Page 137

“Yes, ma’am.”

I turn back to Ballsack. “What’s so important that I need to see it now?”

Haltingly, he explains, “It’s… from the Baron King.”

There’sno mistaking who the huge box is from. Althoughboxisn’t the right word. It’s a massive wooden crate taking up the majority of the foyer floor. My name,Princess Verity Sinclaire,has been painted with a fine hand into the top while the BRN star is emblazoned on the sides.

“Ready?” Ballsack asks, standing next to the crate with a crowbar in hand, ready to pop the lid.

“Wait!” Wicker’s voice carries down to the foyer. He rushes down with a scowl and unintentionally tousled hair. I can tell it’s unintentional because he has this cowlick right beside his crown that he’s always an expert at taming. Today, it’s sticking straight up, the slight red rimming around his eyes evidence of his lack of sleep.

He’s been pouring over Rufus’ ledgers and accounts for days now, trying to determine the most profitable ventures worth keeping or selling off.

“Put the crowbar down, Eugene.” When he reaches us, he snatches the tool out of Ballsack’s hand. “Where did this come from?”

Ballsy shrugs. “Standard delivery at the gate. Your guys scanned it and brought it in.”

“Not to sound vain,” Wick eyes the container, “but I’m starting to think the King has a crush on me.”

“Let’s just open the box,” I roll my eyes, “and worry about crushes later.”

He wedges the tip of the crowbar under the lip of the box, and with Ballsack’s help, they rip off the lid. The inside is stuffed with packing material, but an envelope, similar to the one sent to Wicker the day we went to the mausoleum, sits on top.

I gently pluck it up, opening it.

Dear Princess,

Congratulations on your son receiving the Oath of Fealty from the brothers of PNZ. Enclosed is a Baron heirloom that was Whitaker’s as a child. I thought he might want to keep it in the family.

The Baron King

I give Wicker a questioning look, but he just shrugs and gestures for Ballsy to help him with the rest of the crate.

“The last time the Baron King gave us a gift, it was a human sacrifice,” he mutters. “Stand back, Red.”

I move because he’s not wrong about the King and his gift giving. With my hand resting on my stomach, I watch as they pull off the sides, revealing the contents with a dramatic clatter of wood.

I notice the smooth, dark wood first, then the slats.

“It’s a bassinet!” I exclaim in surprise. Wick stares at it before reaching out, running his hand along the railing. Then it hits me. “Oh, wow. Was ityourbassinet?”

I move closer, brushing a touch to Wick’s forearm while examining the head and foot of the bed. While I’d expect the usual macabre BRN iconography in the craftsmanship, I find just a beautiful design of curls and whorls carved into the wood. “Wick, it’s beautiful.”

My Prince is quiet, his hand clenched over the railing. Behind us, Ballsack’s phone rings and he steps out the front door, probably grateful for the excuse to leave the room.

“Hey,” I squeeze his arm, “are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, a complex combination of emotions coming over his face. “I’ve never been like Pace—wanting to know all his family history, needing these touchstones— but I… I can’t shake it. It’s chasing me like death itself, and then I see something like this,” he grips the rail, “and I worry it’s just bringing that darkness into our son’s life.”

“Maybe.” I lift his arm and lean in against him, admiring the slight sheen of the wood’s finish. “I’ve had those pledges cutting down the wisteria in the solarium all morning, trying to banish the house of every trace of evil connected to Rufus. But in the end, it’s just a plant. Aharmlessplant. Only a psychopath would use it as a weapon. This…” I rest my hand over therailing, “it’s just a bassinet, Wicker. A beautiful one that once cradled a beautiful towheaded baby who grew into the man I love.” He looks down at me, his blue eyes softening. “Maybe the garden is just a place for beautiful vines. And maybe this is just a bassinet,” I laugh, “whichissomething we still need, by the way.”

Wicker seems to contemplate this heavily, a crevice carved into his forehead. “It’s the people, not the things.”

I nod. “Exactly.”

The muscle in the back of his jaw tightens. “I think I’d like to keep it. If that’s okay with you.”

“It’s absolutely okay.”