manage East End in a crisis. The rest will sort itself out. Right now,” I add, gazing down the curves of her body, “we have a baby to focus on.”

She settles against me, her hands sliding over mine, and together, for a few quiet heartbeats, we carry this weight together. There’s a small thump against my palm, and I jolt. She cranes her head to look at me, offering a tired smile. “He’sveryawake.”

I flatten my hand over the area and revel in the feel of our son moving around. “Can I…” I begin, feeling inexplicably embarrassed. “Can I talk to him?”

Her smile widens. “Of course. He can’t come out of there only recognizing me and Effie, can he?”

I snort. “Turn around,” I tell her, wanting to check the rest of her before she gets under the water. Her front is a contrast from the pale, clean flesh on her back. My scrutiny goes to her abdomen first. Every inch of her bulging stomach is tinted red, the bloody handprints seeping past the linen and onto her flesh. Above, there’s a slash of blood spatter from cutting Rufus’ throat.

I scan her for injuries, although I know there are none—at least, not externally. She inflicted the wounds—the death blow.

She’s the one who broke our chains.

As I kneel before her, just like I did when I swore my oath of fealty, that’s the first thing I tell our creation. “Your mother is a real badass,” I say, shivering at the sensation of her fingers carding through my hair. To her belly—toJustice—I whisper, “I know this is a weird family you’re being born into. But we’re really excited to meet you.”

Thump.

Verity chuckles at the look on my face. “Actually, he already knows the sounds of all your voices.”

I blink up at her, amazement clear in my voice. “How do you know?”

“It’s all in the way he moves.” She bites her lip, seeming to consider this deeply. “With Wicker, he sort of… stretches? I swear, it’s like my belly gets bigger. And Pace’s voice always makes him kick and twitch, these little punches that feel like flutters. And you…” She pushes my hair back, an unbearable softness in her eyes. “When he hears your voice, he squirms around, like he’s turning, searching...”

A lump finds its way into my throat as I watch her belly shift, almost imperceptibly. “You’re sure nothing hurts?” I ask, watching her carefully.