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“We were waiting for you,” Pace explains, tipping his head toward the door. “She’s supposed to be sleeping, but…”

“You didn’t want to leave her alone,” I say, understanding. She wouldn’t be alone. Sy, Lavinia, and Rory are probably all up there with her. But none of them are her Princes. I adjust the paper bag, already soggy from condensation, and pass the blunt to Maddox. “Call me if you need backup.”

Pace nods, and then they’re off, the three of them disappearing into the alley—a Duke with a grudge the size of askyscraper, a soldier with nothing to lose, and one of the most skilled torturers Forsyth has ever seen.

Brice Oakfield is in for a world of pain.

When I reach the loft, I pause in the entry, gaping at the sight before me. “You shouldn’t have moved him!” I snipe, but all I get in response is Lavinia Lucia’s annoyed grunt as she squirms closer to Nick.

Nick, who they’ve moved to the couch.

The couch, which apparently fucking pulls out into a sleeper?

Why didn’t anyone tellmethat?

Annoyed but diligent, I check the IV and monitors, making sure they haven’t jostled something important in the move from the table to the couch. Sy and Lavinia bracket his sleeping body, all of them half-naked and way too comfortable considering that their Duke isn’t out of the woods yet.

I really wish they’d let me hand him over to the surgeon in Northridge.

Thankfully, everything looks in place, so I leave them be, shoving the ice cream into the freezer. I didn’t just buy the ice cream because I promised it for Verity. I bought it because I was buying time. The events of the last twenty-four hours have proven more than ever that life is short, and we can’t fuck around hoping for another opportunity.

Grabbing the stack of papers off the coffee table, I carry them into the bedroom and find Verity, propped up against the pillows, a book tenting the curve of her stomach.

“Hey, you’re back,” she says, setting the book aside. “Pace told me to wait here.”

“I saw him out front. Ice cream’s in the freezer,” I say by way of greeting. “Want some?”

Her nose wrinkles. “As much as I want to say yes, I think it’ll give me heartburn all day if I eat it now.” She watches me kick offmy shoes and yank the bottom of my shirt free. “You sleeping in here?”

“Not sure I have much choice,” I unbutton and shrug it off, leaving on the white tank underneath, “there’s a pack of Dukes sleeping in my bed.”

“A sleuth.”

“Huh?” I unfasten my pants and let them drop to the floor. Yeah, I’m stalling.

“A group of bears is called a sleuth,” she says, eyes dragging away from my legs to the stack of papers I left on the dresser. “What’s all that?”

My eyes linger on it, tightening. “That’s something I want to talk to you about.”

It’d been startling to see them when I first arrived at the apartment. Someone—the Duchess, I think—had started a collection of the articles, tacking them to the wall. Morbid curiosity with serial killers is nothing new, and the Royal Gazette’s documentation of the Forsyth Carver was thorough. It just feels different when it’s your history, your story, pinned to the wall as a novelty.

In East End, we don’t put our pasts on display. Those records are sealed, only to be brought out by Father as a reminder of our inferiority, validation for his need to assert control over us. Our blood—our genetics—are inferior, none more so than mine, and he seemed to think that he could punish them into submission.

The time we’ve spent alone here in West End has brought us closer, and it’s time Verity knew the truth about her Prince.

I grab the top paper, which bears a big, bold headline announcing,“Forsyth Carver Slays Wife, Himself, Child Found Among The Bodies.”I hand it to her, watching her forehead furrow in distaste, and comb my hair back from my face.

“I was two,” I begin. “All I remember are the blood, flashing lights, and a faint memory of a police badge, but—I can’t be surethat isn’t false. What feels the most real is something that’s more of a… a sensation,” I place my hand over my chest, “like being ripped away. Like a tether being cut.”

“You?” she says, recognition falling into place. She sits up, face going slack in shock. “You’rethe baby they’re talking about here? The Carver’s child?”

I nod and pull out a separate file. I’d found it in Father’s belongings after we locked him in the dungeon. It’s worn and stuffed with official-looking papers from the police, federal agents, and psychologists. There’s a profile inside, listing the characteristics of a psychopath, along with notes in a familiar script. Lists from Father’s ledgers. Dates. Timelines. Rufus had been tracking him for years. Watching him hunt the co-eds of Forsyth, not only out of interest, but because he knew exactly who he was all along.

Reluctantly, I explain, “My biological father was a Prince. No one noteworthy—a faint line that gave him enough credibility to earn the position. Father—Rufus—as much as he goes on about bloodline, that’s never his real priority when choosing the Princes. In his mind, the Ashby legacy is the only one of importance.” I feel the oddest combination of disgust and intrigue as I hold the pieces of a puzzle—my puzzle—stuffed inside this folder. “Father must have seen something unique in him. That’s his gift, you know. The ability to see a flaw and cultivate it. Nurture it. The value of Wicker’s legacy. Pace’s paranoia and fear of rejection. My detachment and precision—which we know are inherited.” I shake my head. “It was no accident that Ashby was there to adopt me days after my parents’ deaths. He’d been waiting for the opportunity to create his own family, one misfit at a time, and when the Carver committed murder-suicide, it gave him the opportunity.”

“You’re not a misfit,” she says, dipping her head to hold my eyes. “And you’re not detached.” She reaches for the file, slowlytugging it from my hand. “You’re the glue that holds you and your brothers together.”

“That’s debatable, Princess.” I laugh darkly. “What I do in the dungeon, what I did to you… those things were as instinctive to me as blinking.”