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“He was their friend before he was their King,” I explain. What I don’t tell him is that it doesn’t make sense to me foranyKing to spurn his people. Even back when Saul was at the head of this table, he often came to dinner and openly invited any DKS to approach him, regardless of the fact he was an arrogant pig.

Maybe it’s just what life with Ashby does to a person. I’ve only been in the palace for five months, but I feel the way his imposed coldness sticks to my bones like a disease. I watch Pace shrink away from the warmth of my home—my people, myfamily—and it doesn’t just make me sad.

It scares the crap out of me.

The thought of raising our son in all that stiff coldness is galling.

It becomes a mission then, the thought of making the palace into a home blooming outward in my mind just as delicate and thorny as the roses in its garden. Maybe it’s impossible. Perhaps all the grand rooms and dark nooks of the palace are too obstinate and haunted to shed any warmth into.

But now that its halls are free of Rufus Ashby, I resolve to try.

As soon asPace disappears through the door, Lavinia asks, “You’ve heard about Auggy’s G-man?”

I nibble on a wafer, my chair turned to give me a view of the training area. “Ballsy told me she filed a missing persons.”

Lavinia sits beside me, but directly on the table, her boots resting on Mama’s abandoned chair. “It’s weird,” she sighs. Across the room, three different sets of recruits are sparring, the sound of fists on various padded surfaces ringing through the room. “Remy’s got a lot of family on the force, but this guy’s a fed. It’s annoyingly hard to get any intel.”

Nervously, I point out, “Now would be a really inconvenient time for someone like that to come poking around the palace.”

“Tell me about it,” she groans. “But Remy’s got his cousin sniffing around, and I don’t think Auggy would bring someone into the fold if she thought he’d cause trouble for the Lords. You know how it is in Forsyth. People can’t stay out of the Royal fray for long.”

I don’t blame Augustine for using any avenue available to her. For all the Lords’ talk of keeping what’s theirs, they haven’t found anything about Stella. I can’t deny that I’m beginning to lose faith in the whole thing. It’s almost like no kingdom wants to take responsibility for her. She was born South Side, but she worked East End and spent plenty of time in West End.

As I’m pondering the unfairness of it all, Pace returns from the bathroom, his dark eyes glued to me as he crosses through the training area.

Offering him a little wave, I don’t get up, allowing him to have a little space. To my surprise, he stops at one of the smallersquare sparring mats, watching Dillon and Grant circle one another while Pauly coaches them on technique.

Lav follows my gaze. “He seems to be relaxing a little finally. Can you imagine the Dukes escorting me to a Princes’ ball or something? They wouldn’t make it ten minutes before starting a brawl.”

“Oh, that happens anyway,” I shake my head, thinking of Wicker destroying the gender reveal cake. But I do consider the idea. “Remy could probably handle it. His father would’ve raised him to attend nicer affairs.”

“True. He’s more comfortable than you’d expect at the country club.” Her gaze shifts to where all three Dukes are sitting in the next row, hunched over a cleared table and discussing logistics for the fight on Friday. “He certainly looks delicious in a suit.”

Remy’s got that long, lean body that looks amazing in almost anything he wears.

“Family Dinner is definitely different from dinners at the palace, which are as stuffy and oppressive as you can imagine, but…” I tilt my head, inspecting my Prince. “The guys spent years in boarding school, and then Pace did that stint in prison. I don’t think this is as unfamiliar as he wants to act like it is.”

With his arms crossed over his chest, Pace studies the training session with shrewd, curious eyes. He’s probably surprised to learn the Dukes aren’t fueled merely on adrenaline during a match, but actually take the time to work on their skills. Dillon and Grant are both excellent fighters, and I’m assuming if they’re training with Pauly tonight, they must be in matchups at tomorrow’s Fury. Pauly has them run through different sets of drills; punching, blocking, and defense.

“You’re leaving your left side open,” Pauly tells Grant. The junior pulls his elbows down in response. “And you,” he callsout to Dillion, “you’re wasting opportunity! His weakness is your gain!”

Grant clearly doesn’t like being called weak and reacts with a sudden flurry of motion. Dillon pulls his fists up, protecting his face, dodging and weaving so that Grant can’t get in a hit, but the junior manages to force his opponent up against the edge of the mat before he takes a hard swing.

Dillon ducks at the last minute, the swing flying into the empty space over his head. Grant, caught up in the momentum, propels forward—right toward Pace. The Prince’s hand flies up, catching the punch mid-swing.

“Oh, shit,” I jump up, or try to. Lumber is more like the word.

“Fuck.” Her eyes dart to her Dukes, but they didn’t notice. I start around the table, watching the dark smirk lift the corners of Pace’s mouth. He thrusts Grant back into the ring, and Lav’s hand reaches out. “Wait.”

“What do you mean, wait?” I hiss. “Pace is the type to bring a knife to a fistfight, remember?”

“Just…” her fingers wrap around my wrist, “just give it a minute.”

A minute is all Pace needs to filet Grant, but Pauly gives an impressed grin. “Nice reflexes. You train?”

“I play hockey,” Pace replies gruffly, eyes narrowed at Grant. The frat boy shakes his fist and wiggles his fingers, glaring daggers.

“That’s right, that’s right.” Pauly nods, sizing Pace up. “You’re the one who stuck Maddox during the Fury.”