Page 70

“I don’t need a DNA test to know that. To kill someone with your bare hands so violently, soartfully…” The energy of the room crackles with tension. “That’s an act of love. Afather’slove. I’d know it anywhere.” Maddox tips closer, his low voice full of power. “It’s almost exactly what Benji Kayes looked like when I got through with him.”

I catch Wicker just before he lunges. “You backstabbing piece of shit!” he snarls.

Maddox steps back, as if the line connecting them has snapped. “And this is exactly what you can expect from Forsyth when you’ve finally taken Rufus’ crown. To the victor go the spoils? That’s a fantasy,” he sneers, meeting my gaze next. “You’ll be the monsters now, Ashby. No one will care about why it happened. They won’t assume it was deserved. Are you ready?” He looks between me and my brother. “Are you ready to be the ones in the mask? Because separating those parts of yourself is what it’ll take. Not fancy luncheons and desperate appeals to your frat.”

“If you’re trying to scare us into giving up,” I growl, allowing Wicker to shake me off, “then you’re going to be disappointed.”

“I want you to succeed!” I’m not expecting the sharp boom of Maddox’s yell, nor am I prepared for the slam of his fist on the table. “You—all four of you—are children of Royalty. You’re different facets in the legacy of Forsyth. Stop putting on a play and start leading your fucking kingdom!”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think this asshole was trying to give us advice. Wicker must feel it too because he suddenly asks, “What is this?”

“What is what?” Maddox asks.

He throws his arms out. “This! All this sentimental talk. The gift. The key. The reminders of my bloodline. The fact you let me and my brother walk in here, fully armed, and without any notice.”

Maddox makes a sharp, annoyed sound, reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose. “Is it a bad thing that I trust you not to murder me in cold blood on hallowed ground?”

Wick ignores this, his Adam’s apple bobbing before he says, “I’m going to ask you something, and I want the truth.” He doesn’t give the King a chance to respond. “Are you my real father? Is that what this is about?”

I reel back, not expecting that. I know the branches of family trees in Forsyth criss-cross through the generations; Verity is proof of that. But I didn’t see this coming. My heart lunges in my chest, suddenly terrified of an answer I didn’t anticipate needing to know.

Maddox deflates. ”No. Your real father is dead.” His response is without hesitation, thank fuck. Wicker exhales, but I’m not sure it’s out of relief, because it’s obvious he’s touched on something when Maddox continues, “But we are bound, Whitaker, through both blood and deceit.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” I ask because I’m not sure Wicker can.

Maddox pauses in a way that makes me nervous. It isn’t until I see a crack in the facade that I realize how cool he’s always played it. Right now, he looks like he’s searching—desperately. “Did Rufus really never tell you about your father?”

Wicker takes a sharp breath. “You know our father buries secrets the way pirates bury gold.”

“He always was good at that.” Maddox seems to think about it for a long moment, nodding at two chairs in a seating area near the stone fireplace. Then he grabs a bottle of Scotch off of the shelf under an ornate stained glass window in the crucifix design and carries over two crystal glasses, setting them on a wooden table. He fills them, liberally, and takes the seat across from ours. Wicker lifts his and sniffs, and before I can slap it out of his hand, takes a long swallow.

Even Maddox looks disappointed in the lack of self-preservation on display, meeting my gaze before taking a long drink—proof that the Scotch is untainted. Having no time for formality, I throw mine back all at once, trying to figure out what we’re doing here. It feels like I’ve been watching these two dance around this moment since the first time we met the Baron King at a tribunal.

Maddox must feel the gravity of it too, because he begins, “I suppose I should have expected this moment ever since I put you into Rufus’ arms, almost twenty-two years ago. This is something you’ll come to learn about Forsyth. We always answer for our sins, one way or another.”

If there’s one thing that being Rufus Ashby’s sons has taught us it’s that when a King speaks, we should listen patiently. These bastards love to hear themselves talk.

Glancing into his glass, he goes on, “I’m not sure how your own initiation as Princes feels, but taking the journey down thewicked path changes you. It’s not rare for a Baron or Baroness—or even a King—to fall victim to the doctrine of death. You no doubt saw a bit of this in Will before taking his life.”

Wicker is eerily still and I don’t like it. It’s almost as if being in this place is gripping some deep-down, familiar part of him. “He was a fucking wack job.”

The corners of Maddox’s eyes tighten. “Your father, Benji,” he says, the words emerging slowly, thoughtfully. “It consumed him. Corrupted him.”

I snort. “Convenient.”

“You think I killed him for ambition,” Maddox tells me, shrugging. “Everyone does—it’s a tidy little story. One people respect. But actually, Benji was my second cousin, once removed. Oh, yes,” he says, seeing Wicker’s reaction. “Our families were close. We grew up together. Prep school, summer camps, shared holidays in Europe, and eventually Forsyth U. We served as Barons together, but although Benji was the heir, I couldn’t have possibly cared less. I was majoring in business and didn’t want to be tied to the parameters of royalty anyway. In fact,” he adds, gesturing with this glass, “I graduated, guided our Baroness off the wicked path, and had a son with her. I built a family. Anempire. And all of that without ever needingthis.” He lifts a hand, showing us the golden gleam of the pentagram on his middle finger.

“But Benji…” Maddox’s eyes darken. “He didn’t just want to be a King, you see. He wasn’t satisfied with worshiping death. He wanted tobecomedeath. His choices weren’t without risk. His actions…” His sharp jaw tightens. “They weren’t made from ritual, they were blasphemous.Selfishand inhumane. It would have been fine if he’d kept it to his followers, but when I found out Benji’s true mission…” The tension in his neck snaps when he cracks it, electricity squirming over his skin, as if he’s shaking off the memory. “Well, he had to be stopped.”

My knee starts bouncing. “What mission?” I ask.

But Maddox pauses, pouring out another glass of Scotch. “I want you to know I gave Clive, your grandfather, an honorable death.”

Steadily, Wicker replies, “There’s no such thing.”

Maddox gives him a significant look. “You know that’s not true.”

“So what, you shot him in the head?” I wager, already losing patience. “Made it quick? Who cares?”