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Instantly, he’s popping his fly and pulling himself from his pants, his long, dexterous fingers wrapped around his shaft. He strokes himself as he watches me, licking out to wet his lips. “You don’t have to take it all,” he says.

But I will.

I always do.

It’s never about the journey for Pace. He jerks himself off like it’s just an inconvenient prelude to the real thing, and when he jolts to his feet, I know he’s close.

I grab his hips, faced head-on with the sight of his obscenely hard cock. “Look at me,” he rumbles, tipping my head back. His hand is warm and gentle on the base of my skull, and I give a long, slow blink at the corrosive heat in his eyes. This is what Pace likes. Something soft and sweet. The innocent sweep of my tongue against the head of his cock, inviting him inside. The way I open for his cock—not wide, not narrow, but just enough.

Just for him.

I hold his stare as his cock gives a strong, aggressive throb between my lips. But it’s not that first salty taste of him that makes me shudder. It’s the way his face collapses in awed rapture. The curl of his forefinger beneath my chin, so gentle. The way he doesn’t break my gaze, so fixated on the sight of his cock spurting onto my tongue that he doesn’t even think to scan the rooftop for threats.

I swallow every drop.

3

Lex

I’ve never beento the old Forsyth courthouse without Father until now.

The first time he brought me here, I was seven. One of Daniel Payne’s South Side soldiers had brazenly assassinated one of the Counts in a drive-by shooting. It’d been a huge scandal at the time—not just because of the audacity of the Lords to attack a rival so boldly, but because it exposed the Kings’ lack of control over their ranks.

But they were younger back then, new to their kingships, exuding the brash confidence of the newly empowered. They were men.Kings. And I wanted nothing more than to bask in their superiority. I observed Father engage with these men on equal footing as they deliberated over consequences for LDZ, but I couldn’t help but fixate on the Baron King, his unsettling mask sending shivers down my spine.

It wasn’t just the gleam of the twisted horns, the sunken cheeks, or lack of mouth. It was the efficacy of the illusion. With the black suit and gloved hands—even the neck hidden beneathdark fabric—no part of him was visible. The mask was all he was. The devil made flesh.

Even as a child, I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread, wondering about the enigma concealed behind the facade. I knew he was affiliated with the dead, the person Father called when something messy happened in times of that youth-fueled chaos.

In my imagination, the Baron King transcended the others, almost supernatural in nature. One of Death’s emissaries, haunting the nocturnal streets of Forsyth, seeking souls to add to his crypt.

Just like my parents.

Now, stepping into the stuffy, ornate room of the courthouse as a man in my own right, I catch sight of him, the Baron King, sitting at the head of the table. His features are still hidden behind that golden mask and black suit, but this evening, I’m distinctly lacking that old sense of awe. There’s nothing supernatural about him. He’s no longer a man shrouded in mystery. He’s undoubtedly human. Flesh and Bone. Not just a King, but a father.

Remy’sfather.

And a killer of fathers.

I can only speculate about Wick’s inner turmoil. He sure as hell gives nothing away as he strides in behind me with an air of nonchalance. He leisurely unfastens his blazer and settles into the chair beside me at the elongated table. Among the three of us, he’s the most skilled at navigating interactions with nobility. Pace, on the other hand, visibly tenses, his discomfort palpable, especially after having to relinquish his weapons before entering the room.

“I hate this place,” he announced when we arrived. “Nothing good ever comes out of a courtroom.”

“I’m not sure why we have to justify what happens inourterritory, anyway.” Wick scowled as he handed off his pistol to one of the lesser-known BRN members manning the breezeway. I don’t know him, but the long, gnarled scar slashed across his throat was as conspicuous as the metal in his face, piercings scattered like violent speckles across his features. I certainly didn’t miss the nod he sent to Pace when Wicker groused, “It’s not like we’re digging around the Barons’ crypt.”

“We knew they’d want an update.” I’d kept my voice low while trying to reassure my brothers. “This isn’t some low-level PNZ we’ve got holed up in the dungeon, or even a fucker like Oakfield everyone’s happy to see taken care of. We’ve got a King down there in the midst of a mutiny, and that makes other Kings nervous.”

Especially Kings of the old generation.

They’re disappearing like smoke.

All of that logic holds up until we find ourselves face to face with the reigning Kings: Killian Payne, Simon Perilini, and Timothy Maddox, hidden beneath his mask. I strive to summon the same confidence that propelled me to the head of my class in Forsyth, the assurance that secured my place in the medical school of my choice. The steady heartbeat, the unwavering self-assurance, the deep-seated belief that I have every right to be in this room.

After a nod from the Baron King, Killian clears his throat. “Word’s gotten out that Rufus hasn’t been seen for seventeen days.” Normally, Payne makes it clear that he has little to few fucks to give about the larger matters in Forsyth, preferring to focus on his own territory. But I see the frustration in his eyes as he continues. “According to people in the community, he missed the annual report at Forsyth Mutual Bank, skipped a poker game at the Gentlemen’s Chamber, and failed to attendthe symphony’s Summer Solstice event—of which he’s one of the acting chairs.”

“He sent me to the Solstice event,” Wick says with a wave of his hand. “The guest cellist from Milan was dreadful. He could barely manage the bow work.” He sniffs with displeasure, looking the very picture of snobby ease. “As was the strawberry shortcake. It was like eating sandpaper.”

“One of these is explainable,” the Baron King’s flat voice carries down the table. “Three is a problem, especially with something like the annual report. Rufus hasn’t missed one in twenty-two years. Trudie Stein has been asking enough questions that my associates are askingmequestions.” He pauses before adding with heavy disdain, “This mutiny is sloppy work, boys.”