Chapter 9
9
Verity
My first night back in East End, I fall asleep so quickly that it’s hours before I realize Wicker and I aren’t alone in the enormous Princess bed. A part of me was afraid to even expect Pace and Lex. Before I left, neither of them would sleep in here, both practicing their own forms of obsessive vigilance.
But that was before Pace took me to bed in the Royal Ink loft, sliding so carefully inside of me that he never moved an inch once he was seated. On the other side of the door, Lex was saving Nick Bruin’s life, but for Pace and I, the world was whittled down to the curl of his body against mine as I finally fell asleep.
It was also before Lagan emerged from slumber, rough and desperate. Possessive. But not cruel. Not like Lex was so afraid he’d be. To Lex, I’m a duty, but Lagan sees me as his woman. I think both of us understand this now.
So I’m more surprised than I should be to hear their quiet, gravelly voices through the fog of sleep.
“Wicker,” Lex whispers. “Shut up.”
Since Wicker is wound around me like a vine, his voice is louder, my ear pressed to his sternum. “I didn’t say anything.” He sounds confused.
“I can hear you thinking.” Lex sighs. “It’s like nails on a chalkboard.”
Against my other side, Pace mutters, “Seriously. You’d think someone who just got spectacularly laid would go to sleep.”
“Don’t blame me,” Wicker hisses. “Lex is the one who instituted the ‘only one fuck per day’ rule, and both of you got some long before I did. Fair’s fair.”
My lips twitch, but I don’t give away that I’m slowly rousing.
“We have to go easy on her cervix.” Lex’s voice is imbued with a familiar exasperation. Truthfully, this whole ‘one fuck per day’ rule is news to me. Maybe that was part of the discussion they had when Wicker and I returned from the cemetery, bloody and lust-drunk. Lex had dragged his brothers off for what I expected to be a dressing down for the two of us going off territory without backup other than Ballsy.
There’s a flutter against my stomach and then the warmth of rough fingertips. “I was just wondering…” Wicker’s voice is stilted, hushed. “Do you think he’ll look like me?”
Lex answers this a little too quickly. “Statistically, without knowing her exact genotypes, there’s a seventy-five percent chance he’ll be blonde.”
Wicker’s touch on my belly lingers. “No shit?”
There’s a slight jostle behind me, and then Pace’s voice. “Green eyes, you think?”
Lex hums. “Eye color is more complex than a simple Mendelian trait, but for the sake of simplification, yes. Green eyes are inherently dominant over blue.”
“Fitting,” Pace says, snorting, and then I’m shaken as Wicker lobs a punch over my shoulder to his brother’s forehead.
“Don’t,” Wicker hisses, “wake her up. She went through a lot today.”
“The Princess goes through a lot every day,” Lex replies quietly, “but what’s different is you asking about genetics and hereditary traits. Since when do you care about all that stuff?”
There’s a long beat where I’m sure he’s not going to answer, but then he does. “What happened in the mausoleum. It was… intense.”
“Torture and murder usually are,” comes Pace’s deep voice. “Even when we pretend like they’re not.”
They fall quiet, the admission a weight too heavy to consider, but I think I know what Wicker is trying to say. He had an awakening in that cemetery. A rebirth, maybe. It’s like, for the first time, he stopped running. From everything: his past, his bloodline, his child. Instead, he faced his truth head-on. I felt it when he asked about him, checking to make sure we were both okay. When he didn’t panic, but remained strong. For us.
There’s never been a doubt about Wicker’s loyalty to his brothers. They’re his life. But I wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to carve out space for me and this baby—at least, not without resentment. But since that moment in the mausoleum when his blue eyes met mine, wide and full of steel, it’s been different. It’s the same look I see in Lex’s eyes when he examines me, or in Pace’s when he holds me close.
It means this baby and I are his.
Still, when we left that cemetery, he was raw, and I suspect he’s not ready to articulate this, not even to Lex and Pace.
“He’s going to look tired,” I gripe, abandoning the ruse. When I open my eyes, I’m greeted with the bluish glow of a large tablet, which has been propped on the bedside table. It’s shifting automatically through security streams of the palace. I drag my eyes away and look at Pace. “No. Not in bed.”
His eyes shutter. “Then I’ll leave.”
“No, you won’t.” I grab his wrist. He could easily get out of my hold, but he doesn’t. “You told me once that this ridiculous, ornate Princess bed was made for one thing: creation.” I run my hand over my belly. “I’m creating right now, growing your child, and I need your attention and focus here,” I tilt my head toward the screen, “not there.”
“The house is secure,” Lex tells him, “with both your security measures and guys from the frat pulling shifts.”
This doesn’t seem to make Pace feel much better. “There’s always him.”
A stretch of silence engulfs us before Wicker casually offers. “We should kill him.”
“Not yet,” Lex says.
“Why? Father’s useless to us,” Pace grumbles. “He hasn’t given us any usable intel in weeks, and he’s clammed up even more since Wick used him for carving practice.” The glare Pace sends his brother is some strange mix of annoyance and pride, which explains almost anything anyone needs to know about the Ashby brothers.
“It’s also starting to smell down there,” Wick adds, unhelpfully. He’s got me pulled up against his side, his hand flat against my hip, not quite touching the baby, but not-not touching the baby either. I consider it progress. “I’m with Pace, let’s end this.”
“It’s not that easy and you know it.” Lex shifts to recline against the headboard, raking his hair from his face. “There are rules and procedures. If we just kill him, there will be outright pandemonium. A sub-mutiny.”
“Why would they care?” I ask, although I’m in agreement about the mutiny. There are some guys, particularly Tommy, who won’t be onboard.
“Just because we know Rufus is a princess-murdering, sex-trafficking, egomaniacal psycho doesn’t mean the rest of PNZ or East End sees him the same way.” Lex reaches over to the nightstand, plucking a book from the tall stack that’s collected there. The cover is dark purple, with a gold emblem on the front. “Maddox was right. Rufus kept East End running smoothly. He managed a balance between the territories that provided comfort. When the rest of the frat finds out that we’ve had him locked up in the dungeon all this time, they’re going to have questions, and I don’t know how many we want to answer.” He passes the book to Wicker, who purses his lips at the cover, emblazoned with the words ‘PNZ Pledge Book’. “If we’re going to dethrone Rufus, we need the backing of every single member of PNZ.”
“We have most of them,” Wick says, not bothering to open the pages. “Rory obviously. Giles and Turner will sway the other guys from the hockey team. Maybe Mitchell. But yeah, there are a few that are a problem.”
The guys share a look—a look obviously regarding me.
“What?” I press, eyes narrowed.
At first, no one speaks, but then Pace releases a hard sigh. “They don’t like you, Rosi.”
“Me? What did I do?”
Wick snorts. “Well, let’s see. You hit Heather with a frying pan. Got all the girls in your court to dump their boyfriends…”
“She was flirting with you, knowing you belonged to me. And those guys! Every last one of them came on my face!” I refute. “They gave me dead, black roses! I’m the victim here.”
There’s a sudden frisson of discomfort, so thick that it’s almost visible as it ripples through us, at the mention of my Royal Cleansing.
Lex doesn’t meet my eye as he takes the pledge book back from Wicker, clearing his throat. “Tensions were high, and conventional wisdom is that a Princess should be compliant and cooperative.” He raises an eyebrow. “You were anything but.”
“As far as they see it,” Pace adds, “you were an outsider—a West Ender, for god’s sake—who took the Princess spot away from one of their girls. And because of Father’s manipulations, we took their spots away from rightful legacies.”
Rolling my eyes, I read the clues. “So what you’re saying is that in order to get PNZ on board with killing Rufus, I need to win them over.” I think of Tommy standing over me, cock in hand, a mean snarl on his lips as his seed spilled on me. I don’t want to win him over, but I do want Rufus’ reign to end. I remember the bodies down in the solarium—what they endured. What they sacrificed. Far worse than I had. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Do what?” Pace asks.
Wicker frowns. “How?”
I nestle back into the blankets, already feeling pretty good about my idea. “By embracing my reign as Princess and heir, and instituting a new East End tradition.”
Pace’s mouth slants unhappily. “A new tradition? What would that be?”
“The thing that brings any well-organized frat together.” I grin. “Family Dinner.”
All three of them groan in such perfect unison that it’s all I can do not to laugh. Wicker bursts, “Red, come on.”
“We don’t do that kumbaya shit here,” Pace argues. “Forty snobby pricks trying to make small talk over a casserole every week? It’ll be torture.”
Lex mutters, “I’ve seen some torture that would be preferable.” Pausing, he adds, “I’ve done some torture that would be preferable.”
“It’ll be perfect.” I aim my glare at Lex. “And since you won’t let me do anything, it’ll give me a project to keep me busy. I’m not spending the next month in East End twiddling my thumbs.”
“It’s not like we have much choice,” he says, which sounds enough like an approval for me. “We’ll get started on it tomorrow. Right now, the Princess and baby need some sleep.”
Pace glances back at the tablet, and Wick says quietly, “She’s right, bro. Give it a rest. Father and Danner are locked up, and the William is no longer a threat.”
“There’s always another William,” Pace mutters, lifting a hand to rub his eyes. “And dozens of shadows. They’re like cockroaches. You can’t be sure.”
“Oh, I’m sure. That creep was trying to impress his King, and given what we know, it didn’t work.” Wick’s hand is heavy on my hip. Stabilizing. “But I have a feeling the Baron King is about to clean house. What about you, Red?”
I lean into him, breathing in the scent of his aftershave. “Definitely. Will wasn’t entirely wrong when he said his King was lost. If he’s going to find a place in the new Forsyth order, he’s going to have to make some changes, too.” Or maybe William just meant Timothy Maddox himself is lost. I don’t know. It sounded sad more than anything else. I look up at Pace, who still seems unsure. “We’re all here, sleeping on top of a bed loaded with weapons, attached to a panic room. Stay in bed.” I meet Pace’s gaze, an ache stirring deep inside. “Stay with us.”
It’s an invitation, and I like the way his hands feel on me as he rolls me back to Wicker, his fingers plucking my panties aside. Lex, on the other side of Wick, opens his mouth to admonish—to lay down rules—but I shake my head. “It’s past midnight,” I point out. “It’s a new day.”
Pace is too worried, too focused on the outside of this house. I need him here—with us. Lex must understand because he simply nods and lies back on the pillow he shares with his brother.
“Look at me,” Wick says quietly. “I want to see your face when he fills you up.”
I meet his eyes at the moment Pace enters me, swift and deep, stretching me with a gasp.
“Night, Rosi,” Pace whispers, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear as I drift off surrounded by my men.
It ends up not being a dinner. These are Princes, after all.
We settle on a luncheon, but I reject the cook’s suggestion of tea and sandwiches, because men are men, regardless of what territory they reside in. They’re hungry. They want to be fed something hearty and filling. And more than that, they want to be served.
Unlike my mother’s family dinners at the gym, there are no ancient folding tables and hard metal chairs. Lex took me to the storage closet off of the ballroom the next morning, which I found to be filled with everything we needed: large round tables, gold-plated chairs with soft cushions, and stacks of white linens.
“You can’t seem like you’re changing it too much,” Lex said, pointing out the crates of plates and glasses. “The key here is making them feel comfortable—familiar—while showing them what you can offer.”
So when Saturday afternoon arrives, I survey the room. It’s the same room the masquerade was held in, with its high ceilings and chandeliers. Only now, I’ve had some of the guys open the heavy brocade curtains, filling the room with summery light. Sunshine catches on the crystals overhead, making everything sparkle and shine.
Ever since we locked our father in the dungeon, it’s like the palace is waking up, spreading its arms, and indulging in a long, invigorating stretch. No longer are the corners dark and dusty from disuse. I can’t enter a room in this place without angrily chasing away the shadows, unable to shake the feeling the mortar and stone have been prisoners to him, too.
I want to erase every mark Rufus Ashby has made on this place.
But Lex is right.
I can’t do it all at once.
“You’re really taking this seriously,” Pace says, sliding up behind me. His long arms engulf me, tugging me into his broad chest, and I don’t need to glance up to know he’s following my gaze to the display of tables that we’ve been arranging since yesterday. He groans. “Are those golden name cards? Christ, you really are an Ashby.”
I swat the hand that comes to rest on my belly. “Fuck off.”
“Ah,” he says, bending to press a kiss beneath my ear. “There’s the Sinclaire.”
Shivering, I try not to get distracted. “Are they here?”
He hums, the exhale tickling at my hair. “Most of them. They’re waiting outside to be frisked.”
“Oh.” I frown, straining my neck to catch his gaze. That’s when I realize Effie is perched on his shoulder, her dark eyes frantically taking in the room. Pace has been taking her places with him more and more. Reaching up, I give her feathers a gentle stroke. “Do you think frisking our guests might start this whole thing off on the wrong foot?”
His dark eyes hold mine. “I think if we’re doing this whole ridiculous thing to earn their trust, then they can fucking well put in the effort to earn ours.”
I grimace. “Maybe you have a point.”
A shrug. “I usually do.”
“Gentle,” Effie coos. And then, a harsh, “Fucking bird.”
Glancing at her, Pace tisks. “No. Effie’s going to be a pretty bird today. We’re having company. Best Behavior, okay?”
I watch as she looks at him, almost like she’s trying to decide if he’s serious. “Pretty bird?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“Pretty fucking bird.”
Pace sighs in frustration, but I can only give a delighted laugh. “It feels good to have her here,” I say, beaming when Pace nudges her onto my shoulder instead.
“Then you look after her,” he offers. “Maybe you can stop her from cussing people out.”
Feeling bolstered by the weight of her on my shoulder, I take a steeling breath, nodding. “Start sending them in.”
I’ve tried not to think a lot about my time as Rufus Ashby’s pet Princess, but through the balls, parties, and meetings, I’ve come to learn a thing or two about what it means to lead East End.
It’s about faking it.
“Thanks for coming, Matt!” I tell a stone-faced Matt Kramus as he enters the ballroom. When that gets no reaction, I greet the guy who filters in behind him. “I love that shirt.” Nothing, not even a twitch. To the next guy, Loefller, I offer, “Great work with the midge team this summer!” and he just gives me a sour look.
By the middle of the line, I’m feeling more than a little discouraged.
“You’re not him.”
I glance over, realizing Wicker has sidled up to me. He looks impeccable in a way that always stuns me. There’s not one hair out of place. His navy shirt, the top two buttons undone, has the sleeves rolled up, but even that sense of effortlessness feels carefully considered.
He gives Effie’s head a soft pat, keeping his voice low. “As someone who’s done my fair share of schmoozing, let me give you a tip, Red. The secret isn’t getting all of them to like you. That’d take years.”
I huff, crossing my arms. “Well, we don’t have years, so what do you suggest?”
He catches my gaze, smirking. “Getting the guy at the top to like you.”
“I already did that,” I mutter, eyes rolling. “Three times.” One of them is lingering in the corner by the balcony doors, his amber eyes tracking every frat boy who waltzes in. Across the distance, he catches my gaze, trapping me beneath his too-intense stare.
“We might be at the top royally.” Beside me, Wicker glances toward the back of the line, jerking his chin at someone. “But when it comes to the frat, he’s the one with sway.”
I follow his gaze to Tommy, just as he approaches us, giving me the stink eye. “Princess,” he all but sneers.
With Wicker at my side and Lex watching from across the room, I don’t even question the instinct to sneer back. “Asshole.”
She’d been so good the whole line, but now Effie latches right onto the word. “Asshole,” she snaps at Tommy.
Tommy scoffs, strutting into the ballroom without another glance back at us.
“Nice work,” Wicker says, hands folded primly behind his back. “A true diplomatic touch.”
I give Effie a stroke of solidarity. “That guy’s a fucking dildo.”
Effie squawks. “Fucking asshole,” and I wince. Pace is going to kill me.
“Tonight,” Wicker says, snagging a single-stemmed white rose from a passing tray, “he’s your opponent.” Wicker tucks the rose behind my ear, grinning. “To the victor, Red.”
God, I hate this guy.
Hate him.
From the second I sit down at his table, just me and him, he does nothing but glare at me. No barbed words. No insults. Just glares. All around us, the rest of the frat seems chilly but at least happy enough to indulge the pretense. I’ve already been to four tables and it was fine. Loeffler was stiff, but still greeted me. Baxter stumbled around a flaccid attempt at conversation about the nursery construction. Decker even shook my hand.
Not Tommy.
He sits in front of me with his arms crossed over his chest, looking like a sulking schoolboy. It’s a shame Pace took Effie back when the food was being served. She’d tell this prick what’s what.
He hasn’t even touched his food.
I get a good three minutes into this glaring contest before I break. “What is your problem?!”
His lips pull back into a menacing grin. “The email said I had to be here. It didn’t say I had to make conversation.”
I look over my shoulder, making sure none of my Princes are around before I hiss, “Why are you such a jerk?”
“Why are you such a bitch?” he snaps back.
“Maybe because my back hurts.” I lean against the back of the chair, trying to stretch out my spine. I’ve been on my feet all day trying to pull this whole thing off. “Or it could be that you’ve been nothing but an asshole to me since I stepped foot in East End! What’s your excuse?”
“Don’t pull the pregnancy card on me, Sinclaire.” His eyes shift wistfully from his empty glass to the bar across the room. “You really want to know?”
“Enlighten me.”
“You assaulted my girlfriend with a frying pan.”
I roll my eyes. “She tried to fuck my Prince.”
He looks distinctly unimpressed. “Everyone on the Court tries to fuck the Prince. It’s tradition. You’d know that if you belonged here.” The last part is laced with venom. Good. It’s time to hash this out.
“Well, where I come from, if a girl tries to fuck your man, you kick her ass.”
“Of course they do.” He snorts. “Barbarians.”
“Oh, I forgot,” I glare at him, “real class means strapping girls down and coming on their faces, right?”
“See, this is the problem.” He straightens up, resting his elbows on the table. “Heather, and all the other girls you took the title from, never would have been in the situation for a Royal Cleansing because they would have given anything to become Princess. And if they required punishment, they would have taken it with humility and grace. Everything with you is so goddamn dramatic. It’s all one fight after the other, and now you’ve got the Ashby brothers so cuntstunned they can’t fucking see straight.” The muscle in the back of his jaw tics. “If you don’t want to uphold the duties of Princess, the good and the bad, then maybe you should go back to your shitty West End gutter.”
That little speech does nothing to adjust my attitude toward him. In fact, I’m one step from going full Whitaker Ashby Gender Reveal tantrum on him, but instead of throwing cake, I quietly explain, “I’m not going back to West End. I’m the Princess and I’m carrying the heir to this kingdom, which means there’s no going back. Not for me, and not for you. So here’s what’s going to happen.” I take a deep breath and hope that Lex isn’t monitoring my blood pressure right now. “You’ve got ten seconds to look me in the eye and tell me what your goddamn problem is so we can fix this.”
He glares at me.
“Ten,” I start. “Nine. Eight…”
Finally, he snaps, “You’re the reason she left me.”
“Heather?” I ask, dumbfounded. “You’re really broken up about being dumped by the same girl who was trying to fuck Wicker a few months ago?”
“She’s on the Court,” he grinds out. “It’s trad?—”
“Tradition, yeah yeah.” I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “Look, I’m sorry Heather broke up with you.” From the aggressively skeptical scowl, it's obvious he’s not buying my apology. I insist, “I actually am. Believe me when I say there are no two people better suited for each other.”
“She blocked my texts,” he confesses, looking away. “And when I went by the house, she had one of the other girls tell me she wasn’t there, but her car was out front.”
I stare at him for a moment. “Have you tried anything else?”
“I’ve sent her flowers,” he growls, the vein in his temple popping. “Dozens upon fucking dozens of flowers. I bought her one of those diamond-studded coffee mugs that are impossible to find, a necklace that’s worth more than my car, and her favorite designer shoe in every color and sheen.”
“And nothing?”
“Not anything!” He throws his hands in the air. “No ‘thank you’. No ‘I missed you’. Nothing.”
I blink. “Tommy… that’s fucking amazing!”
“Amazing?” His eyes bug out. “I just saw her flirting with some fucking LDZ at the sorority mixer last weekend! She’s moving on. Or worse—rebounding. How is that amazing?”
It’s all I can do not to laugh. “It means she doesn’t want to be bought off.”
His expression scrunches in confusion. “She’s East End. They all want to be bought off.”
God, he’s so dumb. Are all men this dumb? I speak slowly. “Heather may like shiny things—you’re right, most of us do—but when you fuck up by coming on some other girl’s face with glee, it may require a little bit more. Especially when she wants you to prove you actually care about her.”
“What are you talking about?”
Leaning forward, I fix him with a firm look. “I’m going to do you a favor here, Tommy, and help you get Heather back.” I inhale sharply. “And in return, we’re burying this feud.”
His mouth turns down into a small pout. “You don’t know anything about her.”
“I know she’s a woman. More importantly, I know she’s a Forsyth woman.” His eyebrow lifts. “You have to speak the language of Forsyth.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you find that LDZ who was flirting with her,” I say simply, “and you beat him to a pulp.”
He scoffs. “That’s something a DKS would do.”
“Exactly.” I grin, explaining, “The Dukes may be a little rough around the edges and have no use for crystal stemware or caviar, but they understand fighting for what’s important. Is she?” I wonder. “Is she important to you?”
He answers aggressively. “Yes.”
Nodding, I continue, “Then trust me. Heather’s waiting to find out if she’s worth fighting for.” I look around the room, at the guys hesitantly milling around the room, unsure of their future. “And for what it’s worth, they’re waiting to find out if you think PNZ is worth fighting for, too.”
He glances around, finding Pace scowling at him from across the room. “They’re mutts,” he mumbles. “They shouldn’t have even been eligible to become Princes.”
“Well, they did,” I argue, trying not to snap. “And whether you want to believe it or not, no one in this room has earned the position more.”
Arms crossed, he sinks further in his chair. “I would have been a better Prince.”
It’s impossible to look at this imposing, ornery, moping figure before me and see anything more than an angry little boy. In fact, the more I look around me, I see it in most of them. Matt Kramus looks harried and uncomfortable, tugging at his collar. Loeffler hasn’t even glanced up from his phone since he sat down. I even see it in my own men, Wicker fidgeting with a fork so hard that he accidentally flings it into his champagne flute, the glass shattering.
Without missing a beat, he covers the mess with his napkin.
All this time, I’ve struggled between the dueling instincts to wear my role of Princess like a Duchess or an Ashby, but the truth has been staring me in the face the whole time.
These men don’t need a King.
They don’t need a Princess.
They need a mother.
“Theodore Loeffler!” I bark, watching the man in question flinch with his whole body. When his gaze jolts to mine, I command, “Put that phone away or I’m going to take it.”
His jaw drops. “But?—!”
“Now.” I channel my own mother, the look I give him brooking no argument. And then I turn to the man beside him. “Matt, please go help Rory with the plates.”
He gapes at me. “Why?”
“Because you’re bored and I asked nicely.” I lift my chin. “But mostly because I said so.”
There’s a long moment where he looks around, assessing the others, and I get this notion that we’re on the edge of a knife. Are we obeying her? his expression asks.
Ultimately, he huffs, “Fine,” and the tension falls out of me like a sack of bricks. For the first time this afternoon, I turn to the man in front of me and don’t feel intimidated one bit. “Tommy, eat your lunch.”
He pulls a face. “I don’t like chicken.”
“Then why didn’t you get the salmon?” When all he does is shrug, I roll my eyes, reaching out to slide his plate to my place setting. “I’ll take this. Go get another plate.”
Still, he argues, “I’m not hungry.”
This man’s sulking could put Whitaker Ashby to shame.
“Two bites. That’s all I’m asking.” I say, the threat clear in my voice. “If you still don’t like it, then fine.”
To my amazement, he heeds it, even if it’s done with a sharp, annoyed groan. The next time I look over at his plate, the salmon and chicken, are clean.
All bark, no bite.
Who knew?
Things go a lot smoother after that. I go around the room, digging my fist into the aching small of my back as I make sure everyone’s getting enough to eat. It’s so much easier than trying to be King Ashby or Lavinia Lucia, imagining what my mother would say to Baxter, who’s got a hacking cough.
Stopping at his table, I don’t bother asking as I put the back of my hand to his forehead, cringing. “You’re burning up, Dory! Why aren’t you at home, resting up?”
His bleary eyes blink up at me, a frown etched in his brow. “The invitation said it was mandatory.” The words are said in a ragged voice, and the more I look at him, the more I see how frayed he is, nose glowing red.
“Come on,” I sigh, motioning at Lex. “Let’s put some meds into you and get you home.”
His mouth goes slack. “Really?” When all I do is shoo him from his seat, he slumps away with a hoarse, “Thanks, Princess.”
It’d be a lie to say they warm up to me. Wicker was right about that much; it’d take years to get into each guy’s good graces. But he was wrong about Tommy being the only way. Maybe I don’t need to be liked.
Maybe I just need to be respected.
As I’m in the powder room scrubbing Baxter’s germs from my hands, rolling this concept around in my head, I’m startled by the sudden pounding of feet passing through the hallway to the foyer.
When I duck my head out, almost getting pelted by the blur of Rory whizzing by, I see Pace and Ballsack rushing out the front door. “What’s going on?” I ask, barely catching Rory before he’s followed them out.
“That FBI agent is at the gate,” he says, face pale, winded. “And he’s got half of the fucking police force with him.”
My stomach sinks, a million thoughts rushing through my mind. We should have killed Ashby, comes a little voice that sounds a lot like Wicker. If they search the palace, we’re all screwed.
Stomach churning, I follow Rory outside, realizing that most of the frat—my Princes included—are already at the gate, arguing with Agent Knight.
“—no jurisdiction here,” Pace is fuming, Lex looking annoyed beside him.
“Oh, we just heard there was a party going on,” the Agent says, glancing at my approach. He’s smacking on a piece of gum, carelessly tossing his jacket over the hood of the cruiser parked up against the gate. “Don’t worry, though. We brought a present and everything—something you’ve been wanting for a long time.” He lifts his clipboard, offering Pace a chilly grin. “A warrant.”
I can practically feel the blood draining from my face, and when I reach out, tangling a searching hand in Pace’s shirt, I can sense the tension vibrating off him in waves.
But he’s perfectly calm as he reaches through the bars to take the paper, his dark eyes glancing over the words. “Not for the palace,” he says.
Lex exhales, leaning over to give the warrant a closer look. “Wait. This is for…”
“Eugene Warren,” the agent calls out, gaze seeking behind us. “You’re wanted for questioning in the disappearances of Stella St. James and Laura Walker. You’re going to come with us.”
“This is bullshit,” Lex starts, “you’ve got nothing on him.”
“Unfortunately, I do,” Knight hisses, getting into Lex’s face. He’s tall, similar in height to Lex, and when they’re next to each other like this, it’s clear that the agent’s broad shoulders and rigid frame are ripped with muscle. “And while I’ve been working this case, I’ve been learning a lot about this little town and its history of violence. I’ve been reading about a very similar murder spree that happened two decades ago. Ever hear of that?” He asks, then answers himself quickly. “A serial killer dubbed the ‘Forsyth Carver’. A man who slaughtered girls in much the same way. Seems a little coincidental.”
The muscle in Lex’s jaw tightens as he bites out. “The Carver is dead.”
Knight nods. “Maybe we have a copycat. Someone who has something to prove? Or maybe someone with the same genetic makeup is back at it again.”
“If you’re implying something, spit it out, Knight.”
“Just spitballing. Stranger things have happened.” The Agent glances over his shoulder and commands, “Let’s do this, boys!”
In unison, officers begin exiting their cruisers, swinging the doors open and standing. Just standing. But the threat of force is unmistakable, and when Pace glances over his shoulder, I follow his gaze, finding Ballsack at the back of the parting crowd. He looks hunted and angry, two fists jamming into his pockets as he stalks toward the gate.
“He hasn’t done anything,” I argue, swinging my glare at the agent. “And he doesn’t know anything either.”
Knight shrugs, looking far too pleased as Pace slams his hand down on the button to open the gate. “Then he has nothing to worry about.”
“It’s fine, Verity,” Ballsack says, lifting his chin. “Maybe it’ll even help.”
The stone in my gut says otherwise, and Pace must feel the same way, because he grabs his arm and commands, “Say nothing. Not one fucking word. You have your rights.”
“Let’s go, Warren,” Knight says, and two of the cops approach him, grabbing him roughly by the collar and bicep. “Can’t wait to hear how you explain this away.”
“Pace is right,” Lex calls out, expression grim at the way Eugene is being handled. “Keep your mouth shut and your fists clean. We’ll call Perilini.”
He’s shoved in the back of a patrol car, and they’re gone as fast as they arrived, dust blowing up as their tires race off the bridge. Lex is already on the phone, storming back to the palace, but Pace reels me to him, his hand resting on top of my belly. “He’s smart,” Pace says. “He won’t say anything stupid.”
I turn into him, face pressed against his strong chest, and can’t help but worry. Eugene has been by my side ever since my first week in East End. He’s seen the good, the bad, and the ugliest of it all, and just like Stella, he’s never once wavered. These are people who have helped me claim my own power.
So why am I so powerless to help them?