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“Because I’ve already told him what I think about him going in there every day. It’s a stupid risk that he shouldn’t be taking.” Pace rolls his eyes. “He didn’t care about my opinion. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

“Fine. I’ll talk to him.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, wondering how it is that, even with Father out of the equation, my days are still chock full of bullshit like Royal meetings and brotherly mind un-fucking. “You’ll check on her?”

“Yeah,” he says, already pointed in that direction. “I’m going to see if she and Effie want to get some air.”

“Nothing strenuous,” I remind him. Parting, Pace climbs the stairs and I go look for my other brother in the kitchen. I find him standing at the center island, pulling items out of the refrigerator and setting them on the counter. There’s bread, fruit, and a piece of salmon from last night’s dinner.

Leaning against the counter, I start, “Wick?—”

“Hand me one of those cookies, will you?” He points to the glass-covered dessert stand. “He likes chocolate chip.”

“Wick,” I try to measure my words carefully, “we talked about this. Danner can’t be trusted. He’s loyal to Father.”

Deciding what to do with Danner has been the one thing we’ve struggled to agree on since Father was locked away in the dungeon. Danner isn’t just Father’s closest confidant. He and his family have worked for PNZ since its inception. The original King hired his father as a valet and his mother as a cook for the palace, and when he came of age, Danner stepped in. There are few secrets he doesn’t know, which is the only reason Pace and I have kept him locked in his room instead of making other, more permanent, decisions.

If any part of this mutiny involves breaking the cog that turns East End’s worst institutions, then Danner is a part of that. There’s no getting around it.

Wick on the other hand…

He raises a slow glare in my direction. “Maybe he’s loyal to Father, but don’t forget, he’s also the one who actually took care of us.”

“It was his job, Wick,” I remind him as he slathers butter on the bread.

“Hisjobwas to feed us and make sure we had clean clothes and practice uniforms.” His jaw tightens. “Danner took care of us by bringing us the salves and ointments to heal the cuts on your back after father whipped you within an inch of your life. He visited Pace every week he was in prison and kept hiscommissary account in the black. If there’s a man in this house who’s earned the right to be called ‘Father’, it’s not the one down in the dungeon.”

I rub my temples, a headache setting in. “Look, I won’t deny Danner cared for us, but?—”

“Danner,” he cuts me off, “is the one who took me to get tested for STDs after events like Mayfield.” He swallows thickly. “I understand your concern. I hear it, but I can’t turn my back on him. He was a pawn to Father’s whim as much as we were.”

That’s when I decide this is the worst discussion of the day, by far. Wicker, with his set mouth and tired eyes as I try to convince him to abandon feelings for the only man who ever gave a shit about him? It makes my chest hurt as badly as my head.

But he’s not the only one struggling.

This past month has been the hardest of our lives, and that’s saying a lot. Standing up to Father, taking him to the dungeon, putting Verity and the baby before anything else in our lives… It's unfamiliar.Uncomfortable. And Danner has always been the constant.

“People need a sense of safety, dependability, and reliance…”

Killian’s words come back to me, and that’s what this is. Danner is to us what Father is to East End. Notgood, just familiar.

But the main thing I can’t tell Wicker right now is that Danner didn’t do all of those things because he cared for us. He was taking care of us because we were assets of the crown. Father needed us under control, but healthy. He needed us to be fit in order to give him an heir.

“I don’t think this,” I wave my hand around the food he’s arranging on the tray, “is about Danner at all.”

“Here we go,” he mutters. “Enlighten me. What do you think this is about?”

“I think you’re avoiding any and everything to do with the fact you’re the biological father to Verity’s baby.”

He snorts, not even looking me in the eye. “Is that supposed to be a shocking announcement? Because it’s not. I’ve made it explicitly clear that I never wanted to be a father. I don’t want the obligations, the responsibility, or the dirty fucking diapers. Not to mention the crying. Have you ever heard a baby cry?”

“Have you?” I counter.

He blinks. “I mean, on TV. At restaurants. Once, on a plane to that tournament in Alberta,” he shoots me a glare, “for six fucking hours.”

“What about Verity?”

“What about her?” He slices strawberries into a small bowl.

“You’ve been avoiding her, too.”