Page 28

“Impressive,” he replies, “although I can see why to someone raised with non-Royals it would be distinct.”

Wicker tenses next to me, and I know if I don’t want this to end in a pummeling I need to get him to talk. “So? Who was it? It couldn’t have been anyone who liked you very much. I’m willing to bet you had a different agreement from what went down.”

For all my Princes and I are expendable to him, there’s one thing I can trust for certain:

Rufus Ashby would never want this baby to die.

His lips are cracked and peeling, split in the center, drawing my grimace as he speaks. “The man I hired wasn’t just a test for the boys, but for the other houses as well. I found a weak link in one of Forsyth’s strongest foundations.” His cracked lips form a thin line. “But you’re right. I’m displeased that he took it so far. You and the child were never to be harmed, and if I weren’t locked down here, I’d have already dealt with the matter swiftly and decisively.” He lifts his chin at my stomach. “Now. Tit for tat, Verity.”

I glance at Wicker, and he gives me a curt nod.

Straightening in the chair, I pull at the zipper, revealing the entirety of my stomach. Ashby grins, a strange, feral expression transforming his face. “Such a strange thought, isn’t it? To know there’s life growing just beneath all that skin and muscle? So much potential…”

I give Wicker an uncertain look, but he just gives a minute shake of his head. So, I ignore the comment. “So I was right. He is Royal,” I say, trying not to squirm under his gaze. “What’s his name?”

Ashby’s eyes narrow. “I’ll need to know how much weight you’ve gained, the fetal heart rate, and I want to know if he’sactive. The fall you took…” A coldness seeps into the hard angles of his face. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to get hurt.”

Lex prepared me for comments like these. “He’ll try to make himself out to be a victim,” he said. “He’ll try to act like you’re on the same side.”

It’s what makes it easy for me to school my face and square my shoulders. “You’ll tell me the attacker’s name if I give you this information?”

“Yes,” Ashby says, eyeing me greedily. “I promise.”

“As of this morning, I’ve gained fifteen-point-two pounds.” Ashby’s expression brightens with every word, like a thirsty man being given water. “And the baby’s heart rate is 136 beats per minute…” I glance at Wicker, whose jaw is tight, his eyes watching his Father carefully. “And yes, the baby is active. Mostly at night?—”

“That’s enough,” Wick says. “Give us the name.”

Our Father grins. “That heartbeat is strong. Virile. Just like an Ashby.”

“Spit it out,” Wicker barks.

“And, fifteen pounds…” Ashby repeats, his eyes calculating. “You’re thin, however, which would put you somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-four weeks?” I know the math he’s doing isn’t about the baby. It’s about the passage of time, how long he’s been down here.

Wicker’s large frame steps between us, his broad shoulders and wide back dominating the space. His fist balls and he swings, cracking his father in the face. “Stop fucking around and talk!”

Head turned, Ashby spits, a gob of blood splattering on the floor. Red-tinged drool oozes down his chin. “Violence has never suited you, Whitaker.”

“Yeah, well, neither does patience,” Wicker responds. “Your daughter asked you a question.”

“Fine. You want a name?” Ashby looks up at me, craning his neck, and there’s a spark in his eyes that I haven’t seen since the day my Princes tossed him in here. “William,” he snarls. “His name is William.”

Wicker rushesme from the room, and Pace shuts off the lights, sending our father back into pitch-black darkness.

“What the fuck?” Lex seethes once we enter the observation room. “William? As in one of the Barons?”

Pace doesn’t look convinced. “He knows the Kings have blessed the mutiny. He could be trying to sow discord between us. You know how Father?—”

“No.” Wicker wears a path from one side of the room to the other, flexing his fists in tight, tense bursts. “He’s doing it again.”

Shivering, I hug my middle. “Who? Ashby?”

His blue eyes blaze into mine. “Maddox. That motherfucker!” With a crash, he sends everything on the low table to the floor. Pliers, the whip, a large knife. I skitter back, stunned. “First my grandfather, then my dad, and now my son. He won’t stop until he’s exterminated my whole fucking bloodline!”

It’s rare for Wicker to lose his cool. The only times I’ve truly seen it are during the gender reveal, and when he stopped his father from whipping me in the study. Even then, there’d been a sense of detachment, a lost boy trapped in a man’s anger. But standing here now, his face red and his forearms strained, it’s not just anger rolling off of him in waves.

I swallow, resting a shaking hand on my stomach.

It’s the first time he’s ever called the baby his son.