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Hearing the skeptical tone in his voice, I elaborate. “A painting for the nursery. I was thinking…” Reaching up, I rub the back of my neck, pissed at Wicker for marring this. “Well, Verity thinks of you as family, and we thought it’d be a nice surprise if you painted something on the walls in there. They’re completely bare.”

Remy’s gaze finally inches up, meeting mine. “They’rebare?” he asks, disgust clear in his voice. “I’ll—I’ll be back.”

And with that, he stalks down the hallway to the foyer, leaving.

I turn a blank look on my brother. “Seriously?”

Wick shrugs, spreading out on the couch. “He’s the only person in this town who hates Maddox more than I do. Seemed like some fun shit to stir.”

“We don’t need to stir shit,” I say, rubbing my temple. “Verity is going to give birth to our son in a month, and we still have our own fucking King held hostage.”

Wick points out, “I wanted to kill him and get it over with. You’re the one being all strategic and drag-ass about it.”

“There are things,” I say, teeth grinding, “we need to use him for.”

He makes a flippant sound. “Like what?”

“Like the Royal Ascension!”

Wicker’s eyes jump to mine and he straightens, mouth forming a slack moue. “We’re doing the ascension? There hasn’t been a Royal Ascension since?—”

“Michael. I know.” Shrugging, I remind him, “Our son is the heir to the kingdom. He deserves his birthright, and that’s how people need to see him.”

“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, fuck yeah.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, already cringing at the words I’m about to say. “So stop sowing discord and start taking Maddox’s advice. We have a kingdom to lead.”

I know I’ve driven the point home when Wicker rises to his feet. “I’ll start the preparations then. We won’t have much time.”

The flash of malicious delight in his eyes doesn’t bother me because I feel it, too. Upstairs, Pace probably has the same violently eager gleam in his own eyes.

But Verity doesn’t even know what the ascension is.

And she hates getting blood on her dresses.

“It’s down here.”I exchange a look with Rory Livingston as I walk down the hall. He nods in return, arms crossed over his chest. He’s turned into a reliable asset for PNZ. Loyal. Adaptable. I know he’ll have my back as I lead a rival into my house.

“The idea was to do it as a surprise, but unfortunately it became apparent very quickly that we’re way outside of ourwheelhouse,” I explain. “That’s when Ballsack suggested we ask you.”

Ballsy’s still getting settled back into his rooms downstairs. In truth, I was surprised he wanted to come back at all. If he wanted to stay in West End under his own King’s protection, we wouldn’t have held it against him. When I asked, he just laughed, saying Verity and our little cantaloupe need a chauffeur. It was said as a joke, but we both know it’s true.

Everyone is growing more nervous with each day the birth approaches. A part of me feels relieved they do. I’ve had these nerves since she tested positive for pregnancy, tending the anxiety and pressure for long months.

It’s about fucking time everyone else did, too.

“We aren’t just outside our wheelhouse. We’re in another stratosphere,” Pace adds, appearing in the doorway. He eyes the man behind me dubiously. “Remy.” He shoots me a glare. “I’m still on the record for this situation being fucked.”

Thesituationis unprecedented, but so are a lot of other things lately. The night I made the decision to save Nick Bruin’s life, I proved we were a house who could be reached out to if the links were there. Now that we know Remy and Wicker are biologically brothers, those links are even more unavoidable.

If we’re going to make an ally, the Dukes are the most obvious and useful.

Remy must agree because he suddenly—awkwardly—thrusts his hand out to Pace, who stares at it much too hard, as if he’s trying to find the resemblance between ink-stained Maddox hands and Wicker’s.

In the end, Pace huffs, reaching out to grip it with a hard shake.

Remy doesn’t give it back, though. He tugs Pace closer, bending down to assess my brother’s tattoos. He purses his lips,using the tip of his ever-present capped marker to point to a whorl on Pace’s forearm. “This prison work?”

“Yeah,” Pace says, expression shuttered and hard.