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If he’s discomfited by his own transparency, he hides it well, his movements fluid and precise. “I guess it is. But if you asked me to,” his face softens, “I’d destroy every sample.”

I adjust my hold on his shoulder, following his next turn. “It’s a nice thought, the idea of us all understanding how we’re linked,” I say tiredly. “But we’re still divided, Lex. Imagine if Wicker or Remy found out about sharing a mother because of a test you did behind their backs. Imagine if Maddox never had the chance to give him context or closure.” I give him a significant look. “There would have been bloodshed.”

His mouth forms a grim line. “Does the truth always have to be so dangerous?”

I think about this for a long moment, letting the music and Lex sweep me across the candlelit dance floor. “Not always,” I decide, turning my head to press a kiss against the cut of his jaw. “Which is why I do want you to destroy the samples.” I grin, the warmth flaring in my chest like a firework. “After one last comparison.”

13

Lex

When I getPace’s text on Friday morning—“drawing room, watch him”—I’m not really sure what to expect. My brother’s gotten really cryptic ever since he started kicking up training for the fall, as if it’s taken so much energy, he can’t even make a complete sentence.

What I’mnotexpecting to find, however, is Remington Maddox lounging on our settee.

I pause in the doorway, looking from him to Wicker, who’s sitting on the sofa across from him. The room is deathly silent. Remy is staring at a spot on the floor with such searing intensity that I follow his gaze, finding nothing but the old hardwoods.

Wicker has his arms crossed, a scowl set on his face.

We’d been expecting him, of course.

The whole palace has been eager for Ballsack’s—Eugene’s—return ever since Agent Knight took him off the ground in cuffs, and Remy was supposed to deliver him.

I don’t see the DKS soldier, but I do see his Duke, a crevice carved in his forehead.

The silence lingers on and on, and I’m not compelled to break it, needing more data before I act.

But then Remy lets out this soft, scoffing laugh. “Nah.”

“Yeah.” Wicker’s voice is firm. “Ask him yourself.”

When Remy whips out his phone, it all clicks.

“You told him,” I realize, unsure how to feel about that. On one hand, the fewer secrets, the better. On the other, Verity had a point. Letting information like this loose into the world could have unforeseen consequences.

Straightening, Remy puts the phone to his ear, eyes distant. Truthfully, I’m not sure how a normal Royal interacts with his father. If it were one of us, six months ago, it would have been stiff but respectful and polite.

Remy doesn’t bother with any of that. “Is Wicker fucking Ashby mybrother?” he seethes into the phone.

Obviously, I can’t hear what’s being said on the other end, but I do see Remy’s reaction to it.

His face blanks out, bled of all expression.

Slowly, he says, “Right.” And then, “Naturally.” And then, “Hold on.” He gives the phone a perplexing glance before holding it out toward Wicker. “He wants to talk to you.”

Wicker pulls a face that’s all hard edges and aggression, but strains over the distance to snatch it out of Remy’s hand. “What?” he snaps into the phone, another silence stretching before us. “Hello?” Wicker pulls the phone away, gawking at it before raising his outraged gaze to Remy. “Did this fucker really ask you to give me the phone so he could hang up on me?”

Remy looks pale, springing to his feet. “I… I have to go,” he mutters, lifting a hand to grip at his platinum hair. “I have to find a color that isn’t gold.” But when he goes to rush out, he freezes, spotting me in the doorway. “Oh. Hey.” His eyes are a wild sort of green, zipping around like he’s being hunted.

“Are you okay?” I’m not sure what makes me ask. Maybe seeing Remy that night Nick Bruin got shot made me see him in a different light.

He’s weirdly fragile for a Duke.

Remy plucks something from behind his ear—a marker—and taps a rapid rhythm with it against his thigh. “Yeah,” he says, looking troubled. “I just need to see the sky and check my head, you know?”

I really don’t. “Wait,” I call as he rushes by. “This isn’t why we asked you to come.” When I shoot Wicker a disbelieving glare, all I get back is his middle finger. “I wanted to ask a favor.”

Remy stops, turning to me, but his eyes never quite reach mine, stopping at my throat. “A favor?” he asks, shoving a fist in each pocket.