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She nods, glancing up at me with a face that’s so forlorn, my chest twinges. “Really salty and cheesy like my mama makes it. With the little bits of garlic and thyme.”

Ah. “Homesick, huh?” This was supposed to be her month in West End, but since there’s a new stock of Dukes—and a new Duchess, fuck—in the clock tower, the old set has taken the loft Verity used to stay in.

She pulls a face, snorting. “God, no. If I were in West End, I’d be staying with my mom, and I might love her lasagna, but I’m not getting pestered daily about… who knows? Cleaning out my old high school clothes, or decluttering the chest freezer, or going over the gym ledgers.” Her eyes roll dramatically. “Plus, can you imagine me giving birth in West End? Lex and Pace—and you—would totally lose it.” Looking weirdly resolute, she shrugs. “I’m absolutely where I need to be.”

“So if you’re not homesick, then…” I pause, taking in her little pout. “Oh my fucking god, you really are out here brooding just because you want lasagna. And you call me melodramatic.”

She turns to me more fully, expression halfway to devastated. “You don’t understand! The cravings… they’re insane, Wicker!This baby is insatiable. The other day, Rory gave me a handful of M&Ms—which you won’t tell Lex about—and on the way outside to eat them in the solarium like I’m some kind of criminal, I dropped them in the mud and?—”

“Red,” I admonish, already knowing where this is going.

She flushes. “I washed them in the fountain first?”

Clearly, I’m not properly fulfilling my role of being her sweets dealer. “Well, there’s only one thing to do,” I say, pulling her to her feet. “If my Princess wants a lasagna, then I’m going to get her one.”

“This is ridiculous,”Lex says, still half asleep. Neither of us are even properly dressed, and when we climb out of my car, I can only pray no one in this territory catches me in sweats and an undershirt.

I march him to the little stoop. “What’s ridiculous is you depriving the mother of our child vital sustenance.”

Lex whines, “Can’t we just go to the grocery store?”

“She doesn’t want some pre-packaged frozen lasagna,” I argue. “She specifically requested?—”

Abruptly, the porch light flares to life, the door opening to reveal a ruffled Mama B. Her hair is down in loose waves and there’s a thick cream on her face. Her face scrunches angrily. “Get your asses in here before someone sees you. I’m not dealing with forty twitchy cubs tomorrow.”

Pace called before we came—we’re notthatstupid—and explained nicely why we were crossing territory lines in the middle of the night. He said she didn’t say no to her daughter’s cravings but that she was sure as hell “not a delivery service”.

I’ve been to the gym out front plenty of times, but this is my first time in the home Verity grew up in. I take it in warily as I stamp my shoes on the doormat before ducking inside, Lex following closely behind.

The ceilings are lower than I’m used to and I walk in hunched and huddled. There’s not even a foyer. We enter right into a living room that could probably fit in Pace’s security room. There are framed drawings and banners covering the walls, a bookshelf against the back, and a mismatching furniture set, but it’s not very girly. There are no frills or flowers anywhere. One of the shelves is just a collection of crude shot glasses and wrestling memorabilia.

Despite that, it’s… cozy. And not even cozy in that contemptuous way where someone really means ‘small and crappy’, but like legitimately… homely.

Lex is checking it all out too, adjusting his glasses to inspect one of the framed drawings. “Verity did this,” he says, sounding surprised.

Mama B shuffles past us, flicking a hand. “She did them all. Now, get your asses in here and start cooking, because I’m not about to become a pregnant woman’s personal chef.”

Lex and I exchange a short, panicked look.

“C-c-cooking?” I stutter, rushing to keep up with her steps. “That’s the thing where you put food in a microwave, right?” The kitchen has roughly the square footage of a postal stamp, and Lex and I both have to duck to avoid smacking our heads on the doorway.

I’m met with a tea towel, smacking me right in the face. “Wash your hands first,” she orders, watching with sharp eyes as Lex and I both crowd in around the sink. Maybe he had a point before. Thisisfucking ridiculous.

It doesn’t get any less ridiculous when, ten minutes later, Mama B is giving us a lesson in onion cutting. “Not like that!Thinslices, blondie. And what are you smirking at?” she asks Lex, who’s gotten a little too superior since she praised his onion-peeling abilities. “Aren’t you supposed to be some bigshot surgeon guy? I could gnaw that with my teeth, and it’d make a cleaner cut. Goodness gracious, are you trying to dice it or punish it?”

He glowers at her through onion-tears. “You’re really cranky when people wake you up.”

She doesn’t dispute this, sitting down on a stool to flip through a magazine. “So the cravings are hitting her hard, eh?”

“Every night.”

“Sounds right. I couldn’t get enough chocolate when I was at this point with her.” She snorts. “Wait until she gives birth. Lactation is going to make her hungry as a horse.”

Pausing, I wince. “Maybe that’s why she’s gotten so—oof.” Lex’s very not-discreet elbow lands right in my ribs, and he shoots me a watery glare.Right. Probably don’t want to tell her mother that we’ve been nursing her tits.

“We can handle it,” Lex insists, brows crouched low. “We’ll just… have to learn to cook. Somehow.” The brows get even lower. “Eventually.”

At her blank stare, I explain, “He has his first lecture in about five hours.”