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“So, it’s going to be you, is it?” Father chuckles, the sound almost chilling. “Because whoever kills me takes the crown, you know. Do you really think PNZ would followyou—a mut?” Humming, he locks onto my stare, musing, “How long would it be before they figure out who you really are? They’d never suffer a Baron legacy in this palace. Mutinies are all in good fun when you’re on that side of the cage. How will you fare in here with your brothers, I wonder? Your Princess?” He grins. “Your son?”

Yanking up the top of his scrubs, I reveal the hard plane of his chest and press the tip of the switchblade to it. “The only reason I never wanted to be a father is that I didn’t want to be anything like you,” I say, the first drops of blood spilling from the cut I carve into his flesh. “But that’s because you know nothing about being one. And I may not have what it takes, but between the three of us, we’ll do a hell of a lot better than you.”

He takes it with gnashed teeth, his blazing stare as unrelenting as my own. “You’re astonishingly like your own father,” he snarls, pain in his eyes as I bring the blade down. “He was also a Royal failure who hated his child.”

I dig the blade in a little deeper near the center. “I guess my fathers have that in common.”

A small, agonized sound rumbles in his chest, but he clamps down on it. “You don’t know anything about your real father, Whitaker. Oh, everyone likes to talk about your grandfather, the mysterious Clive Kayes. But haven’t you noticed no one ever has a word to speak about his son, young Benji?” His eyes spark and wince. “I’ll let you in on a secret, little Prince. This flaw that flows through your veins wasn’t given to you by your father at all.” He leans closer, as if inviting the blade to sink deeper, and speaks the words with a low, malicious sneer. “It’s the whore he created you with.”

I pause, the tip of the knife finishing the final line.

It’s hard to stab someone in the chest. People don’t tell you that. The sternum is tough and takes a lot of focused pressure to get through. It’s not something a man like me does on a whim. It requires patience and choice. The gut is always the better option, quick and devastating and so damn messy.

Right now, I’m thinking that I have the time to spare.

It’s difficult to shove him back into the cell. “You’re going to die in this palace,” I promise, casually wiping the blade of my knife. The last glimpse I catch of him, Rufus Ashby is hissing in pain and anger, the stubs of his bloody, missing fingers prodding the pentagram on his chest.

When I was younger,I used to imagine having the palace all to myself. I’d ride Pace’s skateboard down the grand banister, use the second floor corridor as my own bowling alley, and invite every hot girl or boy I knew over for rowdy, erotic parties.

The reality is disappointing.

After the contractors all leave, everything is unbearably, eerily still. It settles into the pit of my gut like an ominous thing. There’s a monster below me and a wild card above me. I can while away all the hours I want torturing Father or visiting Danner, but every move I make feels wrong, like I should be doing something else. Something important. Something…useful.

Gross.

Nearly three weeks pass in this vacant, restless limbo. There are no meetings to attend, no dates to escort, no lacrosse or hockey practices. There’s just me in the solarium, my fingers pressed to the strings of my cello as I search for a sound that’ll quiet the shout trapped in my chest. Every night I go out there, settle the instrument between my legs, and play.

I play so hard that my fingertips scream.

The days are endless, but these nights—trapping myself inside that glass casket—are without measure or purpose. The only obligation I have is watching Pace’s bird while he’s out, so I take her down there with me, watching as she makes all these furious, clumsy attempts at flight. Over and over, she bats her wings, struggling to reach the highest branch of the camellia tree, but never quite making it.

You and me both, pretty bird.

I keep a beer at my side, the bottle sweating as the notes bounce off the glass, but never even touch it as I search for thatthing. That important thing. Thatusefulthing.

Goddamn it.

I ignore it for as long as I can, this pressing need todo. It’s a sickness, festering away inside of me like an infection. I know Father was the one to put it there, but it doesn’t make it go away. It hovers just behind me, always lurking.

I’m almost grateful when Pace barges into the kitchen one night, telling me, “Dude, look at the news.” Instead of waiting, he turns his phone to me, showing me the screen.

The headline of the article declares, “Missing niece of Forsyth University’s Dean Hexley found alive.”

I snatch the phone, reading on.

“Arianette Hexley. She was one of the ten missing girls,” Pace says, an energized glint in his eyes. “They found her up at the river—said she was missing for three weeks. I mean, she’s unaffiliated with any of the frats, but?—”

“The dean’s niece,” I agree, glancing up. “She’s prominent.”

“It could be that she was just off on a bender somewhere or just a runaway or something.”

“I’d run away if Hexley was my uncle.” That guy is an ass-kissing douche.

“Right?” Pace is already shoving his phone in his pocket, backing out of the room. “I told Ballsy that I’d see what I could find out, if there are any details the press is holding back.”

“Good idea, the more prominent, the more eyes, and the last thing we need is another surprise visit from the FBI.”

“That’s the fucking truth.” His eyebrow lifts. “Are you good here?”