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The low, silky whisper immediately brings a flush to my face. “You’re obligated to say that as one of the fathers of my baby,” I say, aware of Lavinia watching us.

He shrugs and replies, “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong,” before sauntering off.

Lavinia and I are both quiet as we watch his retreat. Halfway across the gym, one of the nurses approaches and they both head toward the blood drawing area. Once he’s gone, Lavinia turns to me, a wide grin on her face. “Girl, holy shit.”

“What?”

“That.” She points at him, and then back at me. “You two.”

“What about it?” I unscrew the cap of the water bottle.

“He’s been a machine since he got here, but one second with you and he turns into a fucking teddy bear?” She laughs, headshaking. “He adores you. And the baby. It’s so cute, I could literally barf.”

“He’s a Prince,” I remind her, feeling my cheeks heat. “He’s programmed for fatherhood.”

“Maybe, but that look? All the sweet things?” She blinks. “He loves you.”

I can’t explain my reaction, which lands somewhere between annoyance and panic. “Stop. We’re barely into the acceptance phase of this thing. We’re fulfilling roles. Creating legacies.” I say these words, these Ashby-isms, but they sit wrong in my chest. The Princes love one another—that bond is undeniable. And I know they care for the baby. At least Lex and Pace do. And things have changed between us, but I can’t imagine these men being capable of loving me. That’s not what a Royal relationship is about. Not in East End. “They’re not Dukes,” I tell her, “raised on passion and emotion. Their life has been hard.” She snorts, raising her eyebrow in disbelief. “Not like that. They’re rich, obviously. Spoiled, in their own way. But having Rufus as a father wasn’t a picnic. The kind of things he inflicted on them…” I swallow hard. “He left marks they’ll carry for the rest of their lives. The good thing is that they’re determined not to let that happen to their son, which is the most I could hope for.”

Lavinia knows what it was like to grow up with an abusive father—a King—and I see it reflected back in her cool, gray eyes. “I hear what you’re saying, but you can’t see what I see.” She nods toward the front door where Sy pats down a donor. In a freaky moment of synchronicity, as if he actually senses her attention, he glances our way, giving her a wink. “That look Sy just gave me? That’s the way your doctor daddy looks at you.”

The looks I catch Lex giving me are analytical. Controlled. Occasionally, down in the exam room, when it’s just the two us under the bright glare of the light, my legs up in the stirrups…heated. But the other expressions I see more than anything else are a mixture of fear and worry. Protective.

The morning after the incident on our first night here, he woke up, bolted out of bed, and spent an hour checking me over for bruises and internal injuries. I got to watch, groggy and heart-heavy as he hurled curses at himself, checking the baby’s heartbeat obsessively, not missing how he tossed Sy’s shredded shirt in the garbage without another look. Even now, a week later, I still sometimes catch him looking at me with that angry, agonized divot between his eyebrows.

Now, he makes me lock my door at night.

“Why does it bother you?” she asks, catching something far too telling in my expression. “Wouldn’t you rather have… er,created…out of love rather than some Royal strategy bullshit?”

But we didn’t. Even if Lavinia is right, and I doubt that much, this baby wasn’t created in a moment of love or even longing.

Maybe it wasn’t even created out of Royal obligation.

“Where do you want these?” Remy appears in front of the table with an armload of cardboard boxes. Another person comes up behind him, the stack of boxes too high to see their face, but I can recognize Wicker’s muscular arms anywhere.

“Oh, the rest of the T-shirts!” Lavinia jumps up, completely unaware of the turmoil she’s created inside my mind, and shows the boys where to unload the boxes. “Back here.”

I stand and move to help Wicker but he clucks, “Don’t even think of it, Red.” He cranes his neck around the edge of the box. “I already got a lecture.”

“Join the club,” I sigh, trying not to see the flash of blue in his eyes and think ofthatnight. The Royal Cleansing. “I was just going to tell you that you can put them on the table. We’ll sort them by size.”

But he just drops the box like a sack of bricks, dusting off his hands. “Fuck it. Someone will take it.”

I can’t help but snort when he slumps against a nearby donation bed, palms propped out casually, legs crossed at the ankle. He looks like a model posing, and terrifyingly, I don’t even think it’s intentional. “Why did you even come if you weren’t going to help?”

Reaching up, he rubs the back of his neck. Much like Lex, he’s foregone the unspoken mandate of conformity, wearing nice pants and a dark button-down. To anyone here, he probably looks downright formal, but I see the details. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, giving me a peek of the white tee underneath, and it’s untucked, the fabric a little rumpled. I get a bit caught up on the wave of his hair, the way it falls over one eye. Practically messy, for him.

If Wicker is good for anything, it’s driving me to distraction. “Do you need something?”

“I uh…” He hedges for a moment, but ultimately says, “Never mind.”

I narrow my eyes, glancing around to make sure no one can overhear. “If this is your weird way of asking me for a blowjob or something, the answer is no.” I swallow. “Not here.”

A low, velvety chuckle falls from his lips. “Chill, Princess. I know you miss waking up to the feel of my cock drilling into you, but I’m not here for that.” His gaze dips to my chest. “Well, I wasn’t. What do you mean ‘not here’?”

“Spit it out.”

“Alright.” He glances over at the kitchen. “You think your mother’s got any of that banana pudding in there?”