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When he turns, I see Wicker’s hands curl into tight fists in my periphery. “Take it off.”

The King’s head tilts. It’s impossible to read his expression under the mask he’s wearing, the two horns gleaming. “I conduct my business in this place as the Baron King, not myself.”

“We already know your identity,” I tonelessly remind him, keeping an eye on the Baron. “There’s no reason for pretense.”

“Very well.” The King answers by reaching up, plucking at some buckle beneath the cowl, and lifting the mask from his head. Maybe because I’ve glimpsed them through the mask this whole time, the green eyes are the first thing I notice. They’re not a pale green like Verity’s, but deep emerald. His dark hair has gone gray at the temples, and there’s a bit of attitude in his features, sharpened and aloof, just like all the other Kings I know.

“I was wondering how long it’d take you,” he says, hanging the mask on a hook attached to the shelf. “From what I understand, you and the Princess received and were satisfied with your gift.”

“We did. I wanted tothank youin person,” Wicker’s hand dips into his pocket and he pulls out the key, “and return this.”

“Ah.” Maddox turns to the Baron. “Hunter, you may leave us. Prince Ashby and I have some further business to attend to in private.”

“Pace is staying,” Wicker quickly adds.

“Suit yourself.” Maddox shrugs, waiting until the Baron—Hunter—has exited the room to nod at Wicker. “That key belongs to you and your biological family. Why are you bringing it back to me?”

“I got what I needed.” Jaw tight, Wicker sets the iron key on the long table in the middle of the room. “And besides slittingyour traitor's throat, it was the realization that I know who my family is, and they’re not rotting bones encased in marble. Now that I’ve finally looked the man who killed my first family in the eye, I think we can consider our business done.”

Maddox’s mouth ticks up. “Is that what you think I’ve done?”

“You killed my father.” Wicker lifts his chin, doing just as he’d wanted. Looking Maddox—not the King, not the mask, but theman—in the eye. “You killedmy father’sfather.”

Blandly, I muse, “Probably killed more.”

Maddox’s gaze shifts to me, that same malicious grin ticking upward. “Probably. But then, so have you. Rufus is dead, or presumably will be soon. One of you will take the position of King. Patricide under the weight of a crown.” His eyebrow lifts. “That would make us contemporaries.”

“I’ve seen what the Kings do,” Wicker says, disdain thick in his voice. “Squabbling over petty negotiations, dividing territory lines, keeping brothers and pledges in line. But most of all, you’re all in the flesh trade; whores, fights, trafficking, breeding.” Every muscle in Wick’s well-honed body tenses. “I’m not interested.”

For so long, Wick buried the trauma he experienced from Mayfield, but I think the prospect of having his own child has brought it bubbling to the surface. I get it. Seeing Father on the other side of the dungeon bars, my truth hit me like the coiled tip of his whip.

I’ll never be caged again. Not by him. Not by anyone.

“I can’t say I blame you,” Maddox says surprisingly. “It’s lonely at the top. Isolated. As much as I’m loath to admit it, Payne and Perilini may have the right idea. They’re not doing this alone. They’ve surrounded themselves with their family.” He chuckles darkly. “Perilini even hasmyfamily. The irony is that what they’ve created is what I tried to do in my own house.With the Williams, and before that, with my wife, Amber, and our son.”

Wicker and Verity told us what the Baron had said moments before he died on top of the marble casket. How the King was lost without his son and wife, and that William’s attempted assassination was to give his King a death—a purpose. Is that what we’re looking at here? A man with no purpose?

My gaze flicks over to the curtain and the board he covered when we walked in. I’m not sure what that was all about, but it doesn’t seem without intent. If the kingdoms are a chess game, then Maddox has memorized the board we only just realized existed.

“The Baron confessed he was working outside your direction,” Wicker says in that artificial way of his, like Maddox should be grateful he’s not being blamed.

And he fucking well should be.

Maddox exhales, looking away. “Will’s loyalty was misguided. He’d developed a fanaticism that went against the order of my rule. He’d felt I’d grown soft by not acting after the announcement of a potential future Kayes. He worried about an uprising, or worse, a claim by you. But if I’ve learned anything from my son, it’s that the new generation’s loyalties lie not with blood, but with emotion.” I can’t tell if he’s impressed by this or not. Maybe just resigned. “In any case, while you were getting your vengeance, I was getting something of my own.”

“A new baby Baron?” I ask, scoffing. “Doesn’t seem like much of an upgrade.”

Maddox braces his hands on the table, shadows blotting his eyes. “Hunter? Oh, I choose my darklings meticulously, and this one will have a very specific role to serve.” Before I can question that, he goes on, “I was referring to intelligence, however. The way young Whitaker here left that body.” He feigns a shiver—ofdelight, of disgust. Hard to tell. “We dragged him out in sacks. That’s how I knew.”

Wicker stiffens. “Knew what?”

“The baby your Princess is carrying.” Maddox grins, and for a moment, it’s hard to believe he’s anyone’s father. There’s no warmth in the steel. No paternal comfort in the aging lines of his face. “It’s yours.”

My heart ticks up, and I don’t even think before snapping out, “He’sours.”

Maddox raises a flattened hand, tipping it back and forth. “Emotionally, I’m sure. But genetically, biologically, he is a Kayes. Relax,” he continues, eyes darkening. “If I had an interest in murdering infants, you’d never have known one another.”

Wicker grinds out, “You don’t have any proof,” and Maddox scoffs.