Chapter 8
8
Wicker
The bow feels good in my grip as I run through the chords of the song. It’s been weeks since I’ve played. Typically, my performances are scheduled, pretentious events set up by Father—usually, a precursor to nights I’d rather forget. If not that, they’re somber hours down by Michael’s grave. Rarely do I play for myself, and even this isn’t exactly for fun.
Indulgent, but not fun.
I glide through the string work of Kashmir, a pace so furious that my forehead beads with sweat. I’ve adapted it for a cello-only piece, and judging by the expression on my father’s face across the room, he isn’t impressed.
Good.
I finish with a dramatic flourish, using the bow and my fingers to extinguish the resonance. The small stone room almost vibrates from the silence that follows.
Setting my cello on the stand, I rise, walking over to the worktable against the back wall. I don’t reach for one of the dozens of sharp objects. Instead, I pour myself a glass from the expensive bottle I took from Father’s collection and then pick up the bowl and spoon.
Carrying both back over to my chair, I muse, “It’s weird. I never thought sixty-year-old Scotch would pair so well with banana pudding.”
Father stares at me from behind the bars of his cell. He looks smaller every time I come down here, the weight slipping off him with each passing day. Despite the indignity of it all, he never loses the smug mask of pompousness. He’s perched on the edge of his cot, posture perfectly straight, the scrubs Lex gave him to wear hanging from his frame.
Finally, he asks, “Are you enjoying yourself?”
I scoop a glob of the pale yellow pudding onto my spoon, making sure to get some of the cookie, and shrug. “This isn’t my first choice, but if I have to sit down here and babysit you, I may as well add a little pleasure to my pain.” I swallow the spoonful of dessert and groan. “Fuck me, those West End women know how to cook.”
I’ll admit that when Pace rushed over there to assist Lex in some 237 crisis, I wasn’t happy about it. The higher level PNZs can run things upstairs, overseeing the final stages of construction and keeping security tight, but only we can deal with Father and Danner.
So I figured if the cats are away, the mice will play, and here I am playing classic rock on my cello, drinking Father’s Scotch, and enjoying this banana pudding that Verity’s mother must lace with Scratch.
“I’m aware of what you’re doing, you know.”
“What’s that, old man?” I dip my pinky into the whipped cream and lick it off.
“You think you can annoy me to death.” His voice is dull, bored. “Good effort, but we both know it’ll take more than Led Zeppelin and stealing my Scotch to do that.”
“True,” I admit. Picking up the glass of cut crystal, one Father bought in Austria, I eye the brown liquid inside. “But Lex told me you can’t lose any more blood right now, so it’s the best I’ve got.” I sniff the liquor, inhaling the rich scent just like he taught me, and take a measured sip.
“So why were you the one who got left home alone to, as you put it, babysit me?” His lip curls. “Where are your brothers and your sister? Doing something important? Something that requires Lex’s intellect? Pace's knack for analytical persistence? My daughter’s pedigree?”
Truth be told, I am a little irritated I got left here alone in the quiet of this haunted mansion. There’s a reason I keep busy—running, playing hockey, lacrosse, creeping through the secret passageways. I’m always moving. Talking. Fucking. Whatever it takes.
The quiet—the stillness—allows the demons too close to the surface.
But I had a much better reason to come down here. I want answers of my own. Ones that don’t involve my brothers or Verity.
“Maybe they thought that with my impulsivity, I’d end this once and for all. Put us all out of our misery at keeping an abusive asshole around. But,” I drain the glass, savoring the last drop, “since we’re here and alone, why don’t you answer some of my questions?”
He doesn’t even blink. “Which are?”
Before I answer, I shrug off my jacket and walk to the corner where Pace’s camera records our every move and every word. I lift the jacket over the lens, covering the device. It’s motion-sensored and should stop the recording. This moment is between me and Rufus. No one else.
I face him, arms crossed over my chest, and ask a question I’ve never had the guts to before. “Why did you do it?”
“It?” His lips pull back, teeth bared. “You’ll need to be more clear, Whitaker, if you want me to answer.”
I swallow, hating the words that he wants me to say, but I know how to play this game. Tit for tat.
“Why did you sell me at Mayfield?”
His eyes light up at the question, at the perverse pleasure of making me ask. “Oh, but how could I not? You were an exquisite child. Porcelain skin, sharp cheekbones, and those thick, pouty lips. Such a body…” His gaze takes me in, head to foot. “Some children are created beautiful and then transition through a gangly period before settling into mediocrity. Not you. Your beauty was obvious from the start. Transcendent. A diamond.” Bile rises to the back of my throat as he speaks, and I will it back, allowing him to ramble. “That special moment when carbon creates the strongest of gems. Beautiful to look at. To touch. Unique. Everyone wants one to hang on their arm or adorn their body with. And because of all that, your value only appreciated over time.”
His explanation resonates; I feel the truth in every word, but something is missing. It has to be. “You’re telling me this isn’t because of who my father was? The fact I’m the only living Baron legacy? That you weren’t afraid that one day I’d have too much power, so you decided to reduce me into another one of your cheap commodities?”
“I won’t pretend it didn’t give me some satisfaction. The heir to Forsyth’s shadows, so exposed and handled?” A ragged, malicious laugh rips from his throat. “If only your grandfather could have seen how you bloomed under the warmth of their attention, all your petals spreading for them like a rose. I liked to imagine Clive rolling over in his grave, again and again.” He raises a slender, elegant hand to make a rolling gesture.
I gnash my teeth. “I wasn’t blooming, you arrogant fuck. I was enduring.”
“And this was all the power that befits you,” he continues, eyes sparking. “The greedy Forsyth society, the non-royal, could barely keep their hands off you. Having grown up inside the walls of my palace, having attended the best boarding schools, having been a leader in PNZ…” He tsks, arching an eyebrow. “I don’t think you can appreciate the appeal that the aristocracy has to the common people in this city. They’ll do anything for an association—a piece of Royalty—and Mayfield provides that.”
“You didn’t sell me off for tea and biscuits,” I snap. “You sold me off, as a child, to women and men for their pleasure.”
“And you were always very good at giving them what they wanted.” He cocks his head, scrutinizing me. “Which makes me think you’re protesting a bit too much, aren’t you?”
The nausea transforms into rage and I slam into the cell, grabbing onto the bars. “As if I had a choice! Any infraction, any complaint or defiance, was met with punishments doled out to Lex and Pace!” A rumble of anger rises in my chest. “Don’t delude yourself into believing I was your willing victim—that any of us wanted to do what you asked. All we ever wanted was to protect each other.”
He rears forward, delight sharpening his features. “And that is why you’re weak, Whitaker. Self-preservation should always be the highest quality for a Royal, but despite being a spoiled brat, you’ve always put your brothers before yourself.” His eyes narrow to small slits. “It’s why the Baron King handed you over when he ascended to the dark throne. He sensed it. It’s why I hoped either of your brothers would be the one to plant his seed in my daughter.” He rises from the cot and stalks toward me, caught up in his ranting. “You fought the creation process every step of the way. You don’t understand the value of what it means to bring an heir into this world—what it means to East End. It’s why locking me in this cage is foolish, and the beginning of the end for my kingdom.” Venom spills with every word. “You’re an abomination to my kingdom. A bastard. An unwanted orphan created from mixed blood and deception. You don’t have what it takes to be a leader, much less a father. You were made to serve. As a whore. As a brute. As a tool. Nothing else.”
There is nothing my father loves more than a monologue, but I’ve always known his hubris would be his downfall. Even locked in a cage, emaciated and withering away, he still thinks his words carry weight.
He’s right.
His words do carry weight.
But I’m not as weak as he thinks.
I thrust my arm into the cell and grab him by the shirt, yanking him into the bars. He slams into them, eyes widening when he sees the switchblade I’ve pulled from my pocket. I push the lever, the dramatic click revealing the sharp-tipped knife.
“Whitaker,” he warns, no doubt seeing death flash before his eyes. “What would Lex say?”
“He’d understand,” I snarl.
“So, it’s going to be you, is it?” Father chuckles, the sound almost chilling. “Because whoever kills me takes the crown, you know. Do you really think PNZ would follow you—a mut?” Humming, he locks onto my stare, musing, “How long would it be before they figure out who you really are? They’d never suffer a Baron legacy in this palace. Mutinies are all in good fun when you’re on that side of the cage. How will you fare in here with your brothers, I wonder? Your Princess?” He grins. “Your son?”
Yanking up the top of his scrubs, I reveal the hard plane of his chest and press the tip of the switchblade to it. “The only reason I never wanted to be a father is that I didn’t want to be anything like you,” I say, the first drops of blood spilling from the cut I carve into his flesh. “But that’s because you know nothing about being one. And I may not have what it takes, but between the three of us, we’ll do a hell of a lot better than you.”
He takes it with gnashed teeth, his blazing stare as unrelenting as my own. “You’re astonishingly like your own father,” he snarls, pain in his eyes as I bring the blade down. “He was also a Royal failure who hated his child.”
I dig the blade in a little deeper near the center. “I guess my fathers have that in common.”
A small, agonized sound rumbles in his chest, but he clamps down on it. “You don’t know anything about your real father, Whitaker. Oh, everyone likes to talk about your grandfather, the mysterious Clive Kayes. But haven’t you noticed no one ever has a word to speak about his son, young Benji?” His eyes spark and wince. “I’ll let you in on a secret, little Prince. This flaw that flows through your veins wasn’t given to you by your father at all.” He leans closer, as if inviting the blade to sink deeper, and speaks the words with a low, malicious sneer. “It’s the whore he created you with.”
I pause, the tip of the knife finishing the final line.
It’s hard to stab someone in the chest. People don’t tell you that. The sternum is tough and takes a lot of focused pressure to get through. It’s not something a man like me does on a whim. It requires patience and choice. The gut is always the better option, quick and devastating and so damn messy.
Right now, I’m thinking that I have the time to spare.
It’s difficult to shove him back into the cell. “You’re going to die in this palace,” I promise, casually wiping the blade of my knife. The last glimpse I catch of him, Rufus Ashby is hissing in pain and anger, the stubs of his bloody, missing fingers prodding the pentagram on his chest.
When I was younger, I used to imagine having the palace all to myself. I’d ride Pace’s skateboard down the grand banister, use the second floor corridor as my own bowling alley, and invite every hot girl or boy I knew over for rowdy, erotic parties.
The reality is disappointing.
After the contractors all leave, everything is unbearably, eerily still. It settles into the pit of my gut like an ominous thing. There’s a monster below me and a wild card above me. I can while away all the hours I want torturing Father or visiting Danner, but every move I make feels wrong, like I should be doing something else. Something important. Something… useful.
Gross.
Nearly three weeks pass in this vacant, restless limbo. There are no meetings to attend, no dates to escort, no lacrosse or hockey practices. There’s just me in the solarium, my fingers pressed to the strings of my cello as I search for a sound that’ll quiet the shout trapped in my chest. Every night I go out there, settle the instrument between my legs, and play.
I play so hard that my fingertips scream.
The days are endless, but these nights—trapping myself inside that glass casket—are without measure or purpose. The only obligation I have is watching Pace’s bird while he’s out, so I take her down there with me, watching as she makes all these furious, clumsy attempts at flight. Over and over, she bats her wings, struggling to reach the highest branch of the camellia tree, but never quite making it.
You and me both, pretty bird.
I keep a beer at my side, the bottle sweating as the notes bounce off the glass, but never even touch it as I search for that thing. That important thing. That useful thing.
Goddamn it.
I ignore it for as long as I can, this pressing need to do. It’s a sickness, festering away inside of me like an infection. I know Father was the one to put it there, but it doesn’t make it go away. It hovers just behind me, always lurking.
I’m almost grateful when Pace barges into the kitchen one night, telling me, “Dude, look at the news.” Instead of waiting, he turns his phone to me, showing me the screen.
The headline of the article declares, “Missing niece of Forsyth University’s Dean Hexley found alive.”
I snatch the phone, reading on.
“Arianette Hexley. She was one of the ten missing girls,” Pace says, an energized glint in his eyes. “They found her up at the river—said she was missing for three weeks. I mean, she’s unaffiliated with any of the frats, but?—”
“The dean’s niece,” I agree, glancing up. “She’s prominent.”
“It could be that she was just off on a bender somewhere or just a runaway or something.”
“I’d run away if Hexley was my uncle.” That guy is an ass-kissing douche.
“Right?” Pace is already shoving his phone in his pocket, backing out of the room. “I told Ballsy that I’d see what I could find out, if there are any details the press is holding back.”
“Good idea, the more prominent, the more eyes, and the last thing we need is another surprise visit from the FBI.”
“That’s the fucking truth.” His eyebrow lifts. “Are you good here?”
Here?
Alone?
“Of course I’m good,” I roll my eyes. Everyone here has a role, mine is watching over two old men making sure they don’t die before we have the chance to kill them.
I’m more excited than I expected when the day finally comes to drive through the streets of East End, headed west. The air is sticky and humid when I arrive at the boundary line, baffled at the sight that greets me in the distance.
Three Dukes, seven of their DKS soldiers, and—I get out, whipping off my sunglasses to make sure I’m seeing this right—all three of Perilini and Bruin’s parents.
And they’re shaking Lex’s hand.
As I goggle at this, Verity crosses the parking lot, sauntering towards me with a grin. “Hi,” she says, which would be well and fine, except then she launches herself at me. A slender arm captures my neck, her pale cheeks already pinkening by the time she springs up on her tiptoes to assault me with a kiss.
Grunting, I catch her hips, surging into the warmth of her lips and tongue like a starving man. Maybe this was that thing I’ve been scratching so desperately to find because suddenly, I’m spinning her, pushing her up against the driver’s side door, and taking my time memorizing the feel of her body, the new curves and swells, against mine.
When she dips back, her eyes widen, a smile blooming as she glances between us. “Wow, he’s doing somersaults in there. I think we woke him up.” She laughs, the sound airy and musical, and for a long moment, all I can do is follow her gaze to the roundness of her belly, stunned in more ways than one.
The last time I saw her, she was hard as stone, barely willing to offer me a graze of her fingertips. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bristle, that day in the DKS gym when she flinched away from my touch. It left me expecting more of the same distance. Her belly is so much bigger now, this gigantic, inescapable obstacle between our bodies.
Whoa.
That’s, like, profound or something.
And now she’s lifting a Tupperware container, eyes glinting in satisfaction. “I brought a souvenir.”
I blink at it before snatching it out of her hands. “Your mom made me banana pudding?” Surprising, considering Mama B has had nothing but spite for me since the first day I met her.
It’s probably poisoned.
Eh.
I’d still eat it.
But Verity just snorts, shoving my shoulder. “This might come as a surprise to you, but I can actually follow a recipe myself.”
I jolt back. “You made it? For me?” Alarms sound in my head, my hackles immediately rising as I back away, giving her a suspicious once over. Too nice, my brain screams. Look out. “Do you want something?” I skeptically wonder. “Did something happen with Lex?”
A little bit of that breathless joy in her expression falls. “Of course not. I just…” Biting her lip, she looks away, her gaze fixed on a piece of broken glass on the asphalt. “I guess I missed you. A little.”
My eyebrows hike up. “You missed me?”
A small, put-upon groan expands her throat. “Oh my god, never mind.”
But before she can flee, I trap her against the car, not even trying to tamp down my smirk. “What did you miss?”
She pulls a face, but I don’t miss the way her eyes glaze over when I bend down, dragging my lips against the warm curve of her cheek. Swallowing, she fists a hand in my shirt. “Your insufferable ability to turn the smallest gesture into emotional blackmail?”
Humming, I argue, “Although I’m good at that, I don’t think that’s it.” I nose in below her ear, sucking a gentle bruise into the skin there. I barely realize I’m feeling her up until I register the heavy weight of her breast against my hand.
Her tits have gotten bigger, too.
Fuck me.
She shivers so hard that it vibrates against me. “Definitely your mouth.”
Before I can cajole her into elaborating—a list of bullet points would suffice—the sound of Lex’s footsteps breaks my concentration.
“You’re not fucking her against the car,” he mutters. And he’s a real jerk about it too, sounding all long-suffering like he hasn’t had almost a month alone with these blushing cheeks and full tits. “Her family is still watching.”
Sighing, I extricate myself painfully. It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s said nothing about not fucking her. Just not against the car. So instead of humping her like a dog, I play the part of the perfect fucking gentleman, wrenching the door open for her, helping her inside.
“What was all that about?” I ask Lex, nudging my chin in the Dukes’ direction.
Lex follows my gaze, shrugging. “I saved Nick Bruin’s life.”
“Oh.” My nose wrinkles as I shut the door behind Verity, desperately trying to ignore the sight of her thighs pressing together. “Why?”
Lex gives me a look. “Can’t have you being the prettiest man in Forsyth, can I?”
I balk, jaw dropped in outrage. “Dead or alive, in no universe is he prettier than me.”
Lex doesn’t argue—really, how could he?—but he does grab my arm, fixing me with a seriousness I’m not expecting. “Hey. You good?” We’ve kept in constant contact, of course. Daily video calls with Pace. Nightly check-ins about Father. Morning meetings about construction and the frat.
One thing rings true. “It’s been a long month,” I answer, feeling confusingly frayed about it all. Having too much time on my hands, I’ve now learned, is not all it’s cracked up to be.
Lex shakes his head. “You aren’t lying.”
I clap his shoulder, voice thick with sarcasm. “Glad to be coming home?”
“Weirdly?” He reaches up to scratch his freshly shaved chin. “I think I am.”
Well, that’s not the answer I was expecting. “How is she?”
The question comes on the crest of a wave of doubt. This new thing where she hugs me and brings me treats is only slightly less weird than that flash of warm excitement I saw in her eyes as she did it.
Since when is Red excited to see me?
Lex rolls his eyes. “Yes, she can have sex again, Wick.”
“That’s not what I—” But I clamp down on the protest, unable to really express this unease curling through my belly.
Whatever Lex sees in my expression, it makes his soften. “I think it did her good, seeing them for a while.” Reaching up, he rubs his eyes. “She’s still sleeping like shit.”
Scrutinizing him, I decide to keep the news of the envelope in my pocket to myself. For now. “Who isn’t?”
Getting into the car, I think to myself that it just fucking figures.
I’ve spent all month doggedly ignoring the pressing, desperate need to do something.
In the end, it found me.
The message came by courier yesterday, a black envelope with two names written across the front in gold ink.
Whitaker Kayes Ashby & Verity Sinclaire
Inside, in the same pretentious script, is an address written on a thick black card. On the back, a brass skeleton key is attached, with a delicate number engraved into the metal.
237.
“A mausoleum number in the cemetery?” she asks, shifting her scrutiny to the key. “Seems a little macabre.”
Verity sits in the passenger seat and studies the thick black card as if there’s another, hidden message that she can’t see. She’s wearing a cream-colored, summery dress that criss-crosses over her chest, making her tits look like two overripe melons. There’s a tantalizing little tie above her hip. One little yank and the whole thing would fall off.
“Seems on brand to me.” I roll my eyes and adjust the semi I’ve been sporting since she threw herself at me in that parking lot. Sometimes, it barely even matters that I haven’t had a good, hard fuck in months. Other times, like right now, it barrels into me like a goddamn tornado, sweat springing up on my forehead.
It gets worse when she’s near, smelling so damn good, her body all round and inviting. Any other time, I would have taken her right there in the car, on the way home. It should say something really fucking significant that I didn’t, waiting until she and Lex settled in before dragging her away with the promise of a evening frolic into Baron territory.
I can’t spend another night alone in that fucking solarium.
Annoyed, I grumble, “God, I hate the Barons’ insufferable flair for the dramatic.”
I feel her gaze on me and when I look over, sure enough, Verity’s staring at me with her jaw dropped.
“What?” I ask, shifting into a lower gear as we approach the wrought iron gates of the cemetery.
“They have an insufferable flair for the dramatic?” she asks. It’s followed by a snort in the backseat, and I shoot Ballsack a hard glare in the rearview mirror. He shrugs, and I don’t have time to stop the car and beat the smug look off his face before Verity adds, “I’d tell you to look in the mirror but you’d get so hung up on your reflection that whatever is waiting on us would be long gone.”
I don’t bother responding, mostly because there’s no room for error. The cemetery is neutral territory, unclaimed by any of the five Forsyth frats while also being maintained by the Barons. But being the rightful Baron heir with his Princess in the vehicle, I can’t be sure this isn’t a well-designed trap.
Ballsack seems to have the same concern. “I’d feel a lot better if your brothers were here,” he says, not for the first time.
“I can handle this,” I say, gritting my teeth. There’s no safer feeling than having Lex and Pace at my six, but this is one of those things.
I have to do it myself.
Not even thinking to question this, Verity says, “We need to get out of the North Side and over into brN,” and points to a sloping hill where the Baron’s sprawling plot overlooks the entire cemetery. It reminds me of Effie perched on the top of Pace’s bookshelves, acting as a sentinel overlooking the room. “I think 237 should be up there.”
But I don’t need a number to find our destination. A massive black mausoleum sits at the peak, towering over the headstones. Even from a distance, the pentagram etched into the marble is visible in the rising moonlight, and the name KAYES set in gold underneath.
The King of the Barons is leading me home.
Verity, growing quiet next to me, seems to understand this as well. I steer the car down the narrow gravel road, stopping just beneath the mausoleum.
“Jesus, that’s creepy,” Ballsack says, looking up at the onyx building. It has a peaked roof and thick columns framing a door made of intricately welded iron. Four thick marble steps lead to the entry. “This is where he sent you?”
I cut the engine, allowing the silence to engulf us just as thickly as the impending darkness. Truthfully, I don’t remember anything about being a Kayes. It’s just a name I had and molted away like dead skin. How can someone feel a connection to a place they’ve never called home?
But as soon as I look at the mausoleum, that frenetic scream trapped inside my chest transforms into an inexplicable stillness. I’ve never worn the name. I’ve never mourned it. I’ve never breathed it, bled it, or claimed it.
But it’s still mine.
Grabbing the key from Verity before stepping out of the car, I take a moment to absorb the spectacle of the cemetery. The serene rolling hills. The grass, bright green from the afternoon summer rains. I see the dotted rooftops of other mausoleums in the different territories, each aligned with an important bloodline in Forsyth. But none have the grandeur of the tomb that houses my grandfather, Clive Kayes. Even decades after his death, he still carries a presence in this town.
Unlike Verity and Ballsack, places of death aren’t unusual to me. I wonder briefly if this familiarity is nature or nurture. I’ve spent countless hours playing the cello in front of Michael’s headstone, surrounded by the scent of warm earth and quiet misery. But there’s a thrum in my blood, an acknowledgment as I hold the heavy key in my hand, that this is where I belong. Of a life stolen from me by a deranged, vindictive man I now have trapped in a crypt of his own making.
Walking around the car, I open the passenger door and help Verity out. It’s reckless to bring her along, even if the envelope was equally as addressed to her. When Lex and Pace find out…
Her green eyes lock on mine as she takes my hand, her palm soft and dry as a goddamn bone. “I can handle this,” she says, parroting my words from before. Her legs are smooth, bearing a new warmth of color after her trip to West End. Pace says there’s a garden on the rooftop of the gym. Exposed natural sunlight, not like the filtered canopy in the solarium. I like the idea of her up there, staring across Forsyth as she drinks in the light. She belongs there, not here, lost in all this death and darkness.
But as much as the Kayes name is mine, it also belongs to the life growing inside her. Perhaps more than anything, I need her to know—to understand—what the weight of the name means.
Ballsack gets out of the car and moves to the back, opening the trunk. He pulls out a black duffle bag of supplies I brought from the dungeon. None of us are exactly sure what Maddox called us here for, but I have a suspicion.
“You sure you want to do this?” I ask her. “Because I don’t know what’s waiting inside, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to be unpleasant, and you just stopped puking every fifteen minutes.”
“I haven’t vomited in a month, thank you very much.” Her eyes dart to the black building, lip disappearing between her teeth. “I’m not sure I have a choice. Both of our names were on that invitation.”
She’s right about that. When William came after Verity, he slighted both of us. Her, personally. Me, because that child, like it or not, is mine.
“Eugene,” I say, not forgetting the dig from earlier, “keep an eye out.”
He rolls his eyes, leaning against the trunk. “Got it.”
Taking the bag from him, my Princess and I climb the steps, approaching the dark, heavy door.
Slotting the key into the lock, I turn it.
It opens with a heavy creak, musty, cold air rushing out to greet us like a quiet exhale. It’s dark inside the room, other than the faint light filtering in through a window made of stained glass. In Baron fashion, the window has been designed to project a pentagram along the back wall. Dust motes float within the ethereal rays, billowing toward the black of darkness when we disturb the air.
An altar sits underneath.
I hold my arm out, grazing Verity’s belly. “Let me check it out.”
I can’t discount that this is a setup, a retribution for accusing one of the Barons of harming my child. Maybe Father was lying about hiring William. It wouldn’t be his first misdirection, but it could possibly be his last.
Turning on my flashlight, I let my eyes acclimate, searching the dark corners for the King’s Shadows.
But there’s nothing except more dust and marble, this time with engraved brass plates marking the tombs of past Kayes. Long benches sit underneath, a place for visitors to mourn. A muffled sound draws my attention back to the center of the space, where a large, black tomb sits above ground. On top is a bundle.
No. A body.
Bound with rope, a black hood covers the head of our victim.
“What is that?” Verity asks, her footsteps following closely behind. Of course, she didn’t wait. Approaching the body, I scowl at the display and yank off the hood.
“Well, look at this, Princess,” I say, staring down into fearful, pleading, beady eyes. “Seems the Baron King left you a birthday gift. A bit late.”
“What kind?” she asks, her voice lilted, coy.
“A William.” I grab his neck and lift him into the light, ignoring the grunt he makes. “Look familiar?”
Her green eyes squint through the darkness. “I’m not sure,” she says, studying his body. She approaches, moving close, but I thrust out a hand before she can get within distance. Frowning, she commands, “Talk. Say something.”
He’s not gagged, which is a real shame considering the first words spilling through his gnashed teeth are, “Fuck. You.”
My punch snaps his head back, slamming it into the marble tomb. My knuckles ache, but it's worth it to see the first drop of blood slide over his lip. “You’re talking to my Princess. Show some respect.”
Verity’s hand rests on my shoulder, and she says, “Repeat after me: two sides of the same coin.”
He hisses when I jostle him with a violent shake. “Two sides of the same coin.” His lip curves, eyes sharp as a dagger when he adds, “Do you believe in fate, Sinclaire?”
Recognition flickers in Verity’s green eyes, but it’s quickly replaced with fear. “It’s him.” She steps back, hands protective over her stomach. It’s not the knowledge that this is the William who hurt the Princess and my baby that triggers my rage. It’s seeing that fear, the insecurity, in Verity’s eyes.
Verity Sinclaire isn’t a coward. She’s tough. A fighter. West End, through and through. She’s taken every single thing we’ve thrown at her for months without a flinch. But whatever this piece of shit did to her that night was enough to make her afraid.
And that makes me very, very upset.
The anger that runs through me is toxic, a poison that fuels every cell in my body, but it’s the stillness that drives me. I turn away from the traitor and reach into the bag on the floor, taking out a narrow black box. That’s the real difference between East and West. A Duke would be pummeling this guy’s face into ground Baron right now.
A Prince takes his time.
“We know my father hired you to scare my Princess, and trust me, he’s paying for that betrayal. But I need some answers, Willie.” I set the box on the tomb and open the lid. Inside is a set of knives, each with a different blade. The handles are made of jade, a deep green that reminds me of the Princess’ eyes. One has a fine, scalpel-like point. The other is jagged like broken teeth. Another with a hook on the end. The box came from Father’s office, from the same cabinet where he stored his whips. He always did appreciate things like these. Ceremonial tokens.
It seemed appropriate to bring them tonight.
“I need to know why a Baron, a man known for his loyalty to his King and to his house, would step across territory lines and harm not just another house’s woman, but a pregnant Princess.” I pick up the blade with the hook and touch the tip with my finger. A bead of blood comes to the surface. “Why would you do this, when the consequence of being discovered is certain death?”
William sneers up at me. “I don’t fear death.”
“No,” I agree, licking the blood off my finger, “you respect it. Or so they say.”
“You don’t respect death,” Verity says, pushing past me. “You crave it. I remember every word you said to me that night. How you’d like to split me open, pop my stomach like a balloon, and let my insides spill out.”
He laughs, and it’s interesting. I’ve threatened a lot of marks down in Father’s dungeon, but none of them have laughed at the prospect. “I remember you running scared, begging me not to hurt you or your child.” His eyes go dreamy, like he’s lost in the memory. “You were perfect.”
I lash out, the blade slicing down his cheek. At first, there’s nothing but the flap of flesh, but then the blood sluices down his cheek. “I don’t believe you were acting for your King. Any Royal knows better than to risk starting a war between the houses.” I watch him, disgusted at this part of my heritage—my grandfather’s legacy. “You just wanted to kill something important for the thrill, didn’t you?” When he doesn’t answer, I press on him, catching the hook on the edge of his mouth, giving the slightest tug.
He inhales, erratic and fearful—pained. Good. Tenderly, he speaks, “That thing growing inside of her is an abomination. Unlike you,” he snarls, “I love my King. He earned his reign through the trial of death. You think loyalty means blindly following orders?” A ragged, sinister laugh spills from his bloody lips. “Real loyalty means protecting your King, even when it angers him. That abomination inside of her is a threat to his reign. It should be flushed out like the parasite it is and left bleeding on the—agh!”
His agonized shriek emerges in perfect accordance with the depth of my blade, sinking into his side like butter. “If that whole stunt was an act of loyalty, then wow,” I say, voice flat, “you really suck at killing.”
He gasps as I twist the knife. “It wasn’t time! It wouldn’t have been an earned death! I needed her to fight back so I could show him.” I can see in his eyes when he understands that’s what he is to me. An earned death. “I needed to prove I could be his kin.”
There are two types of acceptance when a man is looking down the barrel of his death. The type that clams up, ready to go down carrying his secrets. Then there’s the other kind, the type that wants to get it all off his chest. Willie is a talker. All he needs is a nudge.
“Then why not go after me?” I spread my arms at the black tomb. “I’m the real blood kin.”
“You’re more Ashby than Kayes. Everyone knows it.” He shudders, blood burbling from his mouth, but when he meets my gaze, there’s the oddest thread of grief in it. “Don’t you see? The Baron King is lost. His son abandoned his legacy to become a leader in a rival house. His wife is locked away. The men he came to power with—the old Kings—they’re dying or wounded. There’s no place for him here anymore. He won’t accept it, but my King needs a death to keep his throne.” William’s eyes turn hard, flicking toward Verity. “An earned death.”
I drop the blade and both hands snatch out to circle around his throat. His skin is slippery with blood, but I clench tight. “You’re about to see how a death is earned.” He gasps, his air cutting off, eyes bulging, lips turning blue. So close. So fucking close.
A small, cool hand wraps around my blood-soaked wrist. “Wick.”
Glancing over, she gives me a stern look. She wants to know more. Fuck. With another squeeze, I release him, watching him gasp for air. Verity wastes no time. “Did you hurt anyone else? Have you been kidnapping and hurting other girls in Forsyth?”
Struggling to breathe, he shakes his head. “No one—” He swallows and I know it’s as much blood as air. “No one else matters enough to bother.” He makes eye contact with Verity and I pick up the blade with a serrated edge, deciding that I’m going to cut his eyes out next. “Until Ashby approached me, I only had fantasies. He gave me the opportunity I’d been looking for.”
I twirl the jade handle in my hand, warming the stone with my fingers, and walk around the tomb. “Your King left you here for us. You would call it an opportunity. I call it a gift.” I purse my lips. “Maybe even a peace offering. But, unlike you, I won’t be squandering it.” The rage simmering under my skin bubbles to the surface. I stop at the head of the tomb, and grab William from behind. “This is for hurting my Princess.” He grunts, but the following cry is lost when I slash the jagged blade from one side to the other. Blood sprays, but the action feels better than any fucking release in my life. “This is for my son, the true Baron heir.” I plunge the blade straight into his heart. I yank it out and immediately thrust the blade in and out of his lifeless body. “For violating the sanctity of my home and for being a fucking betrayer of yours.”
Something inside unleashes. Something feral and pure. This rage that I have for everything that’s been building up. Father. Mayfield. The obligation of being a Prince. Verity. The baby. My baby. Everything that is out of my control is channeled into every sharp tooth in that blade, jagged and raw, tearing into flesh. My hands are slick, coated in blood, and my shirt drenched. Never again will this man be a risk to my family.
“Wick!” Verity’s voice is distant, somewhere past the hum of violence. I raise the blade over my head. “Whitaker!”
I snap my head in her direction.
Splatters of blood are sprayed across her face and body. My eyes go instantly to her belly, assessing, making sure.
“He’s dead,” she says, taking a tentative step toward me. “He can’t hurt us anymore.”
My breath comes out in ragged bursts. “Are you…” I point to her stomach with the blood-stained blade and then realize what I’m doing, dropping it to the ground. The metal and jade clatter against the marble floor. “Is it—” I swallow, tasting blood. “Is it okay?”
“He’s fine,” she promises, taking another step to me. “Want to see?”
I eye her belly, round with life. I’ve avoided it. Ignored it. Thrown countless tantrums about how that ‘thing’ has ruined my life. But just now, I killed for it. Him.
For us.
She takes my hand, the one I’d just used to brutally slaughter a man, and presses it, bloody and bruised, against the hard surface. The tiniest movement flutters underneath, and I exhale.
Creation.
Her eyes are wide, watchful. “What about you? You okay?”
A trail of blood drips down her neck, traveling between her breasts. Swiping my thumb over the blood, I smear it across the expanse of her chest. Her nipples tighten and peak in response. I tug at the neck of her dress, revealing the swell of her full breast. For the first time I see them for what they are—proof her body is preparing itself for my son.
“I want you,” I tell her, realizing the truth of it as I say the words. “I want to taste you. Fuck you. Feel your body wrapped around mine.”
I don’t wait for a response, taking what I need by grabbing the back of her neck and pulling her mouth to mine. Fingers digging into her hip, I kiss her hard, desperate, the urge to consume her overwhelming. Verity reacts by sinking into me, her hips rocking forward. My cock thickens, perverse, and aroused in this death chamber. Maybe I truly am a Kayes, getting off on the brutality of death. But in this instant, it’s not death I want, I crave warmth. Life.
“Wicker,” she pushes up on her toes, licking a hot path under my chin, “please.”
Dragging her away from the tomb, I push to the altar, and with one hard yank on the tie at her side, the dress falls, revealing her body to me. She’s round everywhere. Her tits. Her hips. Her belly. I touch them all, my blood-stained hands marking every inch of her body. Her panties are thin and soft, but I push my fingers into the warm, drenched heat. “Jesus, Red,” I groan, not knowing what made her so wet, the fact we’ve been apart for so long, or the bloody scene in the middle of the room. “Death gets you off, eh?”
She tugs at my shirt, pulling at the placket of buttons. Her mouth presses hot kisses against my chest. All I want is to be inside of her, so I lift her up, setting her on the edge of the altar, and spread those legs wide. The moonlight shines through the stained glass, casting her hair in a fiery halo. I barely get my cock out of my pants without coming. There’s no preamble, no fucking foreplay. I ease between her thighs, press my cock against her entrance, and punch inside, burying myself in the heat of my woman.
“God, Wick. Deeper.”
I don’t feel like a God. I feel like a man—skin and bones, flesh and blood, capable of defending what belongs to me. I take Verity, take what’s mine, slamming my hips into her ruthlessly, getting harder with her every breathless cry. She holds onto me, clenching with every thrust.
When I come, burying myself inside of her with a pained grunt, it feels just like death should be. Earned. Warm. Final. But Verity and I aren’t death. We’re something much more complicated and difficult to earn.
She and I are creators.
I touch the roundness of her belly, the reality of it banging around my ribcage like some wild, unfettered thing.
This is my son.
I brush my lips against hers.
This is my Princess.
I gasp for air, tasting the tang of blood and the edge of old, rusty death.
This is my legacy.