Chapter 11
11
Pace
It’s raining when I drive us out of there.
The dark path from the House of Night to North Side might as well be a mud pit by the time we reach the highway. I mutter curses as I struggle through the downpour, lightning cracking in the distance, but it all feels distant and dull.
Beside me, Wicker is a mess.
He doesn’t say as much, but he doesn’t need to. He still has that discomfiting stillness about him, and he doesn’t speak. Not one fucking word. Not even to argue about me driving his precious car.
The fist constricting around my lungs doesn’t let up until we reach East End, with its sparkling lights and well-kept roads. It might be the first time I’ve ever thought of it as home, deep down inside. A magnet drawing me back to the chimney stacks in the distance.
When we arrive, I cut the engine, the sound of rain pelting the roof of the car a stark contrast to the silence within.
In my periphery, I see Wicker’s lips part with a halted breath. And then, “I flirted with him.” When I glance over, his expression is twisted into a disbelieving grimace. “I hit on my brother?”
I wait until he meets my gaze to lift an eyebrow.
He blinks. “Yeah, okay, that actually tracks.”
I don’t bother rushing inside, letting the rain soak me as Wicker whizzes past, his jacket tugged up over his head. I already know what’s waiting. He’d texted them before we left the chapel, something short and lacking the weight it deserved, I’m sure.
By the time I reach my room on the second floor, they’re already assembled there around the monitors, Lex and Verity, and a restless Wicker.
“Wait.” Rosi’s green eyes are wide as they track Wicker’s pacing form. “Just… wait.”
“Are you sure?” Lex asks, forehead creased with skepticism. I get it. It’s mind-blowing.
“You’re welcome to do a DNA test,” Wicker says, throwing off the jacket. “I suspect you have his sample.”
Lex is watching Wicker much the same way Verity is, like he’s trying to find the resemblance. “I can… get his sample,” he says, casting a strange glance at her.
“Wait,” Rosi says again, this time holding up a hand. “Remy is really your brother?”
Scowling down at his feet, Wicker corrects, “Half-brother. Same mother. Different son-of-a-bitch fathers.”
“If the test confirms it.” Lex is trying to sound like there’s an alternative, but I think we all know Maddox was telling the truth. Regardless, he shoots to his feet, headed straight for the door. “I need to get to the lab and confirm this.”
I watch him rush out, because Lex can’t confront something like this without hard data and concrete facts. But what would it matter, really? We’ve been floating in a sea, untethered by biological chains for as long as any of us can remember.
But not Wicker.
Not anymore.
I aim for the bottom drawer of my desk, shoulders tight as Verity approaches him.
“Look at me.” She grabs his face by the cheeks, twisting it this way and that. She’s so pretty tonight, already in her nightgown, the swell of her stomach more pronounced than ever.
Thirty weeks.
Coconut.
She looks infuriatingly awed as she inspects him. “This is just… wow. Okay. Wow! I can kind of see it. You have his chin.” I clutch desperately for the bottle of rum hidden in the back, finding it so close to being empty that I barely get more than a swig.
Wicker balks. “Maybe he has my chin.”
She steps back, still gaping. “How didn’t I see it?”
“No fucking clue, Red.” He turns his mouth into her hand, pressing a kiss against her palm.
“Remy doesn’t even know, does he?” But before Wicker can answer, she gasps in delight, framing her stomach with two sprawling palms. “Oh my god, that means Remy’s his uncle!”
Crash.
The rum bottle slams against the floor, the explosion of glass so loud that Effie’s panicked flaps and squawks ring out from behind the sheet covering her cage.
“Can we please,” I say through gritted teeth, “shut the fuck up about Remy?”
It only takes one glance at Verity’s ashen face to make me regret it. “What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I lie, kicking at a shard of glass.
But Wicker’s always had my number, and right now, he’s glaring at me in astonishment. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
I fling an arm out, gesturing to Rosi. “It’s bad enough the Dukes claim our Princess as family, but sure. Why not? They can have my brother and your kid, too.” Sneering, I add, “Hell, let’s call Lex back and arrange a marriage. Then all of you can live happily ever fucking after in that death trap of a clock tower.”
Verity’s face falls. “Oh, Pace, it’s not?—”
But Wicker is marching up to me, growling, “You jealous freak! You’re more of a brother to me than any fucking West Ender will ever be. Blood or not.” His nostrils flare with outrage, but I’m too frayed to care.
“He doesn’t even know you, and now what? In the span of an hour, he’s your brother?” I swing my glare on a stunned Verity, hating the way my voice cracks. “Our baby is more related to Remy than me?” I hiss, “It’s not fucking fair.”
“I know.” Wicker’s face softens in a way that hurts, but he doesn’t back away. “Pace, it doesn’t matter.”
I burst, “Bullshit, it doesn’t matter! We all like to say that—to feel it—but I saw the way you looked when Maddox told you. When we don’t have blood ties, it doesn’t matter.” I take a ragged inhale. “But when we do… it matters, Wick.”
Suddenly, Verity is there beside us, her eyes—a shade of green I could pick out of a lineup—pin me with a defiant stare. “We’re still more yours than anyone else’s. Me, Lex, Wicker,” snagging my hand, she rests it on the swell of her belly, “and the baby.”
She can’t mean that.
There’s no paper to tell Lex the data.
There’s no shiny secret about it, traded to Wick in a dark, dusty room.
There’s no long, entwined, shared history with her.
All the anger has rushed out of me, leaving a heavy, hollow feeling. “I’m not a creator,” I tell her, unable to shake this abrupt awareness that her son has nothing of me. “All I have to offer any of you is… this.” I nod at the monitors, thinking of long nights spent watching over them all, knowing this is my place.
Lex is the body.
Wick is the blood.
I’m just the empty, watching eyes.
She follows my gaze, mouth going slack. “Is that why you’ve been so on edge these past few months? Pace, you’re more to us than just the security guy.” She turns to me, the look on her face so achingly sincere that it makes my gut clench. “You’re my Prince.” Resting her hand over mine, she insists, “You’re his father.”
Wicker’s looking at me like I just slapped him in the face. “You’re my brother.”
I hear the words, but I can’t reach them. Can’t feel them. The panic is rolling like a rogue wave through my veins. “We only work as a family because we don’t have anyone else,” I tell him. It’s how it’s always been. We’re the discarded remnants of Royal flukes. Stones that have been eroded into misshapen fragments that somehow lock together.
“Wick,” Verity whispers, brimming eyes sliding to him. “Show him.”
Before I can wonder how he could even begin, he has a handful of my shirt collar, hauling me into him. It’s closer to a punch than a kiss, his mouth slamming into mine. There’s an edge of pain, and then a familiar warmth, his tongue demanding against mine.
Without having to think about it, I grab his face in response, meeting his kiss with the sort of aggression I’d never inflict on Verity. It’s bruising and consuming, and when Wicker tears himself away, his eyes burn like fire.
“You’re right,” he says, bending to pull that knife from his boot. “Blood matters.”
The sight of him cutting into his wrist is somehow more confusing than the kiss, although it shouldn’t be. How many times have the three of us done this? Promises and pacts—on my blood—it’s the first part of Wicker’s Baron heritage he ever embraced.
I stand still as he grabs my hand, exposing the ladder of scars made in dark, quiet places. These were etched to track the passage of time, and grasping my wrist, Wicker bisects them with a clean cut. “Family, always.”
I barely feel the sting.
Verity gasps, watching as he clutches my forearm, the wounds meeting.
“On our blood,” Wicker says, which isn’t how the promise goes. It’s supposed to be made on his blood. On Lex’s blood.
On our blood?
Swallowing, I grasp his forearm, knowing it’s a stupid ritual. A Baron ritual. A ritual Lex has always hated but tolerated.
But it’s still ours.
“On our blood,” I promise, squeezing.
The only thing that breaks me away from his gaze is the flash of crimson I see in my periphery. Immediately, I drop Wick’s hand, sucking in a sharp hiss. “What the fuck are you doing?” I knock Wicker’s knife out of Verity’s hand, wondering when she even took it.
The blood trickles down her pale skin—shallow cut, thank fuck—but when I snatch her wrist, she just turns it in my grip, those obstinate green eyes trapping mine. “This is how it goes, right? Now our blood is yours?”
When she strains up to brush our lips together, my fingers flutter over the curve of her belly. “Don’t,” I whisper when we break away, resting my forehead against hers. “Don’t take him away from me.” She doesn’t ask who I’m talking about—our son or Wicker, maybe even Lex too—which is good, because I couldn’t give an answer.
I just know that I’m nothing without all four of them.
She responds by touching my cheek, the scent of blood and old rain heady in the air between us. “Never.” She breathes, “On our blood.”
I can feel Wicker’s hungry energy beside us, this strange crackle I’m used to grazing the edge of my nerves. I’m not even surprised when he swoops in, taking Verity’s mouth in a long, indulgent kiss.
He’d never admit it, but nothing makes him hornier than high emotions.
I wonder if she tastes me in his mouth, the way we mingle and settle, and the thought shudders through me like a quake. Maybe that’s my own touch of madness, this inability to feel part of someone unless I’ve left a piece of me inside them.
Pulling back, Verity rakes her teeth over her plush lower lip. “Now him,” she says, hooded eyes shifting to me.
I don’t get a chance to enjoy the spark of excitement in her eyes because Wicker instantly turns, dragging me into a hard, slick kiss. It’s a dichotomy that becomes more of a buzz than the rum had given me, the contrast of her soft curves and Wicker’s sharp angles.
My dick could cut glass.
“Which one of us, you think?” I rumble, both our gazes falling on Verity. She likes it. Likes watching us. It’s clear as day in the glaze of her eyes, the flush that’s running down her neck. If she only knew some of the shit we’ve gotten up to together…
“‘One fuck per day’ rule,” I remind him.
Wicker makes a low, rough sound, reaching out to sweep her long locks of red hair over a shoulder, exposing her pulse point. He sees it, too. “For her, maybe. But me?” He glances at me, eyebrow ticking up. “I can have as many as I want.”
There’s a question in his eyes, cocky but somehow still careful, like he doesn't want to spook me with the suggestion.
In front of us, Verity stammers, “Oh, y-y-you mean…” She gestures between the two of us, eyelids growing heavier. “Oh,” she says, and then, “Oh, god, yes.”
Wicker’s on her instantly, pushing her onto the couch. “You like the thought of that, don’t you?” he asks, nudging in between her legs. “Pace inside of me while I’m inside of you?” Wicker’s never been shy about carnal things, and he’s not shy about this—the thought of me fucking him.
Her chest heaves with want, fingers scrabbling to bring him closer. “Please,” she begs.
For the first time, I really regret not having a bed, although it doesn’t worsen the view much. Wicker and Verity are a fucking sight. His long limbs and her blushing skin. His muscles and her curves. The way Wicker’s slender fingers look as they push down the shoulder of her nightgown, stretching it over a soft, swollen tit. His rough groan as he palms her, and her musical moan as she arches into it.
They’re the picture of creation.
I’m so drunk on the thought that I don’t even see who takes off Wicker’s shirt. I just know that he’s suddenly miles of warm, bare flesh, and impatiently tearing off her gown. “Pace,” he’s panting, mouthing at one of her peaked, rosy nipples. “You’ve got about ten seconds to make a choice before I’m balls-deep here.”
That’s all I need to kick my body into gear, shucking off my shirt as I approach them.
I don’t know who to go for first or where I even fit in. This thing where Wicker and I reach out to each other for pleasure or connection… it’s something we’ve done as horny teens and rowdy frat boys. We’re men now, whether we like it or not. Princes. Fathers.
Things changed today when Maddox revealed the truth.
If I’m the empty, watching eyes, then my fingers are lost, wondering where they belong. In the end, it’s her hand that finds mine, dragging me onto the couch beside them. The moment Wick releases the peak of a full tit, I swoop in to taste her, licking down the elegant column of her neck to follow the vivid flush downward.
She squirms when I latch onto her nipple, her finger threading through my twists, and I can feel where Wick is touching her, getting her pussy ready for him with these low, soft moans.
I have to brace a knee against the cushions to get to Wicker’s neck, burying a teeth-heavy kiss into the curve of his shoulder.
He emits a deep, impatient sound, thrusting against Verity, but just as soon as they make contact, he’s fumbling between their bodies and undoing his fly. In a show of determined skill, Wicker manages to be the first one actually naked, flashing me a wicked smirk as he kicks his jeans across the floor.
“Don’t pretend you don’t have lube in your bottom drawer.”
Shrugging, I say, “Who’s pretending?” and tear myself away from her clutching hands to find it.
As I’m rummaging around in there, I hear Wicker enter her, Verity’s breaths escalating into rapid gasps. When I turn, he’s got her spread wide in the middle of the couch, his hands braced on the back.
“Fuck,” I breathe, reaching down to squeeze myself through my jeans. There’s something about her spread like this, her belly big and round. I don’t know what I want to do first, kiss her stomach, or her pussy, touch his hair, or every inch of his skin. She’s gorgeous, laid out just for the two of us. He’s gorgeous, like he’s always been.
The light hits the contours of Wick’s back, highlighting the sinewy muscles that ripple as he seats himself inside her. His sculpted frame is a testament to disciplined power, each subtle shift revealing the harmony between muscle and bone. The parentheses of her slender, creamy thighs invite him inside, and it's gotta be true what they say about pregnancy because she's glowing. Radiant. Her glittering fingernails dig into the flesh of his back. The sight is a blend of raw masculinity and refined beauty as she throws her head back into the cushion, mouth gaping on a sweet, pleading cry.
“Come closer.”
Maybe it’s meant for me, maybe it’s not. Either way, it’s like some part of myself is completely incapable of not going to her, my fingers working my pants open and shoving them down my legs. She beckons me to her, and takes my length in her hands, stroking up and down.
Fuck.
It’s then that I realize Wicker isn’t moving; his muscles coiled tight as he hovers there, and his head drops between his shoulders.
“Hey,” I tell him, pushing up against his back to speak the words into his ear. “Give her something, brother.”
Still, I’m the one to reach around him, pushing my thumb into her folds.
When I find her clit, Verity’s green eyes squinch tight. “Oh, god, Pace!” She bucks up into it, causing Wicker to shudder. “That feels incredible.”
“She’s so fucking tight,” he hisses, hips giving a tense nudge. “How do you stand it?”
It’s then I realize what he’s doing—what he’s asking. “When we fall asleep, you mean?” Grinning, I open the lube one-handed, getting my fingers slick for him as I work her clit with my thumb. “That tightness, the way she gets so wet for it, how her pussy sort of… flutters and clenches…” I reach between Wick and I, spreading his cheeks. “Fuck, sometimes that feels better than coming.”
I punctuate this by sliding my forefinger into his ass, enjoying the way he tenses up—just for a split second—before completely melting into it.
“That’s how I do it,” I rumble, meeting Verity’s gaze. “Isn’t it, Rosi?”
She never actually lost her nightgown. It’s just pushed under her breasts and above her belly, this long ribbon of gossamer holding her down. Her long eyelashes brush her rosy cheeks when she asks, “What are you doing?”
The question is so soft, so innocently curious, that my lips twitch.
“I’m fingering his ass,” I answer, the bluntness of it making Wicker snort. “Stretching him open so he can take my cock, the same way I stretch your pussy.”
Verity’s eyes widen, landing on him. “You like it?” she asks, reaching up to touch his jaw.
Wicker leans into the touch, the move pushing his ass closer to me. “Don’t you?”
She doesn’t take much time to think about it. “Yes. Thick and warm. Safe.”
Navigating the presence of her growing belly is getting more and more complicated, but Wicker somehow manages it, curling over her to lick at the seam of her lips. “Pace has impeccable fingerwork,” he husks. I accept the compliment with the addition of a third finger, indulging myself in the rough groan he makes.
Dragging a lip through her teeth, she catches my gaze. “I know he does.” For a moment, it’s like she and I are in sync, her hips writhing with every thrust of my fingers into Wicker. I can tell she’s getting hotter and hotter for it, beads of sweat springing up on Wick’s forehead as I get him nice and open for me.
She knows the moment I pull my fingers away, something in her eyes sparking with anticipation. “Look at me,” she rushes out, grabbing Wicker’s face. Her mouth lingers against his, green eyes capturing him. “I wanna see your face when he fills you up.”
There’s a pause where her request sinks in.
At the same time, in the same ragged voice, Wicker and I both exclaim, “Jesus fucking Christ.”
I have my cock slicked up before the groans even clip off.
In the past, fucking around with Wicker has always been good. Sometimes fine. Other times great. But when I sink into his tight ring of muscle, our bodies linked, watching Verity’s expression transform from intrigue to utter fucking lustful abandon…
It’s all I can do not to bust right then and there.
Our relationship is no longer just about one another, it’s this—the bond—that ties us together. Our bodies; slick and wet. The baby; ours.
“Fuck,” he spits, hands curling into fists against the leather. “It may be too much, brother.”
“Don’t fight it,” she says, her voice soft as she soothes him through the invasion. “Let him in.” Wick takes a deep breath, giving me room to take another inch. “He’s big, isn’t he?”
“Not as big as me,” he says, even though I can feel how tightly strung he is. “But he’ll do.”
Scoffing, I slide in deeper, satisfied when he drops his head into the curve of her neck. “Oh,” he mutters, a tremor going through him, “goddamn.”
Verity’s glazed eyes lock on mine, her fingers fluttering through his blonde hair. “Be nice,” she chides, even though her mouth is tipped up in a little smirk.
It isn’t like with Verity, where all I want to do is stay inside and hold and possess. With Wicker, I just want to fuck.
The first punch of my hips doesn’t make it any better.
He grunts, the muscles in his back flexing, while Verity whines.
I run a palm down the span of his spine with one hand while the other seeks out her ankle, guiding it to my hip. She immediately catches on, her long, elegant legs winding around me and Wick as if we were one, writhing entity.
And that’s exactly what we become.
I roll my hips into his, which rolls his hips into her. It might be the first time I’ve ever felt truly spoiled, having the two of them, so achingly beautiful, under my mercy. I grab Wicker’s hips and fuck him just the way I know he likes—deep and forceful—and in response, he fucks Verity in the same way, my movements dictating his.
The spot of skin below his nape is salty when I taste it, the sweat building between us. It’s not the best angle, but I wouldn’t know it from the sounds Wicker is making, deep and body-wracking. It’s all-consuming.
“How….” Verity is gasping, “how does it feel?”
The backs of Wicker’s ears go a vivid pink. He doesn’t blush for just anything. “Like he’s filling every part of me,” he grits, a particular wildness to his words. He touches her neck, fingers splayed against her flushed skin. “It feels like he’s giving it to me so I can give it to you.”
Some spark of excitement in Verity’s expression collapses into desperation. “Because you're ours,” she says, plucking a wet kiss from his parted lips. “Aren’t you?”
“I’m…” Wicker stutters, reaching back to clutch my thigh. “Fuck. Fuck, Pace, I’m going to?—”
“Wait,” I grunt, reaching around to hold him. My mouth slides against the curve of his cheek. “Come with us.”
I already know it won’t take much for Verity, but I still reach between them to find her clit, beckoning her closer to the precipice. From my vantage, I can just barely catch the pinch of his brow as she seizes, the first wave of my orgasm slamming into me. I use the force to punch into him, holding him there as my cock surges.
Wicker’s eyes fly open, locking with Verity’s. “Oh, fuck,” he gasps, grabbing her chin to find her gaze. “I can feel it. Both of you. It’s—fuck!”
I know he’s coming just by the feel of it, his ass clenching around me as he empties into her. She rises up, the best she can with her belly pushed between them, and captures my mouth with hers. The kiss is long and lazy, tongue sweeping around mine, and I feel the press of Wick’s lips against my throat.
“Hey,” he says, once we’ve cleaned Verity up and taken her to bed. She dozes off instantly, her body curled between us. “We’re always brothers, you know that, right?”
I turn, seeking out his gaze in the dim light. “Yeah, I do.”
“What the three of us went through together, no one takes that away. Not a King,” he quirks an eyebrow, “and definitely not a fucking Duke.”
Nodding, I say, “I know. It just got under my skin for a second.”
He leans back into the pillow, body shifting to look at me. “Hey, I just realized something.” At my questioning hum, he adds, “You haven’t checked security once since we got back.”
“Huh.” I wait for the panic to hit, the stress and worry, the compulsive need to just go check, but it doesn’t come. I’m met with an unfamiliar sensation buried deep in my chest. It’s warm and lax and void of fear.
I think it might be contentment.
Even though I’m exhausted, both mentally and physically, I don’t fall asleep when they do. We’re in the main bedroom now and Verity’s curled into my side, her hand on my stomach, using me as a body pillow. Wick’s on her other side, face buried into the back of her neck.
I watch them, feeling somewhat foolish at my insecurities, but a part of me understands that’s the result of Father’s parenting. Being his discarded sons—it’s the thing that brought us together. It’s all we know. We wear the name Ashby like a badge, but we feel it like a wound.
After he’s gone, there’ll be nothing else.
Nothing but this.
I flatten my palm over the baby, making a mental promise never to do to him what Father did to us—making us feel unfit in our skin. I stay that way until the sound of Lex’s footsteps draw my eyes to the door. He lingers there for a long moment, his eyes sweeping over the bed, quiet and assessing. Somehow he always knows. I wouldn’t put it past him to have stayed downstairs longer, just to give us some time.
“Is it true?” I ask before he crosses the threshold.
“Yes.” He answers, eyes darkening. “But it doesn’t change anything.”
“I guess not.” I stroke Verity’s hair. Blood and last names mean everything in Forsyth, but neither can touch this. The way she chases my touch, even in sleep. How Wicker chases her, a divot digging into his brow. The twitch of Lex’s fingers as he watches him, like he’s anxious to get into bed alongside us. “They’re still ours,” I finally accept.
“They are,” he agrees, so easily, as if it’d never occurred to him otherwise.
I can’t imagine feeling that certain about anything. “How did you get it?” At his questioning stare, I elaborate, “Remington’s DNA sample.”
I’m expecting to hear something really elaborate, like the roach of the blunt we smoked that night Nick Bruin almost got killed, or rummaging through a trash bin for a soda can.
“I didn’t.” Lex shrugs. “I got all their samples.”
I blink, taking this in, and realize he means all the Dukes. “How the fuck did—” And then, it hits me. “Oh, shit.”
Not just the Dukes.
“The annual blood drive,” he says, reaching up to tug off his shirt. “Hundreds of West End samples, ripe for the taking.” He looks pretty proud of it too, smirking. “I have a near complete database of the West End bloodlines.”
Everything about last month finally makes sense. Lex agreeing to do that blood drive, all the work in setting up, the cooperation and pretense…
I glance down at Rosi, still sound asleep. “She’s not going to like that.”
“Why not?” Lex wonders, tossing his shirt over the settee. “Forsyth is a fucking mess. Knowing the bloodlines and where they lead will solve a lot of problems.”
My brother is like this sometimes, unable to understand why emotion and logic aren’t always the best mix. I keep my voice low, afraid of waking her. “She thinks you’re all buddy-buddy with them now, but you actually just used her trip to West End to trick her family.”
Holy fuck.
She is going to flip her shit.
He frowns, head snapping back. “It wasn’t like that. I saw an opportunity and decided to make the most of it.”
“She won’t see it that way. She’ll think you betrayed them.”
He corrects, “I saved them.” At the look I give him, grave and unimpressed, he stresses, “It’s not like I’m going to use it against them!” Although there’s a strain in his voice.
My eyes narrow. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Deflating, he begins emptying his pockets. Glasses, keys, wallet. He looks tired too, bags beneath his eyes. “I figured we didn’t need any more surprises, so I checked the results of your DNA against the bones in the solarium.”
Remembering him taking that swab weeks ago, a spike of anxiety hits my chest. “And?”
“There’s no match.” He watches me closely, a worried tilt to his mouth. “I don’t know whether to say I’m sorry or congratulations.”
It’s not the answer, but it’s an answer. “Thanks for checking.”
But he watches me, amber eyes searching mine. “You were upset before,” he says, glancing at Verity and Wick. “Because of Maddox?” But then he shakes his head, guessing, “Because of Remy.”
“He’s Wick’s brother. And the baby,” I say, resting my palm over the curve of her belly. “He’s his uncle.”
There’s a stretch of silence, and I’m sure Lex is going to give me some lecture about how all families are complicated, and how it doesn’t have to mean we can’t all get along.
Instead, he looks at me, his mouth set into a grim line, and quietly declares, “He’s a douchebag.”
An abrupt laugh bursts from my chest that almost wakes her. The weariness I’ve been fighting off all day settles over me, and I yawn. “It’s late. Come to bed.”
“Scoot over,” he says, yanking the band out of his hair and letting it fall over his shoulders. The mattress sinks next to me and he shucks off his pants before turning off the light. Lex has never been a cuddler, but tonight he throws his arm around my waist, and I feel the heat of his breath on my shoulder. Out of the darkness, he says, “The closer we get to removing Father, the more darts will come our way. People will try to dismantle us. Keep us unsteady. Make us question ourselves. But the one thing Father did was teach us that no matter what danger is coming our way, we protect one another because we’re family.” His fingers press down on my hip. “Wick loves you, Pace. I love you. Verity trusts you. And god, that baby is going to be so goddamn lucky to have you as one of his fathers.”
It may be the longest, most sentimental speech I’ve ever heard him say.
“I need you to promise me something,” I say, voice low. Wicker can’t hear this. “Something that’s been bothering me since Maddox dropped his bomb.”
His forehead creases. “What?”
“Under no circumstances, in no lifetime, will my son be a goddamn gutter-trash boxer, understand?”
He grins, silent laughter shaking the bed, but in the dark, I see the shadow of his fist extended toward mine. “Agreed. I’ll go to the death to ensure it.”