Page 27

With a lazy salute, he saunters away, loudly stressing, “Closet space first, Red.”

A shiver runsthrough me as I peer into the darkened room on the other side of the glass. The open wounds he had when I came down a few days ago have started to scab over, red and raw and angry. According to Pace, my Princes have altered their approach, shifting more toward sensory deprivation than physical torture.

“If this makes you uncomfortable,” Lex says, ever observant, “we can do it another time.”

“It’s not the situation,” I say, rubbing my arms to quell the goosebumps. “My body can’t regulate the temperature these days. One minute I’m hot. The next I’m freezing.”

“Here,” Pace says, shrugging off his hoodie. It’s marked with ‘FU Hockey’ over the heart, the number three stitched on the sleeve. The shirt he’s wearing underneath is sleeveless, revealing the lean, hard muscle in his inked arms. He drapes the sweatshirt over my shoulders. “This’ll piss him off, anyway. Just another reminder of who you belong to.”

His scent lingers, and that does more to bolster my courage than anything else. “Thank you.”

“Bulky, too.” A hand comes down on my shoulder and spins me around. Wicker stands before me, catching the ends of the zipper between his long fingers. He drags it slowly up, coveringmy belly and stopping just below my breasts. “Father loathes a tease—especially when it’s hiding his heir.” His eyes linger a beat longer than necessary on my cleavage, and he licks his bottom lip. “You ready?”

I nod. Asking Ashby about the women in the garden is easy. Until now, they’ve been faceless, nameless victims, left to rot into compost. I want to know who they are as much as anyone else, but I have a bigger question for the fallen King, one I’ve been too angry and frankly too fragile to ask until now: who the hell did he send after me that night?

“Let’s do this,” I tell him, ignoring the concerned gaze of my other two Princes.

After an arm wrestling match, three rounds of rock, paper, scissors, and then some unspoken game involving punches that I couldn’t quite follow, I made the ultimate decision about who I wanted to go with me into the torture chamber with Ashby. There are two primary reasons I chose Wicker. One is because he’s the baby’s biological father, a Kayes, and that alone is enough to spark Ashby’s innate jealousy. And two, Wicker is the least protective of the baby. I need someone with me who understands the mind games Ashby is playing, and Wicker is fluent in pretentious bullshit.

“Be careful,” Lex says, taking one last chance to frame my belly with both hands. “He’ll manipulate you any way he can to get information about him.”

“I can handle myself.” I’m not afraid of him. I’m afraid of the anger that surges every time I think about the risk he put me and his unborn grandson in just to prove some deranged and delusional point. That he, over my Princes, should raise my child. This man truly knows no bounds.

Wick opens the door at the same time Pace flips on the overhead lights. The chamber is flooded with the glare of fluorescents, and a small cry of surprise echoes off the stonewalls. I walk in first, Wicker right behind me, closing the door with the latch snapping into place. Instantly, I’m reminded of my own time down here. The cold, damp chill. The musty scent is now co-mingled with the coppery residue of blood.

“Verity,” Ashby says, eyes squinting. “You came to see me.”

“Weird.” I sniff the air.

“What’s that, Princess?” Wicker asks, pulling over a chair for me to sit across from the blinking, bound man.

I ease down, resting my hand on my stomach. Wicker moves to lean his back against the door, his eyebrow raised in exaggerated interest. “You’d think the way Rufus goes on about bloodlines and legacies, that Royal blood would smell different.” I sniff again. “But it’s exactly the same as everyone else’s.”

“Ah, I see you came ready to play,” Ashby says, his eyes acclimating. He frowns as I come into view, taking in my body head to toe. Other than the hoodie, I’m in a comfortable pair of stretchy leggings. Commoner clothes. “I guess that’s why you’re dressed like a West End hooligan. Prepared for a fight?”

“I’m not here to fight with you. I’m here for answers.”

He raises his chin, just as haughty as ever. “You know my parameters. Update me on my grandson, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Wrong,” I reply. “You’re the one tied up, emaciated, and reeking of piss. You’re definitely the one running out of time. Give me what I want, and I’ll consider providing you with an update.”

His eyes shift from me to Wick.

“Am I really running out of time, Whitaker, or are you? There are procedures in place. I’m sure you’ve been called in by the Kings by now, ordered to give proof of life.”

Wick picks at the ever-present scabs on his knuckles. “The other Kings are well aware of your current status. They aren’t too bothered, really. They have questions of their own, particularlythe Baron King, who made it quite clear he’s alarmed about the dead bodies in your solarium—bodies he wasn’t tasked with removing. And as for Perilini and Payne… well. They’d be almost as happy as us to see you rot down here for eternity. The new generation of Royals aren’t very impressed with you.”

If it bothers him to hear this, he does a good job of hiding it, sniffing dismissively. “And what about those outside of leadership? People are talking, aren’t they? By this point, I’m missed, and not just by the society types. Have your PNZ brothers started whispering about your slapdash coup? I can think of a few boys who’d be more than interested in a mutiny. Thomas has had sour grapes since I named the three of you my Princes.”

Wicker, god love him, in all his arrogant beauty, lazily pushes off the door and walks over to me. He strokes my hair, brushing it off my neck, then plants a slow kiss on the skin beneath my ear. It’s inappropriate as fuck, but chills run across my skin, and I’m glad my nipples are covered by Pace’s thick hoodie.

“That’s your problem, you know that? Always underestimating us. Thinking we’re too common, or inbred, or subservient to make it on our own.” Wick straightens. “Proof of life is in process and will be delivered to the Kings as directed. The residents of East End and Forsyth are content with the fact you’re on an extended business trip. No one will blink when you’re not seen for another month, and by then, we’ll have you replaced entirely. Now that we’re clear on that,” Wick nods down at me, “why don’t you ask your question, Red.”

Ashby sighs heavily, as though we’re wasting his time, but finally shuts up long enough for me to ask, “Who did you hire to attack me?”

“That’s your big question?” He scoffs. “A common thug.”

“Yeah,” I say, leaning back, letting my stomach protrude. “I don’t think so. There was something about his voice. His choice of words. He sounded quite educated.”