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This year’s Princess and Princes will have a say in who they make a covenant with.

“That’s Sophia Lark,” I say. “She’s a graphic artist with a minor in visual. She’s definitely a creator.”

It hasn’t been lost on any of us that we’ll be sharing the palace with whoever is chosen. Quite plainly, none of us are willing to move out of the home we’ve made on the second floor. But the changes we’ve made for the new royalty are stillfresh, and I want to keep an eye on them—to make sure they’re adhering to the new covenants—not the old. As a result, the new crop of East End royalty will be living downstairs, which has been empty for months.

Ever since Stella went missing.

Ever since Eugene got taken away.

Ever since Danner died.

I’m not sure if it’ll make it easier to have people in the house again or unbearably more difficult. Following that train of thought, I wave at the girls and continue my search for Pace. He’s not by the buffet table, nor is he at the door, covering security. I look for him for so long that by the time realization dawns on me, I’ve greeted every guest.

The air is crisp when I step out onto the balcony overlooking the grounds. I feel him before I see him, that inexplicable hum sparking over my nerve endings.

“Hiding?” I ask, turning to find Pace slouched low on the bench, his masked face tipped up to the starry night sky.

“Absolutely.” He rolls his head to the side, meeting my gaze. “I hate these things.”

Sighing, I approach when he holds out his arms, folding myself down onto his lap. “It’s only once a year,” I reason, worry building in my gut. “How’d it go?”

Pace had driven up to the Forsyth Pen this afternoon to visit with Eugene.

“Okay,” Pace says, looping his arms around me. “He’s angry.”

My jaw tenses. “He fucking should be.”

Pace shoots me an amused look at the language, and I shrug. The baby’s not here to hear it. “The lawyer is building a strong defense,” he assures, thumb rubbing soothingly against my ribcage. “Everything they have is bullshit. He just has to fight this shit.”

“He will.” This much is certain. “We’re West End. Fighting is what we do best.”

“And East End?” he asks, tucking my head against his warm neck. “What do we do best?”

“You glitter like diamonds, and you survive. But mostly,” I press a kiss to his pulse point, relishing in the thrum of his heart, “you love the hurt out of each other.”

There’s a long pause before he reaches up, fingering the jewel in my tiara. “Then you’re definitely one of us now.”

For a while, we just sit there in the cold January air, drinking in the night. “How do you think they’ll take it?” I ponder, thinking of the men my Princes chose to succeed them.

“They’ll probably cream their pants, wasting our precious Royal seed.” Pace laughs when I shoot him an exasperated look. “What? I did. Right here, in fact.”

Deciding that I’ve hidden for long enough, I push to my feet, extending a palm. “Will you come and watch over me while I glitter?”

“Always, Rosi.” He slips his hand into mine as he rises, using it to tug me close. His promise is made in an exhalation, warm and damp against my temple. “Always.”

When we re-enter the ballroom, Pace takes his spot against the wall, hands in his pockets as his dark eyes follow me from guest to guest.

I know it’ll take the rest of Forsyth a while to understand the changes underway. We’re still looking for creators, but breeding? Well, there’s only one Royal in West End who counts it as her job.

“Hey,” a voice comes in my ear, forcing me to spin.

When I do, I let out a low whistle. “Who might you be?”

Wicker shrugs, his blue eyes shining through the mask. “Just some regular schmuck. No one important.”

A mask, indeed.

I hum, flipping my hair. “That’s too bad. I have it on good authority that the masquerade ball is about finding the perfect connection between me and someone’s trust fund.”