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“What’s that, old man?” I dip my pinky into the whipped cream and lick it off.

“You think you can annoy me to death.” His voice is dull, bored. “Good effort, but we both know it’ll take more than Led Zeppelin and stealing my Scotch to do that.”

“True,” I admit. Picking up the glass of cut crystal, one Father bought in Austria, I eye the brown liquid inside. “But Lex told me you can’t lose any more blood right now, so it’s the best I’ve got.” I sniff the liquor, inhaling the rich scent just like he taught me, and take a measured sip.

“So why were you the one who got left home alone to, as you put it, babysit me?” His lip curls. “Where are your brothers and your sister? Doing something important? Something that requires Lex’s intellect? Pace's knack for analytical persistence? My daughter’s pedigree?”

Truth be told, Iama little irritated I got left here alone in the quiet of this haunted mansion. There’s a reason I keep busy—running, playing hockey, lacrosse, creeping through the secret passageways. I’m always moving. Talking. Fucking. Whatever it takes.

The quiet—the stillness—allows the demons too close to the surface.

But I had a much better reason to come down here. I want answers of my own. Ones that don’t involve my brothers or Verity.

“Maybe they thought that with my impulsivity, I’d end this once and for all. Put us all out of our misery at keeping an abusive asshole around. But,” I drain the glass, savoring the last drop, “since we’re here and alone, why don’t you answer some of my questions?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Which are?”

Before I answer, I shrug off my jacket and walk to the corner where Pace’s camera records our every move and every word. I lift the jacket over the lens, covering the device. It’s motion-sensored and should stop the recording. This moment is between me and Rufus. No one else.

I face him, arms crossed over my chest, and ask a question I’ve never had the guts to before. “Why did you do it?”

“It?” His lips pull back, teeth bared. “You’ll need to be more clear, Whitaker, if you want me to answer.”

I swallow, hating the words that he wants me to say, but I know how to play this game.Tit for tat.

“Why did you sell me at Mayfield?”

His eyes light up at the question, at the perverse pleasure of making me ask. “Oh, but how could I not? You were an exquisite child. Porcelain skin, sharp cheekbones, and those thick, pouty lips. Such a body…” His gaze takes me in, head to foot. “Some children are created beautiful and then transition through a gangly period before settling into mediocrity. Not you. Your beauty was obvious from the start. Transcendent. Adiamond.” Bile rises to the back of my throat as he speaks, and I will it back, allowing him to ramble. “That special moment when carbon creates the strongest of gems. Beautiful to look at. To touch. Unique. Everyone wants one to hang on their arm or adorn their body with. And because of all that, your value only appreciated over time.”

His explanation resonates; I feel the truth in every word, but something is missing. It has to be. “You’re telling me this isn’t because of who my father was? The fact I’m the only living Baron legacy? That you weren’t afraid that one day I’d have too much power, so you decided to reduce me into another one of your cheap commodities?”

“I won’t pretend it didn’t give me some satisfaction. The heir to Forsyth’s shadows, so exposed andhandled?” A ragged, malicious laugh rips from his throat. “If only your grandfather could have seen how you bloomed under the warmth of their attention, all your petals spreading for themlike a rose. I liked to imagine Clive rolling over in his grave, again and again.” He raises a slender, elegant hand to make a rolling gesture.

I gnash my teeth. “I wasn’t blooming, you arrogant fuck. I was enduring.”

“And this was all the power that befits you,” he continues, eyes sparking. “The greedy Forsyth society, thenon-royal, could barely keep their hands off you. Having grown up inside the walls of my palace, having attended the best boarding schools, having been a leader in PNZ…” He tsks, arching an eyebrow. “I don’t think you can appreciate the appeal that the aristocracy has to the common people in this city. They’ll do anything for an association—a piece of Royalty—and Mayfield provides that.”

“You didn’t sell me off for tea and biscuits,” I snap. “You sold me off, as a child, to women and men for their pleasure.”

“And you were always very good at giving them what they wanted.” He cocks his head, scrutinizing me. “Which makes me think you’re protesting a bit too much, aren’t you?”

The nausea transforms into rage and I slam into the cell, grabbing onto the bars. “As if I had a choice! Any infraction, any complaint or defiance, was met with punishments doled out to Lex and Pace!” A rumble of anger rises in my chest. “Don’t delude yourself into believing I was your willing victim—thatanyof us wanted to do what you asked. All we ever wanted was to protect each other.”

He rears forward, delight sharpening his features. “And that is why you’re weak, Whitaker. Self-preservation should always be the highest quality for a Royal, but despite being a spoiled brat, you’ve always put your brothers before yourself.” His eyes narrow to small slits. “It’s why the Baron King handed you over when he ascended to the dark throne. He sensed it. It’s why I hoped either of your brothers would be the one to plant his seed in my daughter.” He rises from the cot and stalks toward me, caught up in his ranting. “You fought the creation process every step of the way. You don’t understand the value of what it means to bring an heir into this world—what it means to East End. It’s why locking me in this cage is foolish, and the beginning of the end for my kingdom.” Venom spills with every word. “You’re anabomination to my kingdom. A bastard. An unwanted orphan created from mixed blood and deception. You don’t have what it takes to be a leader, much less a father. You were made toserve. As a whore. As a brute. As a tool. Nothing else.”

There is nothing my father loves more than a monologue, but I’ve always known his hubris would be his downfall. Even locked in a cage, emaciated and withering away, he still thinks his words carry weight.

He’s right.

His words do carry weight.

But I’m not as weak as he thinks.

I thrust my arm into the cell and grab him by the shirt, yanking him into the bars. He slams into them, eyes widening when he sees the switchblade I’ve pulled from my pocket. I push the lever, the dramatic click revealing the sharp-tipped knife.

“Whitaker,” he warns, no doubt seeing death flash before his eyes. “What would Lex say?”

“He’d understand,” I snarl.