Chapter 2
2
Verity
Even hours later, the memory of our father’s gaze on my body makes my stomach churn. Worse than that were his words, because in a way, he’s right. We’re not prepared to lead his kingdom. The frat thinks Ashby is away on business until further notice. The only people privy to the knowledge he’s currently sitting in his own dungeon are limited to rival royalty—the Dukes, the Baron King, and the Lords.
And, of course, my mother.
I’m rummaging through my bathroom drawer, looking for a tube of lipstick, when I hear a knock on the outer door. “Come in,” I call, not hiding my frustration. “Where the hell did you go?”
I grab a handful of cosmetics and dump them on the counter.
“Should you be doing that?”
“Don’t worry,” I glance up at Ballsack’s reflection in the mirror. “All of this is under ten pounds.”
It’s hard not to let my gaze linger on him. I’ve known Ballsack since he first pledged, just a scrawny little freshman with a spark of that wild, West End youth in his eyes. He’s bigger now, having trained with the Dukes. More muscular and solid, maybe even bordering on imposing if one didn’t know him. The soft cut of his jaw has given way to sharper angles and careless stubble. Every time he goes back to West End, he seems to return with another tattoo.
And he’s quieter.
“I hear you’ve been cleared for tonight,” he says, eyeing the pile of makeup. He’d always been one of the more easygoing recruits, just happy to have found a group that accepted him—a family. Losing Laura was hard enough. But Stella too? It’s enough to break a lesser man. Eugene isn’t weak, but he is angry, and that energy runs just beneath the surface. I’m scared. Not of him, but for him.
Desperate men and all that.
“Yes,” I grunt. “Which is why I’m looking for my dusty rose lipstick.”
I spin, turning to cross the bathroom back into the bedroom. I grab my school bag off of the desk chair and continue my search. Didn’t I wear that shade for Sy’s and Lex’s graduation?
Ballsack follows, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyeing me warily. “Exactly why is this important?”
“Because I haven’t seen anyone in weeks,” I explain, harried. “Not only do I look like I shoved a beach ball into the front of my dress, but the lack of activity and sunlight has made my skin look like a vampire sucks me dry every night.” I unzip a compartment and pull out whatever my fingers touch. Pens, pencils, art markers, erasers. “Dammit!”
He grabs my shoulders with firm, tattooed hands. “Verity, calm down. No one has any expectations of you. They’re just excited you’re coming home, even if it’s only for dinner.”
I look at his face, seeing the sincerity, and force myself to take a deep breath, exhaling slowly.
“Mama has been sending me over food every week, but it’s not the same as actually being at Family Dinner.” I return to my rummaging, unzipping another pocket. “Nothing is the same.”
He doesn’t respond, leaving us both in a stretch of quiet. That’s the whole fucking problem; the quiet.
“I hate it,” I confess, tossing out a pack of ginger gum. “I hate how quiet it is without her here. Everything feels wrong. There’s no way I should be able to walk from the bathroom to the bedroom without her in the background going off about some random thing, like…” I huff. “I don’t know, one second she’s talking about this cute Matryoshka doll she had as a kid, and the next thing you know, she’s explaining how ‘decimation’ was a punishment for mutiny in ancient Roman legions, and the path from A to B shouldn’t even make sense, but?—”
“Because one soldier out of every ten would be randomly killed,” Ballsack says, eyes solemn and sad. “It’s one of the games she used to play as a kid, but she didn’t have toy soldiers. All she had was?—”
“The Matryoshka doll.”
Ballsy gives a heavy nod.
I’d become used to the incessant, non-stop chatter. The way she flitted around, expertly assisting me as my handmaiden. She had an instinct. A way of knowing what I needed exactly when I needed it, but it was more than that. She knew what they expected of me.
“Being Princess—living here, having this life…” I look around the room, remembering that not too long ago, it was a more literal prison than not. “It was unbearable. And she made it better. Easier. She took care of me after the ceremonies when I was bleeding or covered in gross frat boy fluids. She held my hand when I took the pregnancy test, checking the results when I was too scared to look for myself. She brought me tea and crackers when I suffered through morning sickness. And she was there when I was in danger and scared, trying to protect me.” I swallow, meeting Eugene’s pained eyes. “I took her for granted, I realize that now. She was the thing—the friend—I didn’t realize I would miss until she was gone, and it sucks, Ballsy. It sucks so fucking bad.”
After a long beat, he says, “I know.”
I walk over to the bed and sit on the edge. “I saw Ashby today,” I say, picking at a fingernail. “The guys finally took me down there. I got to ask him about Stella.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Ballsack’s hopeful, “And?”
It’s agony to meet his gaze, giving a small shake of my head. “He wouldn’t give an answer.”
Ballsack’s face falls. “Apparently, her sister has been talking to some cop.”
My head snaps up in shock. “Auggy went to the cops?” I try to reconcile the former escort, now Hideaway manager, talking to the authorities. Royals are notorious for handling issues internally, and South Siders especially.
“No,” he shakes his head, “she’s fucking a cop, which is weird too, but she’s South Side so who the fuck knows what they’re thinking. Probably some customer or someone dirty, taking a cut.” He shrugs. “Anyway, she filed a missing person report.”
I blink. “Wow.”
Shrugging, he says, “I already told your Princes. You know, in case they come around asking questions.”
“Good idea.”
My eyes land on the bedside table. There’s a stack of pregnancy books on top, the spines cracked and worn. A pair of Lex’s reading glasses are sitting on top. Leaning over, I pull open the drawer, pushing aside a bottle of lube and a cluster of hair ties. The rose gold tube catches my eye and I grab it.
“Ah ha!”
The thin ghost of a smile touches his lips. “You think she put it there?” he asks.
“Not a fucking chance. This is what happens when I’m left to my own devices. The lipstick gets mixed in with the lube.”
He grimaces. “More information than I need, Princess.”
With the lipstick in hand, I rise and cross the room. “We’ll find her,” I say, knowing this down to my marrow. There’s no other option.
Ballsack doesn’t seem as confident, collapsing into the wingback chair by the window. “We haven’t found Laura. Or the Livingston girl. Or?—”
“We’ll find all of them,” I amend. “And when we have her back, everything will be better. You’ll see.” But as I’m putting on the lipstick, I catch his reflection in the mirror, the way he drags a heavy hand down his face.
“Verity,” he begins, looking impossibly more exhausted. “Can I… tell you something? Something I haven’t told anyone.” The words are imbued with a graveness that makes me turn to him, but it’s the sorrow in his eyes that makes me hold my silence. “Stella… there are things we don’t know about her.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
He sighs, reaching up to rub his neck. “She was secretive. Not… outwardly. She was good at hiding it. But I could tell. Sometimes she’d hide her phone, or I’d walk into her room and she’d get this look on her face. Pale, and kind of like I’d caught her doing something.”
Mind whirring, I perch on the edge of the bed. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t think it was anything bad,” he rushes to add. “She’d never betray you. Or me. Or the Dukes, or… honestly, even the Princes.” A small, sad smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “She has a really pure heart. You’ve seen that, right?”
My chest clenches. “I have.”
“But there was something in her life she didn’t want us to know,” he goes on. “I never pushed. I mean… fuck, there’s plenty of things about my life in West End I kept from her.” He meets my gaze head-on, even though the curve of his brow is reluctant. “But a couple nights before she went missing…”
My heart jackhammers in my chest, sensing there’s a clue. “What?”
His shoulders sink. “You were locked in the dungeon, and she was a mess, Ver. She was trying to get a message to…” Suddenly, Ballsack glances up into the corner of the room, looking away just as quickly. The Monarchs, I realize. “Well, she wanted to organize some kind of rescue mission. We both did. But we also knew it was futile,” he insists, seeing the fear in my expression, “and that it’d only make things worse for you.”
“I made that decision to go in there.”
“I know, and it’s not my job to interfere with Royal business. Sy would agree. What happens between a Royal female and their men, is between them, but, when she came to my room that night, I figured she wanted to talk about that: getting you out.”
Confused, I wonder, “But she didn’t?”
He shakes his head. “She was really quiet. Weirdly quiet. And serious. The kind of serious that can make a guy nervous, you know?” He links and unlinks his fingers, drawing my gaze to the motion. The word ‘WEST’ is tattooed across the knuckles of one hand. It’s his newest ink. “She said we couldn’t see each other anymore. That things were getting too complicated—East, West, South, North. She said…” His words bite off and he looks up, shrugging. “Well, it doesn’t matter. She dumped me.”
“Oh, Ballsy...” I’m not sure how to respond to that. To any of it. “Did she say why?”
He leans back in the chair, shrugging. “No. I guess she just wasn’t into me enough to risk upsetting the Lords. I mean, I was willing to make it work. Lavinia and her Dukes did. You and the Princes are.”
Reluctantly, I muse, “It’s not exactly the same. Lavinia was being sold around the different territories. Nick saved her from that. And me… well, nothing about my situation is normal. I had no idea I was Ashby’s daughter when I agreed to the Masquerade. But Stella was just a sweet South Side girl sent to keep an eye on me.” I give him a sympathetic glance. “Kind of like you.”
He groans. “I already feel like a pussy for getting kicked to the curb, Ver, thanks for making it worse by implying I’m sweet.” He balls his fist. “I’m officially DKS now, you know. I’ve had blood on my hands.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” The last thing I meant to do was hurt his pride even further. For one thing, bruised egos make men in this town react badly.
He shakes his head. “Look, I wanted you to know—just so you don’t think I’m hiding anything from you. But otherwise, I’d rather not have the world know I got dumped, because it doesn’t actually matter.” Lifting his chin, his words are quiet but hair-raising. “I’m going to find out what happened to her and who’s responsible, and then I’m going to make them regret it.”
I see it then, maybe for the first time.
The DKS.
My blood runs cold at the casual malignance in his gray eyes, and it doesn’t matter that I know him in my heart as the sweet, scrawny West End pledge who first stumbled into the gym. Right now, I believe he’s capable of the threat.
Slowly, I nod. “Good.”
The moment we walk in, the gym falls into a sudden, uncomfortable hush. I’ve seen a lot of Family Dinners over the years, so naturally, I figured that first night with Lavinia Lucia as Duchess was as weird and tense as one could possibly get.
Boy, was I wrong.
At the head of the table where Sy Perilini—the King of the Dukes—is sitting, Remy is bent over, pointing to something on a sheet of paper. Beside him, Nick Bruin is in an intense staredown with another DKS, their elbows both planted on the table as they engage in an arm wrestling match.
All of them pause at the sound of the doors slamming behind us, every gaze in the gym lurching to us.
Beside me, Pace is as stiff as a board. “No one said the whole frat would be here,” he says through clenched teeth. “That wasn’t the agreement.”
“It’s family dinner,” I point out, squeezing his hand. “Of course they’re here.”
But Pace just scowls, a baffled crease appearing between his eyebrows. “DKS isn’t family.”
I frown, glancing at his stony expression. For my Princes, family doesn’t mean DNA. It means secrets, isolation, and suspicion. It’s a club so exclusive that it only includes the three of them. The Princes have never seen their PNZ brothers as anything other than mildly inconvenient subordinates. Struggling to find the words, I explain, “Family means something different in West End. The Dukes have always been close with the frat. They work together, live together, and fight together. They’d die for each other.”
He makes a low, derisive sound. “That’s stupid. How can you trust forty men and their fuck-toys?”
My eyes narrow at his description of the cutsluts. “Because they’re good fighters and loyal friends, and they respect the King they’ve chosen. Even the girls.” But truthfully, I’m just as tense. It’s not so much about the Dukes, but more about the way everyone’s gaze dips down to my pregnant belly. Some of the cutsluts visibly recoil at the sight, turning away. A pregnancy for a cutslut isn’t the honor it is for one of the girls in my court. It would be devastating. Even Remy and Nick stare at me for longer than is entirely polite. However, “I’m safe here,” I tell him, turning to peer up into his dark, suspicious eyes. “You said you’d try.”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he snaps. The sharpness of his tone makes me flinch, which is the only thing that finally draws his attention to me. “Fuck.” He turns to me instantly, cupping my cheek in his hand, and pitches his voice to a silky hush. “Don’t look at me like that, Rosi. Not here. Not in front of them.”
Frowning, I search his eyes. “Look at you like what?”
“Like I scare you.” His thumb caresses the corner of my frown, and when he bends down to brush his lips against mine, it’s easy to wind my arms around his neck, melting into the kiss. Initially, Lex was supposed to be my escort, and while it would have been good to have his calmer energy at my side, I told him it had to be Pace.
He needs to see this more than anyone.
“You’re not scary, you’re just protective. It’s sweet,” I decide, but then amend, “annoying, but sweet.”
He smirks into the kiss, shifting the package tucked under his arm. “Well, kick me in the balls or something, because if anyone here tries to protect you from me, I’m going to start stabbing Dukes again.”
I swat his bicep, ordering, “No stabbing this time! Remy’s still pissed about the scar.”
Shrugging, he wraps an arm around my shoulder, facing the room with a bracing inhale. “No promises.”
As if we weren’t off to a bad enough start, the moment we approach the table, Nick saunters up to fix Pace with a scowl. “Pretty sure the rules were to leave your heat at home.” He glances pointedly at the gun peeking from Pace’s waistband.
Pace drags me closer, eyes narrowing. “I’m escorting my Princess and unborn child into a rival territory.” He gives Nick a challenging look. “Don’t pretend you’d come unarmed if it were your pregnant Duchess standing in this gym.”
Nick’s face does something complicated, his eyes shifting to his brother. “Probably not,” he concedes.
Eagerly, I ask, “Is she here? Lavinia?”
Remy jerks his head toward the back. “In the kitchen with your mom.”
But as soon as I take a step in that direction, Pace takes one, too. And when the Dukes see Pace following me to their Duchess, Nick and Remy jolt forward to do the same.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” I groan, turning to my Prince. “It’s just the girls and my mom. Sit down and have a beer, okay?”
Pace’s eyes harden. “There’s no fucking way I’m?—”
“I’ll take Ballsack with me,” I insist, but before my eyes can find him, the door to the back opens, Lavinia stepping out.
She spots me instantly, handing a tray of food off to Kaz, one of the established DKS members. “There you are,” she says. “We were starting to think you wouldn’t make it. Your mom’s become a real basket case.”
“Sorry.” I give a rueful smile, resting a hand on my stomach. “As soon as we hit the Avenue, my bladder decided I needed a rest stop. This one,” I jab a thumb at Pace, “had to do a security sweep that took forever. Reminder to self: don’t ever pee in South Side.”
Just then, the woman in question struts through the door, her face lighting up when she sees me. “There’s my Ver Bear,” she squeals, sweeping me up into a bracelet-jangling hug. She smells like home, cinnamon and jasmine, and I pull in the scent greedily. Briefly, I wonder if my son will ever press his nose to my shoulder and be reminded of comforting, soft things. “Let’s get a good look at you.” Mama steps back, touching my stomach. “How’s he doing?”
“I just had a full checkup,” I assure, grinning. “Lex says he’s doing great.”
The corners of her eyes tighten, Mama’s mutter dripping with disdain. “Lex says, huh.”
Sharply, I clear my throat, turning to Pace. “I doubt the two of you have been formally introduced. Mama, this is Pace, my Prince.” I nod between them. “Pace, this is Mama.”
My mother has never liked the thought of me with another boy, and while some part of that must have been her intention to groom me for Duchess, I now know a bigger part was due to her own experiences as a young woman in Forsyth.
“So you’re Pace Ashby.” She stares him down like he’s the scum beneath her shoe. “Your bird’s got a filthy mouth.”
Pace’s jaw tightens. “Filthier since you had her.” I jab an elbow into his side, giving him a pointed look, and watch as he visibly struggles to swallow down his instinct to lash out. With a crinkle, he extends the gift he’s kept tucked close, as if it’s some shameful, embarrassing thing. “We… appreciate you looking over her.” To his credit, he almost says this with a straight face.
Mama B takes the gift with a dubious scowl, immediately tearing the wrapping paper away. Once revealed, she cradles the sparkly bottle of rum in her hands, lips pursed into a pensive moue. “Looks expensive.”
“Disgustingly,” Pace confirms, glancing around the room. “It was distilled in the nineteen hundreds. The glass is inlaid with topaz, and there are only twenty confirmed bottles in existence. It’s one of the most sought-after, collectible rums in the world.”
She sneers down at the label. “It’s his, isn’t it?”
A shrug. “Yours now.”
Mama hums and I all but die when she just grabs the polished wooden cork and pulls.
“Mama!” I hiss, but thankfully, it doesn’t just pop open.
She strains with the effort of trying though, animosity burning in her glare.
And then Pace, as if he’s on some weird, dutiful Prince autopilot, reaches for the bottle and effortlessly yanks the stopper free for her. Snatching it back, Mama holds his stare as she tips it up, taking a long, aggressive swig.
I shake my head in disbelief. “That’s a five-figure bottle of rum! You can’t just?—”
But Pace doesn’t miss a beat when she hands it back to him, smoothly taking a pull from the mouth of the bottle.
Almost in unison, they pull a face.
“Always knew this’d taste like ass,” he mutters, handing it back.
Mama replaces the stopper. “We don’t coddle our liquor around here,” she says, handing it to the first passing DKS member she sees.
Kaz’s eyes twinkle in delight. “Fuck yeah, booze!” Pace’s incensed stare follows as Kaz takes it to the table like a bear parading its kill.
“Well, come on,” Mama says, ignoring Pace as she bodily ushers me into a seat. “The girls and I made lasagna tonight. Remington’s trying to learn to cook. I’m not sure my kitchen will ever recover.” She catches my excited glance at the buffet table. “I’ll bring you a plate.”
“I’ll bring you a plate,” Pace interjects ridiculously. What are they going to do, poison me? But then he starts for the buffet and I have to snatch his arm.
“Not yet.”
He looks around, realizing no one has a plate, and gives me an uncomfortable look. “We’re not going to have to say grace or something, are we?”
“The King and his Queen serve themselves first,” Mama says, eyeing him like an alien.
Everyone waits patiently as Sy and Lavinia approach the buffet, filling their plates. I catch the glance she casts toward Remy, whose attention is fixed on a sketchbook, and I don’t miss the soft grin on her face when she piles up with extra garlic bread. Smart. There’s no way there’ll be any left by the time he surfaces.
After that, I’m expecting the frantic energy of the ensuing free-for-all, but Pace isn’t. He goes tense, strung tight as the DKS and cutsluts clamor for the buffet, their voices rising to a deafening pitch.
I place my hand over his, noticing it inching toward the gun. “How about I fix the plates?”
Pace slides me an insulted look. “I spent eighteen months in the Forsyth Pen, Rosi. I’m not scared of hungry frat boys.” And with that, he sweeps into the buffet line.
Dinner itself is a strangely lonely affair. Mama talks my ear off for a bit regarding her summer project of clearing out the old garage—although it sounds more like DKS’ summer project with all the suckers she’s talked into doing the actual labor. But other than that, no one talks to me or Pace. At the head of the table, the Dukes cast us the spare, discomfited glance, but none of them pull me into conversation.
I know it’s not about me.
It’s about the Prince at my side.
I remember the first time I saw Pace eat a meal at the palace. The dining room there is so formal and cold, but seeing him huddled possessively over his plate had set some part of me at ease, and reminded me of home.
He doesn’t look at home here, though. “Stop,” he mutters, fork scraping across his plate.
“Stop what?”
“Stop looking at me like you’re waiting for me to lose it.” Despite this, he eventually whispers, “They seriously just go up and talk to him while he’s eating? Whenever they want?”
I laugh, watching Sy’s long-suffering expression as a boisterous sophomore stands beside him, gesturing wildly. “Yeah, pretty much.”
Pace nearly seems offended on Sy’s behalf. “He’s the King.”
“He was their friend before he was their King,” I explain. What I don’t tell him is that it doesn’t make sense to me for any King to spurn his people. Even back when Saul was at the head of this table, he often came to dinner and openly invited any DKS to approach him, regardless of the fact he was an arrogant pig.
Maybe it’s just what life with Ashby does to a person. I’ve only been in the palace for five months, but I feel the way his imposed coldness sticks to my bones like a disease. I watch Pace shrink away from the warmth of my home—my people, my family—and it doesn’t just make me sad.
It scares the crap out of me.
The thought of raising our son in all that stiff coldness is galling.
It becomes a mission then, the thought of making the palace into a home blooming outward in my mind just as delicate and thorny as the roses in its garden. Maybe it’s impossible. Perhaps all the grand rooms and dark nooks of the palace are too obstinate and haunted to shed any warmth into.
But now that its halls are free of Rufus Ashby, I resolve to try.
As soon as Pace disappears through the door, Lavinia asks, “You’ve heard about Auggy’s G-man?”
I nibble on a wafer, my chair turned to give me a view of the training area. “Ballsy told me she filed a missing persons.”
Lavinia sits beside me, but directly on the table, her boots resting on Mama’s abandoned chair. “It’s weird,” she sighs. Across the room, three different sets of recruits are sparring, the sound of fists on various padded surfaces ringing through the room. “Remy’s got a lot of family on the force, but this guy’s a fed. It’s annoyingly hard to get any intel.”
Nervously, I point out, “Now would be a really inconvenient time for someone like that to come poking around the palace.”
“Tell me about it,” she groans. “But Remy’s got his cousin sniffing around, and I don’t think Auggy would bring someone into the fold if she thought he’d cause trouble for the Lords. You know how it is in Forsyth. People can’t stay out of the Royal fray for long.”
I don’t blame Augustine for using any avenue available to her. For all the Lords’ talk of keeping what’s theirs, they haven’t found anything about Stella. I can’t deny that I’m beginning to lose faith in the whole thing. It’s almost like no kingdom wants to take responsibility for her. She was born South Side, but she worked East End and spent plenty of time in West End.
As I’m pondering the unfairness of it all, Pace returns from the bathroom, his dark eyes glued to me as he crosses through the training area.
Offering him a little wave, I don’t get up, allowing him to have a little space. To my surprise, he stops at one of the smaller square sparring mats, watching Dillon and Grant circle one another while Pauly coaches them on technique.
Lav follows my gaze. “He seems to be relaxing a little finally. Can you imagine the Dukes escorting me to a Princes’ ball or something? They wouldn’t make it ten minutes before starting a brawl.”
“Oh, that happens anyway,” I shake my head, thinking of Wicker destroying the gender reveal cake. But I do consider the idea. “Remy could probably handle it. His father would’ve raised him to attend nicer affairs.”
“True. He’s more comfortable than you’d expect at the country club.” Her gaze shifts to where all three Dukes are sitting in the next row, hunched over a cleared table and discussing logistics for the fight on Friday. “He certainly looks delicious in a suit.”
Remy’s got that long, lean body that looks amazing in almost anything he wears.
“Family Dinner is definitely different from dinners at the palace, which are as stuffy and oppressive as you can imagine, but…” I tilt my head, inspecting my Prince. “The guys spent years in boarding school, and then Pace did that stint in prison. I don’t think this is as unfamiliar as he wants to act like it is.”
With his arms crossed over his chest, Pace studies the training session with shrewd, curious eyes. He’s probably surprised to learn the Dukes aren’t fueled merely on adrenaline during a match, but actually take the time to work on their skills. Dillon and Grant are both excellent fighters, and I’m assuming if they’re training with Pauly tonight, they must be in matchups at tomorrow’s Fury. Pauly has them run through different sets of drills; punching, blocking, and defense.
“You’re leaving your left side open,” Pauly tells Grant. The junior pulls his elbows down in response. “And you,” he calls out to Dillion, “you’re wasting opportunity! His weakness is your gain!”
Grant clearly doesn’t like being called weak and reacts with a sudden flurry of motion. Dillon pulls his fists up, protecting his face, dodging and weaving so that Grant can’t get in a hit, but the junior manages to force his opponent up against the edge of the mat before he takes a hard swing.
Dillon ducks at the last minute, the swing flying into the empty space over his head. Grant, caught up in the momentum, propels forward—right toward Pace. The Prince’s hand flies up, catching the punch mid-swing.
“Oh, shit,” I jump up, or try to. Lumber is more like the word.
“Fuck.” Her eyes dart to her Dukes, but they didn’t notice. I start around the table, watching the dark smirk lift the corners of Pace’s mouth. He thrusts Grant back into the ring, and Lav’s hand reaches out. “Wait.”
“What do you mean, wait?” I hiss. “Pace is the type to bring a knife to a fistfight, remember?”
“Just…” her fingers wrap around my wrist, “just give it a minute.”
A minute is all Pace needs to filet Grant, but Pauly gives an impressed grin. “Nice reflexes. You train?”
“I play hockey,” Pace replies gruffly, eyes narrowed at Grant. The frat boy shakes his fist and wiggles his fingers, glaring daggers.
“That’s right, that’s right.” Pauly nods, sizing Pace up. “You’re the one who stuck Maddox during the Fury.”
Pace shrugs, raising his chin. “Yeah, so?”
Pauly has always been a no-nonsense sort of guy, so he meets Pace’s challenging stare with one of his own. “So with reflexes like that, you don’t need to mess with blades.” The older man chews on his bottom lip, then jerks his chin. “Get over here. I’ll show you.”
My heart thunders as Pace remains frozen. This could go badly. Pauly is a good guy, a solid trainer and medic, but Pace isn’t one of his DKS.
To my surprise, Pace takes the step onto the mat.
“Holy crap,” I mutter, twisting my way out of Lav’s grip. I don’t plan on interrupting but I do move closer. Just in case. “This is going to be a mess.”
Lav follows, her voice low. “I don’t think so. Pauly has a disarming way about him.”
“Tell me,” Pauly says, waving both Grant and Dillon off the mat as we get close enough to hear. “Why’d you pull the knife on Maddox during the Fury?”
“Because,” Pace’s smirk is jagged and mean, “he was being an obnoxious prick.”
The trainer snorts. “Is that what you’re telling yourself?”
Pace’s eyes narrow. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“You’re fast,” Pauly says casually. “Obviously your reflexes are good, and everyone knows a hockey player can give and take a punch?—”
“Get to the point, old man.”
He fixes the Prince with a look. “You’re used to wearing all those pads. How much weight does that add? Ten? Fifteen pounds?”
“Fifteen to twenty-five,” Pace admits smugly.
“Damn,” Pauly whistles, “it’s like you’re used to fighting underwater, which out on the ice, makes sense. It gives you balance, but in here?” He spreads his arms across the blue mat. “I bet everything feels slightly off. You get sloppy. Desperate.”
Pace’s jaw hardens. “I’m not sloppy.”
The trainer shifts, his body moving into a fighter’s stance. “Then prove it.”
The gym has grown quieter, and as I glance around, I realize DKS—and the Dukes—are watching. Waiting to see what Pace will do. There are a lot of expressions in the ranks. Some look amused. Curious. Hostile. The last thing we need is some impromptu Fury breaking out.
So when Pace reaches for his waistband, smoothly drawing his gun, my stomach jumps into my throat. But he just releases the clip, jerking his chin. “Hey, Ballsack.”
Ballsack is uncharacteristically alone, sitting on the steps leading up to the catwalk. But his gaze rises at the sound of his name, and he doesn’t hesitate to rise to his feet, crossing the distance to take Pace’s gun.
Pace meets my eyes, faltering. “Will you?—”
“Don’t worry,” Ballsack says. “I’ll watch her.”
An odd feeling washes over me as Ballsy slides up on the table next to me and Lavinia, my Prince assuming a fighting stance. He looks up at Pauly and says, “Okay, old man, show me what you’ve got.”
Uneasily, Pace says, “We should get going.”
“Just a few minutes, okay?” I drag him up the metal staircase, pretending I don’t feel his hand on my hip steadying me.
“Should you be climbing these?” he asks. And then, when the railing jiggles, “Should anyone be climbing these?”
“I’m not lifting anything,” I reply, reaching for the knob of the door the stairs have led us to. “And Lex said some sun is good for me.”
That’s exactly what we find when we step out onto the roof of the gym. The sun is a harsh glare in the western sky, slowly dipping into the horizon. I take Pace’s hand and lead him over to a bench that faces the sunset. I sense him scanning the area for any potential threat, but there’s nothing up here except the other warehouse roofs that make up West End. The clock tower rises in the distance, the hands announcing the time as 8:17. On the other side of the roof, the raised boxes filled with dark, leafy green plants shoot upward.
“The Dukes growing weed up here?” Pace asks, nodding over at the plants. “Oh wait, those leaves don’t look right.”
“That was my vegetable garden, although Mama’s taken over while I’ve been gone.” I sit and pat the bench. We put the bench up here a few years back. It’s comfortable, with a back to lean into and a soft cushion on the seat. He takes another sweeping glance around the rooftops before he’s satisfied, and sits next to me, pulling me into his side. He smells warm and musky—a little like sweat from training in the ring. After being holed up in the palace for weeks, my senses are on overload. “That tomato sauce from the lasagna? That was from last summer’s crop. These will come in over the next few weeks and we’ll start canning.” I look over at the beds, remembering the summer we built it. “Well, I guess she’ll do the canning alone this year.”
He lifts my hand and spreads my fingers apart, threading his with mine. “So you’ve always had a green thumb. Guess it’s in the Sinclaire genes.”
“I guess.” I look over the rooftop. “It was just nice to get some fresh air every once in a while, get away from the sweat and testosterone downstairs.” His thumb rubs soothingly over the side of my palm. “I didn’t really make the comparison but, yeah, I guess maybe it’s in my genes.” Lifting our hands, I place them on my belly. “It’s weird what we inherit from our parents without even knowing.”
His dark eyes follow our hands, tightening at the corners. “Yeah, I wouldn’t know much about that.”
“We’ll get Ashby to talk.” I press my fingertips under his chin and lift his gaze to mine. “We’re going to find out the truth about Odette and your real father. I promise.”
The sun sinks another notch and the sky turns from blue to pink. Pace’s large hand palms and rubs my swollen belly, and he muses, “Whatever we get out of him, it’s going to have to be soon. You heard Perilini.”
Sy had come over after Pace and Pauly finished sparring and told him that the Princes had been summoned to a meeting with the Kings the next morning.
“When you came back to East End and we made that call, the Kings were willing to give us time to sort this out, but the clock is ticking.” He cuts his eyes toward the tower. “They’re going to want this settled, quick and clean.” The dip in his voice makes it apparent that such a thing isn’t possible.
“We need more time,” I argue. “This isn’t a regular mark down in the dungeon. Ashby’s a master.”
Sighing, he swings his gaze to mine. “This isn’t something you need to worry about. Your job is to stay healthy and prepare for our son.” His hand moves up, cresting boldly over my breast, and he drops his forehead to mine. “Fuck, Rosi, I want to be inside you more than I want to breathe.”
They’ve all been hesitant to touch me since I got hospitalized—scared. The attack in the garden, the fact they almost lost me and the baby, turned them into these new, reluctant men. I sense their hunger—their need to be with me—but it’s been set aside to give us time to heal.
It’s killing me.
“I miss you, too.” I brush my lips across his. “Waking up without you inside of me… I don’t like it.”
It’s hard to explain how what had once been an intrusion became so achingly familiar. I think it’s probably a lot like carrying this baby. I can’t imagine anything else. It’s not just the sex. It’s that, for a brief moment, when things had begun feeling more settled between us, their touch became soothing instead of bruising.
I want that, more than anything.
Pace dips forward to kiss me, parting my lips to thrust his tongue inside. The kiss is hot and slick at first, but then harder, a touch of desperation in the way his fingers run down my throat, grazing over my collarbone. My nipples tighten into painful peaks, and I arch my back to brush them against his chest. A groan of frustration builds in his throat, roughing his muttered words. “Fucking Lex and all his fucking cockblocking rules.”
“Hey,” I run my hand over the hard bulge in his pants, “we can do other things.”
Pace’s eyes dart over his shoulder to the door that leads back downstairs. “And risk those animals coming up here and catching me violating the girl they think of as a sister?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“After Remy decided to shoot off fireworks during the Fourth of July last summer and almost burned down the whole building, Mama put a strict no DKS on the roof rule,” I suck on his bottom lip, getting his focus back on me. “Including Dukes. Although I’m pretty sure she really just wants some peace and quiet from the nonstop rowdiness in the gym.”
That’s the green light he’s been waiting for, and his fingers move to the buttons making the V down the front of my dress, pushing them loose. My tits hang heavy between us and his eyes glaze. “You know, I’ve always been about the pussy,” he tells me, shoving aside the cups of my bra to fondle me with a surprisingly gentle touch, “but one day, when the baby is here, and you’re full up with milk, I’m going to fuck these sweet tits. Cover you with my cum.” He licks his lips, then bends, taking one peak into his mouth.
“Oh, god...” Stars blind my vision. Holding Pace’s head against my chest, I moan, the sensation spreading.
He pauses, looking up, “Am I hurting you?”
“No.” I breathe, “they’re so sensitive. I’m going to come from this if you don’t stop.”
“You for real?” A dark flicker crosses his eyes, and he plucks the right side between two fingers. “Just from me sucking them?”
“Mmhmm.” I bite down on my bottom lip and dig my nails into his shoulders. “Or that. Anything. It’s insane.”
There’s a dark, frantic energy in his eyes that sends a shiver down my spine. “Then let's get you off.”
Dropping his head, he latches on to one side, sucking and licking the nipple. On the other, his hand cups the tight swell, toying with the peak. My hips rock up, the orgasm building despite the lack of stimulation between my legs. It’s a heady drunkenness, the rush cresting over me in an unrelenting wave. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before, both extreme and muted. Sharp, yet dull. Bright, yet dimming.
It’s too fast, like a memory of an orgasm instead of the real thing.
But it’s still enough to send tremors through my body.
“Jesus fuck, you weren’t lying,” he growls, placing his hand over mine on his erection. He sounds dazed, even though his eyes are too alert, scanning the rooftops before ducking to suck a kiss into my neck. “I want to get my cum into you so bad, Rosi. You can take it, can’t you? In your pretty mouth?”
Still catching my breath, I’m stunned by how much the thought captures me. “Yeah, just?—”
Instantly, he’s popping his fly and pulling himself from his pants, his long, dexterous fingers wrapped around his shaft. He strokes himself as he watches me, licking out to wet his lips. “You don’t have to take it all,” he says.
But I will.
I always do.
It’s never about the journey for Pace. He jerks himself off like it’s just an inconvenient prelude to the real thing, and when he jolts to his feet, I know he’s close.
I grab his hips, faced head-on with the sight of his obscenely hard cock. “Look at me,” he rumbles, tipping my head back. His hand is warm and gentle on the base of my skull, and I give a long, slow blink at the corrosive heat in his eyes. This is what Pace likes. Something soft and sweet. The innocent sweep of my tongue against the head of his cock, inviting him inside. The way I open for his cock—not wide, not narrow, but just enough.
Just for him.
I hold his stare as his cock gives a strong, aggressive throb between my lips. But it’s not that first salty taste of him that makes me shudder. It’s the way his face collapses in awed rapture. The curl of his forefinger beneath my chin, so gentle. The way he doesn’t break my gaze, so fixated on the sight of his cock spurting onto my tongue that he doesn’t even think to scan the rooftop for threats.
I swallow every drop.