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I can’t imagine feeling that certain about anything. “How did you get it?” At his questioning stare, I elaborate, “Remington’s DNA sample.”

I’m expecting to hear something really elaborate, like the roach of the blunt we smoked that night Nick Bruin almost got killed, or rummaging through a trash bin for a soda can.

“I didn’t.” Lex shrugs. “I gotalltheir samples.”

I blink, taking this in, and realize he means all the Dukes. “How the fuck did—” And then, it hits me. “Oh, shit.”

Not just the Dukes.

“The annual blood drive,” he says, reaching up to tug off his shirt. “Hundreds of West End samples, ripe for the taking.” He looks pretty proud of it too, smirking. “I have a near complete database of the West End bloodlines.”

Everything about last month finally makes sense. Lex agreeing to do that blood drive, all the work in setting up, the cooperation and pretense…

I glance down at Rosi, still sound asleep. “She’s not going to like that.”

“Why not?” Lex wonders, tossing his shirt over the settee. “Forsyth is a fucking mess. Knowing the bloodlines and where they lead will solve a lot of problems.”

My brother is like this sometimes, unable to understand why emotion and logic aren’t always the best mix. I keep my voice low, afraid of waking her. “She thinks you’re all buddy-buddy with them now, but you actually just used her trip to West End to trick her family.”

Holy fuck.

Sheisgoing to flip her shit.

He frowns, head snapping back. “It wasn’t like that. I saw an opportunity and decided to make the most of it.”

“She won’t see it that way. She’ll think you betrayed them.”

He corrects, “I saved them.” At the look I give him, grave and unimpressed, he stresses, “It’s not like I’m going to use it against them!” Although there’s a strain in his voice.

My eyes narrow. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Deflating, he begins emptying his pockets. Glasses, keys, wallet. He looks tired too, bags beneath his eyes. “I figured we didn’t need any more surprises, so I checked the results of your DNA against the bones in the solarium.”

Remembering him taking that swab weeks ago, a spike of anxiety hits my chest. “And?”

“There’s no match.” He watches me closely, a worried tilt to his mouth. “I don’t know whether to say I’m sorry or congratulations.”

It’s nottheanswer, but it’sananswer. “Thanks for checking.”

But he watches me, amber eyes searching mine. “You were upset before,” he says, glancing at Verity and Wick. “Because of Maddox?” But then he shakes his head, guessing, “Because of Remy.”

“He’s Wick’s brother. And the baby,” I say, resting my palm over the curve of her belly. “He’s his uncle.”

There’s a stretch of silence, and I’m sure Lex is going to give me some lecture about how all families are complicated, and how it doesn’t have to mean we can’t all get along.

Instead, he looks at me, his mouth set into a grim line, and quietly declares, “He’s a douchebag.”

An abrupt laugh bursts from my chest that almost wakes her. The weariness I’ve been fighting off all day settles over me, and I yawn. “It’s late. Come to bed.”

“Scoot over,” he says, yanking the band out of his hair and letting it fall over his shoulders. The mattress sinks next to me and he shucks off his pants before turning off the light. Lex has never been a cuddler, but tonight he throws his arm around mywaist, and I feel the heat of his breath on my shoulder. Out of the darkness, he says, “The closer we get to removing Father, the more darts will come our way. People will try to dismantle us. Keep us unsteady. Make us question ourselves. But the one thing Father did was teach us that no matter what danger is coming our way, we protect one another because we’refamily.” His fingers press down on my hip. “Wick loves you, Pace. I love you. Verity trusts you. And god, that baby is going to be so goddamn lucky to have you as one of his fathers.”

It may be the longest, most sentimental speech I’ve ever heard him say.

“I need you to promise me something,” I say, voice low. Wicker can’t hear this. “Something that’s been bothering me since Maddox dropped his bomb.”

His forehead creases. “What?”

“Under no circumstances, in no lifetime, will my son be a goddamn gutter-trash boxer, understand?”