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Remy nods. “Violet.”

I chuff a laugh, glancing at Rory. “They’re gray, actually.”

But Pace just says, “Yeah,” looking weirdly impressed. “He did some of them.”

Remy nods. “I noticed it when you capped Oakfield. Good work, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Pace looks down at his arm. “How’d you know Bo Violet inked these?”

“All the red mostly.” He pops the marker back behind his ear. “And the thin lines. I’ve never met him, but some of the cubs have his ink. DK hooked you up, right?”

“What do you mean ‘red’?” Pace asks. The tattoos on his dark arm are also in dark, non-colored ink.

Remy blinks. “You got them in the Pen, right?”

“Yeah.”

Remy puts his inked fingers to a temple, and then mimics a trigger pull, saying, “Kapow!Red. Stay out of that place. It’ll kill you.”

“Sure.” Pace’s eyes slide to mine and I’m pretty sure he’s reconsidering letting this man into our house. “I’ll do that.”

“Now,” Remy rubs his hands together, “show me what we’re dealing with.”

Pace steps aside and allows Remy entry into the nursery. Wicker glances up from where he’s made some progress taping the windows. The two make eye contact but don’t speak. Wicker is probably the least on board with this idea, which is rich, considering his shit-stirring from earlier this morning.

I can’t blame him. The interactions he’s had lately with the Barons and Timothy Maddox surely are clouding his opinion. But when Ballsack heard we were struggling with a surprisedecoration attempt for the nursery, he suggested we call in the only pro he trusted.

That’s why Remington Maddox is inside the palace walls, up in our private wing, walking around the perimeter of the room, fingers out, barely grazing the primed surface. “How old is this painted lady? Forget all the new plaster and shit. When were her stones set?”

I frown. “You mean the palace? It was built in the late 1800s.”

“Shit,” he breathes, running his palm along the exterior wall. “She was born around the same time as the clock tower.”

Confused, I wager, “I guess.”

His green eyes are wide, following the path of his hand up the wall. “Imagine everything she’s seen.”

“A hundred years of East End jizz,” Wicker mutters with a cold smirk. “I’ll pass.”

Remy stops, turning to Wick. “You don’t like her.”

Wicker glances at me, then back to Remy. “It’s just a house.”

“Justa house?” Remy gapes at him, an odd flash of anger building in his eyes. “She’s sheltered you, hasn’t she? Showed you her secret places? She’s let you in, kept you safe, and made you a part of her soul.” When all he gets is our silent, blank stare, Remy growls, pointing to a spot on the molding all the way in the top corner by the closet. “Here, you see? You put your initials—yourrealinitials—into the heart of her. WCK.”

Wicker squints his eyes. “What, that little carving? I put those there in fifth grade.”

“Exactly,” Remy says, nodding. “You showed her who you were. Called dibs. Don’t be a fickle little bitch.”

Wicker shoots to his feet. “Excuse me?!”

Before I can get between them, Remy explains, “I’m not putting my work in this house unless you intend to keep it.” He turns to me, hands clasped behind his back in some kind ofpower move. It’s like someone turning their back to a predator, signaling they’re not intimidated. “Are you going to live here? I’m not doing art for the next Royal stock, am I?”

The best I can give him is this: “We don’t intend to leave.”

Seems good enough for Remy, thankfully. “Did she pick out a color?”

“No,” Pace says, reaching into a bag from the paint shop. He hands him a palette of colors. “These seem to be the ones she’s leaning toward.”