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It’d be a lie to say it doesn’t worry me a little, seeing this new flash of energy in his eyes whenever anything Baron-esque comes up. The way he’s looking at this building, with all its vines and stones, has an unnerving hunger to it. If I thought it’d make a lick of difference, I’d drag him back, but the hard truth is that there’s nowhere better to drag him to. Are the tattered remains of Wicker’s Baron legacy any better or worse than the ones waiting for us in East End?

“Well, we either need to take care of our business or get the fuck out of here,” I say, “before someone notices two relatively under-armed Princes are lurking outside the King’s office at night.”

Coming into BRN territory wasn’t on my bingo card for the day, but Wicker casually announced his need to run an “errand” after dinner. It was obvious to everyone but him that he wasn’t going alone, so a coin flip later, here we are. “I still don’t get why you couldn’t have this delivered by courier the way he had itsent to you.” Wick and I stand at the edge of the stone pathway that leads to the front door. “There’s no reason to do this face to face.”

“This was the return address on the envelope,” he tells me, as if that was some kind of invitation. “You’re welcome to wait out here.”

I point between him and the church. “You think I’m letting you go into the Baron King’s creepy, decrepit forest armpit without backup?” I’m still pissed that he and Verity went to the mausoleum alone. The whole thing could’ve been a colossal disaster. I know Wicker thinks I’m too paranoid, but there’s a reason for it. It’s a bit of a stretch to say he’s lived a charmed life, but there are few situations Whitaker Ashby doesn’t think he can’t charm himself out of unscathed.

When he glances at me though, he stalls, releasing a measured breath. “Look, I can’t explain it, but this is just something I need to do. It’s like…” He makes a frustrated gesture. “It’s like closure or something.”

“Closure,” I repeat, brow arching. “Okay, so you’renotplanning on claiming your right to Clive Kayes’ throne, leaving the rest of us to rot away in East End.”

Wicker’s forehead scrunches. “And give up my cars?” He laughs when I reach out, slamming my fist into his shoulder. Still, I see the flash of disappointment in his eyes. “Jesus, do you really think I’m that fickle?”

“You?” I ask, deadpan. “Fickle?”

He rolls his eyes. “I know you were committed to this whole fatherhood and mutiny thing on day one, but the road is a little more winding for the rest of us. This,” he nods at the chapel, “is a pit stop.”

Thinking that I can probably understand that, I take a deep breath, nodding. “Then let’s get this over with.”

As Wicker lifts his fist to rap on the door, he mutters, “God, you’re such a jealous freak.” And before I can argue, the door is swinging open, revealing?—

I draw in a sharp breath, reaching for my gun, but it’s only a short thing.

The guy in the doorway looks just like a William. Slick hair. Unsettling eyes. Black suit, completely murdered-out. Tattoos just below the collar of his black shirt, which is straining at the biceps, even though he’s fairly lean. He’s a bit baby-faced in a way that might be disarming if his stare wasn’t made of razor blades.

But he’s not any of the Williams I know.

Wicker snorts. “Looks like the King appointed a new Baron already. William, is it?”

The guy looks from me to Wicker, a twitch of disdain on his lips. “No.” He doesn’t elaborate.

My brother shoots me a look. “See? As if I could ever survive being that terse.”

I start, “We’re here?—”

“To see the King,” the guy says. There’s something about his voice that niggles in the back of my mind, but I can’t quite place my own familiarity with it. He turns, walking off and leaving me and Wick in the doorway. Once he’s halfway down the entry, he turns and fixes us with a blank stare. “Well?” he asks. He may be terse, but that one word speaks volumes, infused with some pretty thick implications as to our intelligence.

My bones are instantly met with a chill, and the weight of the gun on my hip feels strange as I step into what used to be the narthex of the chapel. We’d certainly never invite another Royal into the palace armed.

But I’m not handing it over if no one makes me.

Small alcoves set with votive candles flank each side of the small entry, and straight ahead, through a carved, arched doubledoorway, is the chapel itself. Pews sit in solitary, vacant rows, all facing the altar at the front. Before I can get a better look, the Baron turns down a hall and leads us to a smaller version of the arched doors.

The room is long, with high ceilings and more arches, but this time on the windows. Stained glass obscures the view to the outside. The purpose of the room itself seems to be a library of some kind, and that’s what stands out to me most.

The room is practically stuffed to the gills.

Thick, old-looking books fill the shelves that line the walls, and binders and boxes cover every other available surface. Where everything in East End seems coated in a gossamer sheen, this appears to carry a layer of history. But there’s an obvious system to the chaos, each stack and row aligned with some system of intent. For a blink, I wonder if this is aMaddoxthing. A speck of mania, the kind that’s evident with his son. I look to Wicker to see if he’s thinking the same but his gaze is across the room, focused on the far wall.

Maddox stands in front of it, his fingers laced behind his back, seemingly unaware that we’ve entered the room.

The wall in front of him is much like the meticulous collection filling the room. A finely organized web of maps and photographs, mugshots and lists, scribbled notes, and official-looking government paperwork.

I only manage to zero in on one name—Arianette—before the Baron announces us. “He’s here, Father.”

“So soon?” The King unwinds his fists to reach for a heavy rope. Immediately, a curtain falls over the wall. He’s dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen him, his signature black suit jacket draped across a chair in the corner. His sleeves have been rolled up, revealing muscular forearms and an expensive watch, which sits right below a faded tattoo of a pentagram. My Father always wielded his power through intimidation andinstruments. But the Baron King looks strong, like he could dole out the abuse himself.