Page 6

Behind the glass, Ashby twitches, his eyelids fluttering open. The movement is small and contained when he twists his neck, his bloodshot eyes landing on the glass. “Verity?” he rasps, the hope clear in his voice. And then, quieter, “Michael?”

Wicker gives me a look that’s so obnoxious he doesn’t even have to say ‘told you so’. “Tell us the combination to your upstairs safe, and maybe we’ll let you see her.”

Lex’s gaze snaps to Wicker’s, and then Pace’s. There’s an electric current of eagerness running between them. A bated breath. This is something they’ve been trying to get for a while, I realize.

But Ashby’s face hardens at the request, and suddenly, he doesn’t look like the frail old victim he’d seemed mere moments ago. He looks like the King again. The monster. “She’s not worth it.”

I spring forward, fist clenched as I speak into the microphone. “But our baby is, isn’t he?”

Lex snags my hand, and when I turn to meet his gaze, I find a sharp, disapproving frown. “No,” he mouths.

But when I look back at Wicker, his grin is chilling. “Yes,” he mouths.

And that pretty much seals it. “Tell them the combination and I’ll show you my stomach.” I hold Wicker’s gaze. It’s probably not a good sign that he’s so willing to use our son as a cheap interrogation ploy, but… “Tell them, and I’ll show you your grandson.”

It’s barely the space between two breaths when Ashby lifts his neck, his red-rimmed eyes hard and wide. “Zero seven one,” beside me, Pace scrambles to get down the numbers, “four two zero zero two.” A ragged laugh rips from his throat. “You’re all worthless if you couldn’t figure that out. I’m even more disappointed in you than usual, Pace. If you were half the Prince you think you are, you’d know what this number means by now.”

Pace looks both furious and lost as he glances at his brothers, only getting their confused shrugs in response.

But my eyes never once leave Ashby’s gaunt face, a bitter taste lingering in the back of my throat. “It’s my birthday.”

That same ragged laugh tears through the speaker. “What, no celebration planned? It must be coming up soon. What is it, mid-June?”

Wicker’s hand disappears from the button, an aggressive tilt to his mouth. “Do notever,” he grinds out, “tell him the date. Understand?”

I look at Pace, knowing the texture of the tally marks on his forearm well enough to give a slow, understanding nod. “Never.”

He hasn’t earned it.

And with that, Wicker wrenches open the heavy inner door.

The smell hits me before I even step over the threshold. It smells worse than death because it’s actually life. Proof that his body still works. I push my palm over my nose, halfway to being sick as I follow Wicker through. Behind us, Lex mutters a curse, but they’re different in here. No longer doting Princes. It’s just like Wicker had said. A sensitive operation. Even the way they move is different, purposeful and precise, giving nothing away.

Pace sweeps in with such a lack of expression that it makes my breath quicken.

“Show me,” Ashby demands, squirming in his restraints as he struggles to lever himself upright. “Show me my heir.”

Exchanging a glance with Wicker, I reluctantly reach for the hem of my shirt, inching it over the swell of my belly.

Ashby’s mouth forms a twisted grin. “He’s still growing.”

To say it’s unpleasant is an understatement. I hate the way he looks at me, his cold eyes fixed on my belly with that repulsive smirk. I hate the knowledge that I’ve been brought here to act as hisvessel, just a cage for his next creation. I hatehim.

So it’s a triumph to see his face fall when I tug my shirt down, hiding our son away. “Where’s Stella?” I ask.

Ashby scoffs. “She’s clearly not here. If she were, she’d give you the proper attire for a Princess to wear in her second trimester.” It’s almost impressive how he can lay there bleeding, dirty, and bruised, entirely stripped of his dignity, and still manage to sound above it all. His lip curls in disdain as he stares me down. “You look like street trash.”

The crack is unexpected, making me jolt in alarm. I’m not prepared for Ashby’s strained, gnashed scream, nor the sight of blood bubbling up from the slash of the whip.

But it’s satisfying, all the same.

“Manners, old man,” Pace says, fist tight around the handle of the whip. “That’s the mother of our child you’re speaking to.”

Behind me, Wicker slings an arm around my shoulder, deceptively casual as his other hand rests on my stomach. “Yeah, think about poor little CJ in there. We can’t expose our son to that sort of filth.”

I glance at him over my shoulder, brows knitted up in confusion. “CJ?”

Wicker grins. “Yes, little Clive Junior. It’s tradition for a man to give his son the name of his patriarch. You know how much East End loves their traditions.”