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Sy’s the one to stiffen though, leveling a slow, threatening stare at his fellow King. “Don’t you even fucking say what I think you’re saying.”

Killian raises his chin and says it anyway. “Two of the missing girls were involved with Eugene Warren.” He nods at Pace. “The same man you let in your palace with this pregnant Princess you’re so intent on protecting.”

“You motherfucker,” Sy growls. “Ballsack had nothing?—”

“Enough!” The Baron King’s voice commands the room, sharp and strong from behind his golden mask. His hands, hidden by black gloves, ball into fists. “We are not,” he seethes, “here to discuss the missing girls or your petty squabbles over the Princess. Verity Sinclaire is a problem of your Father’s making that’s trickled downstream. Staff members, arranged heirs, breeding with women who bear questionable allegiances…” His eyes burn with anger through the mask. “All of it is irrelevant to today’s meeting.”

We quiet, everyone sinking back in their chairs.

Brusquely, he continues, “The majority of Forsyth doesn’t give a damn if Rufus is alive, dead, or holed up in an opiumhouse in the South China Sea.” He jabs the tip of his forefinger into the table, the movement swift and powerful. “When we talked on the phone fifteen days ago, I signed on for a mutiny in East End, not an indefinite interrogation of its King. People are talking, and to restore balance, you’ll need to give proof of life or crown someone else. Either way,” he grits out, glancing at Killian and Sy next, “I’m not going to Royally father all of you into honoring your kingships. Grow up and lead your goddamn kingdoms!”

I think of Father, bloody and scarred down in the basement, and wince. It’s not going to be that easy.

I take a deep breath. “How long do we have to give proof of life?”

The Baron King’s incensed eyes snap to mine. “One week.”

“And if we don’t cooperate?” I ask.

“Then someone in your house will choose for you,” Killian says, rising from his chair. “PNZ is watching. If you don’t rise to the occasion, then one of them will.”

“You can photoshophim into a picture, right?” Wicker asks, slamming the door. He’s twisted around, looking at Pace in the backseat. “Like some fucked up image of Father surrounded by underaged Thai girls?”

“Ican,” Pace says, inspecting his gun before tucking it behind his back, “but we can do better than that.”

“Better how?” Wick’s forehead creases, and then he cackles. “Oh, Thaiboys. Yes, thatisso much better.”

The problem isn’t proof of life to the Kings, who wouldn’t blink at an image of Father’s gaunt face and oozing wounds. It’sthe rest of Forsyth we have to convince. We need something to buy us time.

“Well, whatever we’re going to do, we better figure it out fast,” Wick says, slumping against the car window as we approach the palace grounds. The new sensor that Pace installed in the gate to trigger as we turn into the drive isn’t the only upgrade. Two armed guards nod as we pass—both alumni. Wick and Rory vetted each and every current and former PNZ for security positions. Anyone with lingering loyalties to Father didn’t make the cut.

“They’re on a rotating schedule,” Pace says, nodding as we pass. “Two hours at the gate, two hours patrolling the perimeter, and then two hours watching the cameras.”

I park the car in the turnaround in front of the house, sighing. “I know this is the least of our problems, but clearly the Lords think Ballsack had something to do with Stella.” Cutting the engine, I turn to look at my brothers. “That’s something we should probably keep to ourselves for now.”

Pace blinks. “Why?”

“Verity,” I answer, glancing at Wick. “She’s… protective of him.”

Wicker gives me a long look. “You sound like a jealous boyfriend.” And then, pulling a face, “Gross.”

Tightening my fist around the steering wheel, I insist, “I’m not jealous. I just don’t think it’d do her any good to add another do-gooder campaign to her list of projects. She’s already helping to volunteer for the search parties and the social media blitzes. Plus…” I don’t really want to say the next words, but as I look out the windshield at the palace grounds, I can’t help but wonder. “Maybe they have a point.”

Pace’s response is swift and annoyed. “Fuck that.”

“He’s West End,” I point out. “We don’t know what kind of shit he’s mixed up in. And you heard him on the monitoryesterday. Stella dumped him right before she disappeared. That’s suspicious as fuck and you know it.”

But when I meet his gaze, it’s the strangest thing. Pace, the most ridiculously paranoid and suspicious person I know, doesn’t look the least bit swayed. “I don’t care where he’s from,” he says. “I know when a man is desperate to find something. That street rat has been at my side for weeks, pushing me to look harder, and he’s not even fucking remotely ready to give up.”

Before I can argue, Wicker cuts in, “Fuck it—whatever. We’ll keep it to ourselves. Lex is probably right, anyway. She doesn’t need another friend to worry about, does she?”

This seems to convince Pace more than anything, but even when we walk into the house, he’s still giving me that look of his, like I’m disappointing him.

“What?” I snap when he grabs my arm, stalling me. I’m not about to apologize for seeing things from all angles. If anyone can appreciate that, it should be him.

But instead of pressing me about it, he eyes Wicker, who’s disappearing down the hall. Pace raises his eyebrows. “You need to talk to him.”

I follow his gaze, deflating. “Why me?” I ask, watching my brother duck into the kitchen.