Chapter 14
14
Verity
Ballsy passes through the palace gates, giving a quick nod to Matt Kramus. He’s been quiet ever since he returned to East End, probably a little shell-shocked after spending forty-eight hours being interrogated by Agent Knight. Thankfully, Sy was able to get one of Saul’s former attorneys to get him released. According to Sy, it turns out the arrest warrant had nothing to do with Stella or any of the other girls. That was bullshit. It was a simple bench warrant for failing to appear in traffic court six months ago. Since the FBI had no actual evidence that Ballsack had anything to do with the girls’ disappearance, and the bench warrant was easily taken care of once he got in front of a judge, they had to release him.
Even after being out for days now, he still looks tired. He could be in West End laying low, except he wants to stay busy, so when he showed up to take me to the shower, I wasn’t surprised. Concerned, but not surprised. “Ballsy,” I start, “you don’t have to do this. Any one of the guys can take me, and I don’t expect there will be any trouble. Not with Mama there, and?—”
“I need to ask a favor,” he blurts, “but you have to promise not to put any attention on yourself.”
I take in the stiff way he holds onto the steering wheel. The tight muscles in his neck. “Not sure I can promise that. I’m roughly the size of a planet.”
He sighs, but goes on, “Remy’s cousin called late last night, and that girl they found by the river? The dean’s niece?” He glances over. “She’s going to be initiated as the new Baroness in the next few days.”
I freeze, taking this in. Classes start back up in a week so I was expecting a new Royal stock. “Well, that can’t be a coincidence, can it? What have you found out so far?”
Pace has been shut-lipped about the whole thing, which is probably because every time I think of her, the sick feeling that’s hovered over me since we found those bones in the solarium threatens to rise up the back of my throat.
I think of Odette. Or Amber Maddox. Posey Payne. Not all women who go missing are dead. Some are still missing. Others are hospitalized or in prison. I rest my hand on my stomach, relieved, not for the first time, that I’m carrying a boy and not a girl.
Although, I know firsthand that boys get hurt in Forsyth, too.
“We talked to the two kids who found her,” he begins. “They were fishing that morning on the river, way out in the northern section.”
“It’s all forest out there, right?”
He nods. “They said she washed up completely unconscious. They thought she was a corpse at first, but one of them—some kind of fucking Eagle Scout or whatever—gave her CPR while the other called for help.”
The hard line carved into his forehead makes me ask, “What aren’t you telling me? You know I can handle it.”
He shakes his head, huffing. “I know you can, it’s just the way the boys described her. Like she’d been running for days. Makes it hard to pin down direction or territory.”
That nauseous feeling from before intensifies. “Did anyone say anything else?”
“Not anything we don’t already know about Arianette Hexley.” Shrugging, he elaborates. “Nineteen-year-old black female, sophomore, pretty, related to the Dean of Admissions. All fairly surface-level details.”
The Gilded Rose comes into view. “So what makes everyone sure she’s connected to the other disappearances? She could have just fallen into the river, right? Or gotten lost. Or been a victim of something domestic.”
“There were indicators,” he says carefully.
“What kind?” I ask, needing to know.
“Implications she’d been held against her will. She was emaciated and covered in bruises. There were ligature marks around her wrists. Her knees had sores on them, and her feet… they looked like she hadn’t been wearing shoes.”
“She ran through the forest barefoot?” I wince. There’s something barbaric about it, stripping a person of their basic needs. “Honestly, if Ashby wasn’t locked in the basement and the Princes weren’t sleeping in my bed every night, I’d accuse them. Sounds like torture.”
He grunts, but we both know this isn’t the Princes’ work. Too sloppy and they’re too preoccupied.
“There was something else. A wound just behind her ear.” He touches the spot. “She’d been embedded with a tracker but it was removed. No idea how long she had it or who put it there.”
It’s common knowledge the Royals track their House Girls. Lionel Lucia and his penchant for sex trafficking set that into motion, but this girl was young, and not affiliated with any house or territory as far as I know.
His mouth forms a tense line. “But if she’s told that FBI agent anything of actual value, they haven’t been acting on it. The radios and the wires are suspiciously quiet. No one except me has been brought in for questioning.”
My emotions rise and fall like I'm riding over the crests and dips of a roller coaster. Everyone’s been interested in her story, but not like me, Pace, and Ballsy. A survivor’s witness account has to be a huge break in Agent Knight’s case.
So why hasn’t anything come of it?
That’s when it hits me. “The Barons. They have her under lock and key.”
“Even more than usual.” Face drawn, Ballsy pulls into the drive that leads to the Gilded Rose. “Pace and I can’t get to her to ask her any questions.”
I frown. “So where does the favor come in?”
Throwing the car into park, he turns to me. “Regina Thorn.”
“Last year’s Baroness?”
He gestures to the building in front of us. “She’s going to be at this thing.”
Slowly, I say, “Oh.”
“We need to know what the Baroness’ initiation is. Maybe there’s some way we can get to her. Just,” he stresses, “to ask her about what happened to her.”
“So you want me to pump Regina for intel,” I wager, shrugging. “No problem.”
His eyes grow intense. “You have to be careful, though. I won’t risk a sister to save a girlfriend. You understand? Plus,” he shifts uncomfortably, “if your Princes find out I even asked you to do this, my nickname would become strictly symbolic.”
My face softens. “I understand.”
“It does make me wonder…” He turns his gaze to the building, grimacing. “I mean, I know it’s not any of my business, but what are you going to do once classes start back up?”
This is easy to answer. “I’m taking the semester off.”
He pins me with a look. “I mean as Princess. The masquerade should be gearing up in the next week. New Princess, new Princes?—”
I cut him off. “We’re not doing that.”
“No?”
“A new Princess isn’t chosen until the birth of the baby. The next masquerade is scheduled for the winter—just like mine.”
“And you’re okay with that? Another Princess? Another coronation?”
The expression on his face tells me he knows well enough what I went through, and what the next woman will go through as well.
“Let me get through this party and the birth of my son.” I open the door. “Then we’ll figure out what to do next.”
It’s been forty-five minutes since I walked in the doors of the Gilded Rose, and I’ve had my stomach touched, my tits commented on, a pimple pointed out, and my glow discussed, along with how much weight I’ve gained, and one particularly invasive question about my bowel movements.
“What size bra are you up to?” That question is from Kira, who had her baby last month. She’s already proudly told me how she’s back to her pre-baby weight and shared a terrifying story about how at the hospital, after giving birth, they made her wear mesh, paper underpants for three days. “If you go up another size, which it looks like you probably will, you may as well just start getting nursing bras,” she continues. “No reason to waste money on both.”
I muster up a tight smile. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Any time,” she says. “No one told me anything about what the hospital stay would be like. I’ve vowed to share everything I learned.”
Everyone needs a purpose, I suppose.
She continues, “And the sitz bath is your friend once you get home. It’s the best way to get healed up down there.”
I’m the Princess, I want to tell her. I became Princess by sitting on a ceremonial dildo. I know all about healing up an abused pussy. But I don’t. I just nod and exhale in relief when she spots an empty seat across the room.
I wasn’t faking my hesitation about coming to the shower today, but it’s not about the women in my court or a wariness about watching West End Maggie in her tight body-con dress listen intently to Lakshmi as she talks about some new shampoo that makes her hair shine. Or Lavinia, with an empty plate, as she sits next to Kira, patiently looking at photo after photo of her baby. It’s not Story and her herculean effort to make small talk with Regina over by the teacakes with tiny ice-blue booties on top.
It’s not even my mother, Liberty Sinclaire, dressed absolutely nothing like a grandma-to-be in her leopard print dress, or the fact she’s sitting in a tight circle, holding a delicate china tea cup, deep in discussion with Adeline and Mrs. Crane.
It’s who isn’t here.
Laura Walker. Kelsey Livingston. Stella St. James.
Stella would have loved everything about this, from the china pattern to the handmade banner over the door made out of felt and ribbon welcoming ‘Baby Ashby’ to the delicious food and tantalizing gossip.
The task Ballsack gave me on the way over is a useful distraction, but there’s a nervousness there, too. I’ve only caught a couple glimpses of Regina, and the last time I saw her, she was twitching over by the front door, never really stepping into the fray.
This is important—something I can do to help Stella—and I don’t want to mess it up. I want to be out there, searching. I could have gone to talk to those Boy Scouts who found her. I could be bursting into Maddox’s crypt right now, demanding to speak to the new Baroness. No one would hurt a woman who’s eight months pregnant.
Probably.
Right?
I hide my distress by taking a bite of a chicken salad sandwich, making a futile attempt to read Adeline’s lips as she whispers something that makes my mother smirk.
“Fucking weird, right?” I spin and see the Duchess—Lavinia Lucia—making a neat pile of cheese on her plate. Her chin lifts to Mama and the others. “What do you think they’re talking about?”
“I have no clue.” I eye the room warily. “It’s like a vault of Forsyth’s secrets over there. They could probably bring this whole town to its knees if they conspired together.” Yet, they don’t. Looking around the room, I think I understand why. “I keep waiting for someone to whip out a curling iron and start a brawl.”
“Please,” she snorts. “As if those Princess wannabes would dare break a nail.”
“They’re tougher than you think.” My attention falls on Heather, who showed up with two fake things: a smile and a tan. “And probably have more in common than you realize. I saw Adeline’s weapons basket when I came in. It was full.”
Lavinia’s forehead lifts, considering, but doesn’t look convinced. And that’s why the women of Forsyth have never banded together. Someone felt the need to bring a switchblade to a baby shower, for Pete’s sake.
Mistrust runs as deep as the Baron’s crypt.
“So you finally talked to him?” Lakshmi’s voice carries across the room. She, Heather, and Gina are huddled together, just like the first time I met them.
“I’d avoided him for weeks, but last night, he showed up when I was getting out of my date’s car.” A smile tugs at Heather’s painted lips. “At first, I thought he was coming for me, but you know what he did? He went to the driver’s side, dragged my date out, and punched the daylights out of him.”
“Are you serious?” Gina gasps. The cutsluts perk up at the conversation, not-so-subtly leaning in. “He got in a fight? Tommy?!”
Heather nods. “He took a few punches, and I had to threaten to call campus security to break it up, but Tommy got one last punch in, told him to ‘stay the fuck away from my girl’, and ended it.”
“Holy shit. Was this the LDZ?” Lakshmi asks, glancing over at Story.
Story sighs. “Oh god. Which one is it now?”
“Tucker,” Heather replies. “You know him?”
“Oh, do I ever.” She rolls her eyes. “Self-proclaimed South Side fuckboy. He has a thing for girls he perceives to be off-limits, including yours truly when I first arrived. He’s probably run through everyone in the territory, so he decided to hit up East End.”
“Ungrateful prick,” Mrs. Crane mutters. “Hope your princey poodle boy tore him a new one.”
“He did,” Heather says, eyes going dreamy. “We’re back together.”
Mrs. Crane gives Heather a sour look. “For beating up a frilly frat boy? He better have gotten on his knees afterward and licked your pussy like a waffle cone.”
Adeline gasps, but my mother just snorts, lifting her teacup in agreement. “Hear, hear.”
“Tucker was just a rebound anyway.” Again, Heather’s lips curve. “I guess Tommy didn’t know that.”
The girls hover around and listen as she describes the altercation and the following grovel—minus the pussy-licking, much to Mrs. Crane’s disappointment. I don’t deny that I feel a smug sense of satisfaction that my advice to Tommy worked.
Maybe there are better ways to run East End than dungeons and bamboo shards under the fingernails.
Heather gushes, “I never realized how hot it would be for a guy to fight for me—literally!” She glances at the cutsluts. “You girls might be on to something.”
“Of course we are,” Maggie says. “A man all pumped up post-fight, high on victory and adrenaline? Best sex ever.”
My mind goes to Wick taking me in the mausoleum.
She’s not wrong.
“A fight is good,” Mama says, voice rising above the girls’. Every eye swings in her direction. “But Delores is right, there’s something about a man on his knees, groveling like his life depends on it, that just can’t be matched.”
“You mean like flowers and jewelry?” Lakshmi asks.
“No,” Story interjects, twirling a lock of her dark hair around a finger. “Like when he comes to your door and carves your initial into his chest.”
Lavinia blurts, “Or when he brings you the head of your enemy.” At everyone’s shocked stares, she shrinks into herself, quickly adding, “Or, you know, when he takes care of your kitten or helps you fix a clock.”
Mrs. Crane’s scraggly voice pipes in. “Severed heads are a messy business. Best stick with him taking care of your pussy.”
Lavinia blinks. “Oh, I was being literal about the kitten. Although,” she gives a sly smirk, “the other kitten is well taken care of, too.”
I try to think if my Princes have ever groveled like that, with some big romantic gesture to prove their worth to me. Sure, there was Lex surprising me with the dance the other night. And I too know the charm of receiving a severed limb.
But what comes flooding back is the little stuff.
Lex bringing me coffee in the mornings, or Wicker sneaking treats to me in the dungeon. There was the time Pace washed the glue out of my hair with a gentle touch I didn’t know he possessed, and then made me a second appointment to get pampered.
“This is the most Forsyth of all Forsyth discussions ever,” Lavinia mutters, leaning in close. “But they can talk about pussy, beatdowns, and men doing sweet shit all day because I overheard Adeline say she had games to play.” Lavinia shudders. “I’m not playing any stupid party games.”
“Games?” Story asks, her expression reflecting my dread. “Like what?”
She flaps a hand. “You know, there’s the one where they melt candy in the diapers and you have to guess which kind?”
“No,” Story says, absolute horror overcoming her expression. “I don’t know about that.”
Two girls from West End wander over, joining in. Daphne points across the room, “That glass vase on the gift table filled with pacifiers and stuff? That’s not just a decoration. It’s a guessing game. And Adeline has some raffle planned, too.”
“Oh,” I reply, pulling a face. “Maybe I should fake a contraction or pretend like my water broke, and then maybe we can all just go home early.”
“You can’t go home!” Story shouts. Lavinia elbows her in the side and she winces. Rubbing her ribs she adds, “I mean, not yet. We have to open gifts!”
“In front of everyone?” Suddenly, it just all feels too much. I tug at the collar of my dress. It’s like all the doilies and pastels are closing in on me. “I think I need some air.”
“Is something wrong?” Story asks, forehead creased in concern. “Do you want us to come with you?”
“I’m okay,” I rest my hands on my belly. “I’m just hot and hormonal. Give me five minutes, and I’ll be ready for games and presents.” I give them a tight smile. “Promise.”
I can’t get outside fast enough. As soon as I do, I gulp in the air, greeted by the scent of roses. There was a time when the smell would turn my stomach, but now it just makes me long for the sanctuary of the palace solarium.
However, the universe must be on my side, because perched on the bottom of the porch steps is none other than my coveted target, Regina Thorn.
She’s resting her cheek on her knee as she fingers the bud of a new rose, eyes distant and wistful. Aside from Mama and Mrs. Crane, all the women inside are wearing bright, summery colors.
Not Regina.
She’s in a long, black, lacy cardigan, which is covering a short, dark dress.
Maybe Wicker had a point before about Barons and their theatrics.
Clearing my throat, I watch as she jolts in surprise. “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was out here.”
I start to go back inside but she straightens, insisting, “Stay, Princess. It’s fine.”
Turning, I offer her a small grin. I know we’re outside, but there’s a huge fucking elephant in the room; the fact I witnessed Wicker slitting the throat of her Baron. In a heartbeat, I can feel the warmth of his blood on my hands. I run them down my sides in an absurd attempt to wipe them clean.
“I don’t know if we’ve ever actually met,” I try. “I’m Verity.”
“Regina,” she says, giving me a nod. “I didn’t mean to be rude by dipping out. Honestly, I was surprised to get the invitation at all. I figured after recent…” she grimaces, “events… I wouldn’t have made the cut.”
“Right.” I take a deep breath, daring to take a seat on the top step. “About that…”
But she shakes her head. “Don’t. My King told me what Will did. I wasn’t even too surprised.”
I tense, eyes scanning the parking lot for Ballsy’s car. “You knew what he was going to do to me?”
Her head whips around, eyes wide. “Of course not. If I’d known, I would have told Father—I mean, the King.” Frowning, she averts her gaze. “Do you know why the King chose them like he did? Why he wanted Williams last year?”
I cradle my belly, thinking of him—Will—staring down at me that night of the attack. “Not really.”
Shrugging, she answers. “He always has a theme, doesn’t he? My Freshman year, the Barons were all CS majors. The year before that, anatomy experts. The year before that, it was chemists. He always has a plan. But lately, he’s been… hungry,” she explains with a troubled tilt of her mouth. “To build a family. And William is his middle name. His father’s middle name. His son’s. They all knew what they were meant to be, but Liam and Bill understood it was symbolic. Will, though…” She inhales, jaw tightening. “He took it too literally. He wanted to protect his father’s legacy. The wicked path can be like that, you know.” Meeting my gaze, she stresses, “It’s not just a title or a game. It’s more than life or death. It’s a skin we wear. They might take off the masks at the end of the ceremony, but the sense of self never returns.”
I know this is a perfect lead-up to my question, but I can’t help but ask another. “Has yours?”
Her brow knits up, surprise crossing her face. “I don’t know,” she answers, although, from the way she shifts her gaze to the distance, I get the impression this is the first time she’s considered it.
“Your reign is over now,” I say, fishing. “Maybe it’s good that some other girl takes the path because now you can be anything.”
She flexes her hands on her knees, watching them with a grim expression. “He’s already chosen her and two of her Barons. But that’s not the worst part. I visited the House of Night the other day, and it looks like they’re preparing it for a—” But here, she pauses, body tensing. “I suppose I shouldn’t say. Like you said, my reign is over.” She glances at me. “Yours will be soon, won’t it?”
Whatever the thing is she came close to telling me, it’s like sand falling through my fingers. Sighing, I rub my stomach. “I’m not sure it’ll be that simple for me.”
She balks at the phrase. Simple. “For those of us on the wicked path, true self is about loyalty. Do you trust your lover enough to die? To give yourself over a hundred percent, body, mind, and soul? We’re not just bound in this life, but also in the next. Will may be gone, but he’s still tethered to me, waiting until I cross the veil.”
I fail to repress a shiver. “That sure is some commitment.”
Her smile is soft and unbearably sad. “It’s our way.”
“They’re under a lot of pressure—the Royal men.”
She nods. “They are.”
“Although,” I add, giving her a significant look. “I don’t think they appreciate how much pressure they apply to us.”
“No, I don’t think so.” Her eyes meet mine. “You’re strong, though. If you hadn’t been, my Will would have taken you. No doubt.”
“I’ve had no choice but to be strong.” I look down at my belly, working up the courage to be honest with this woman. This rival woman. “Have you ever heard how a Princess gets initiated?”
“No,” she says, turning to me more fully. “Is it quite awful?”
I pause, thinking that this may be the first Royal woman to even assume that it is awful. “Well, first they take you to this room…”
And I tell her.
I tell Regina Thorn the whole sordid, disgusting, depraved thing. With each detail I lay bare before her, from the throning to the first deposit, to the fact my own biological father was there to witness and encourage the whole thing, her mouth purses up tighter and tighter.
When I’m done, I let the silence drag on. I wait for the crushing wave of shame, but it never arrives. The throning feels so far away now, as if I’d experienced it in a different life. Maybe we’re not so different from the Barons, because being Princess—it’s become a skin.
“But,” I go on, playing coy, “I’m sure the Baroness has an easier initiation.”
Living around DKS for so long, no one knows better than me that people are competitive. Not only in their wins, but also in their losses.
Her eyes flare. “Easy? There’s nothing easy about the hunt.”
I pause. “The hunt?”
“That’s what they do,” she explains. “The King sets the four of you loose in the forest behind the crypt, and the Barons hunt you. It’s not just the Baroness’ initiation. It’s the Barons’, too.”
“They hunt you?” I ask, horrified. “Like an animal?”
For some reason, this makes her laugh. “It’s a test, Princess. A Baron and his sinister sister have to be invisible. Silent. Ruthless. If a Baron catches the Baroness, that means he’s good at hiding, following, adapting to the shadows.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Her head cocks. “Doesn’t what?”
“Catch her.”
“Oh, Princess, he always catches her.” The words are said without mirth. “The King chooses his darklings very well.”
Reluctantly, I wonder, “What happens after they catch you?”
She hugs her knees, lifting a shoulder. “They bind you to their wicked path and worship death upon you.”
Shaking my head, I admit, “I don’t know what that means.”
Barons and their stupid, cryptic bullshit.
“You couldn’t. You’re a creator.” Smiling softly, Regina’s arm stretches over the distance between us, hand brushing the swell of my belly. “You foster life and light. But we’re servants of death, and this boy in your belly? He’ll be a part of it, one way or another.”
I watch her hand touch me, heart in my throat. “I’ll never let that happen.”
“Aren’t you willing to die for your Princes?” Her eyes dart down to my stomach. “Your son?”
“I’m willing to do something a lot more dangerous than dying for them.” Reaching out, I brush her hair over a delicate shoulder, heart clenching at the misery in her eyes. “I’m willing to live for them.”
We return home with a carload of gifts and a deep desire for a nap.
“Where do you want all this?” Ballsy asks, parking in the front circle.
“I’m not sure.” I eye the pile of boxes and bags. The women of Forsyth went all out, giving me everything I’ll need for when the baby arrives. Everything I didn’t even realize I would need. From binkies to boxes of diapers, to clothes and blankets. There are cute things like stuffed animals, and Lavinia gave us a starter set of children’s books, but then Kira gave me some kind of paste for my nipples and a cream for stretch marks.
Ugh.
I forgot about stretch marks.
I decide, “Let’s just leave it for now, and I’ll talk to the guys about where we want to store it until the nursery is finished.”
The nursery is another one of those things on my never-ending ‘to do’ list that’s been weighing on me. It falls somewhere between fitting in my pregnancy yoga class and figuring out what to do with Danner down in his room. Yes, my ‘to do’ list involves everything from prenatal care to scheduled torture. I really may be an Ashby.
Danner doesn’t seem to mind being locked up day and night. If I had to guess, this is probably closer to a vacation than anything he’s had in years. Not having to pick up after and take care of three grown men and their father? Sounds like bliss. Although, I think we all know this has to come to an end soon. I get the feeling Wicker is the one dragging it out. I get it. Sometimes evil comes in difficult shades of gray.
Leaving the gifts behind, Ballsack and I walk in the front door. Without Danner manning the entry, there’s a rotating crew of PNZ who stand guard, which is why Tommy is standing in the foyer.
“Hey,” he says, looking bored, “how was the party?”
“Long, but fun.” I rub the crown of my belly, feeling more and more of a strain when I’m on my feet for extended periods of time. “I saw your girlfriend.”
He grins. “Yeah?”
“Sounds like you gave that Tucker kid the ass-kicking he needed.”
“Turns out DKS isn’t wrong all the time.” He lifts his chin at Ballsack. “At least about this.”
Tommy may be less hostile to me, but I doubt that extends to the rest of my West End family, so I distract him by saying, “There are leftovers in the backseat if you’re interested.”
His eyes light up, and once again, I’m reminded these hardened PNZ soldiers are really just boys. “I’m definitely interested, but I told the guys I’d take you upstairs when you got home. And…” He holds out his hand, revealing a strip of fabric, “that I’d make you wear this.”
“Is…” I frown and peer at the scrap of fabric, “is that a thong?”
“Bro,” Ballsack says, voice a low growl.
“What?” he shouts, eyes wide. “No! It’s a blindfold.” His words come out in a rush. “They want to surprise you with something upstairs.”
“Oh.” A laugh bubbles up. “Okay, that makes more sense.”
“Does it?” Ballsack asks, skeptically. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Tommy rolls his eyes, but I turn and give him my back so he can tie the blindfold over my eyes. I consider this part of the process—showing him that I trust his best intentions lay with our house and kingdom.
And that trust, so far, hasn’t been misplaced. Once the blindfold is secure, he takes my hand and leads me slowly, carefully up the stairs, pausing for me on each step. As we get closer to the landing, I catch the scent of fresh paint and sawdust. Did the workers come back?
“Okay,” Tommy says, nudging me forward. “You can take it off.”
Pushing the blindfold off my eyes, I gasp at the sight that greets me.
It’s a garden, filled with blooming flowers and butterflies.
Monarch butterflies.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, taking in the gorgeous mural on the wall.
The wall where we’ve decided the crib should go is decorated with a sprawling live oak, its Spanish moss seeming almost alive, as if I might catch it swaying in a breeze. Scanning the room, I gape at the new furniture—particularly the rocker in the corner—until my eyes fall on the three men huddled in the corner in paint-splattered clothes, watching me.
“You guys did this?” I ask, overcome with shock and emotion.
“With some help,” Lex says, wiping his hands on a rag. He jerks his chin at the wall. “Remy’s been working on a design for the mural, so he and Sy came over today. The Lords showed up unannounced with the rocker. We were on a time limit, so we all pitched in and helped to get it finished.”
Now I’m even more shocked. “You worked with the Dukes and the Lords on this?” I ask, eyes darting to Pace. I can’t believe he even let them all in the house.
“They passed security.” He shrugs, looking strangely unconcerned. “And to be fair, Payne and Mercer just showed up bearing gifts.”
“It wasn’t as terrible as you’d think,” Wick says. There are paint smears all over his expensive jeans.
Gently, I wonder, “With Remy?” I’m being vague on purpose. Ballsack and Tommy have no clue he and Remy are related. Luckily, when I glance at them, they throw us all a salute and retreat back into the hallway. “Was it… er, difficult?”
Wicker scoffs, toeing at a dried paint drip on the floorboard. “I might not know how to paint, but I’m sort of an expert at having brothers.”
Lex cuts in, eyebrows hiked up. “So now that this is all done, you can relax and finish gestating our son.”
Pace lurches forward, slamming his fist into Lex’s shoulder. “Don’t say ‘gestate’! It’s fucking gross.”
Lex doesn’t even flinch. “Except for the name,” he adds, mouth strained. “You still need to decide on that, because every week from now until delivery is a melon, and if we start calling this kid ‘pumpkin’, I’ll throw myself off a cliff.”
I look around the room, overwhelmed by how easy it is to picture myself in here with the baby. Rocking him to sleep in the chair. Standing over his crib as I caress his fine hair. Leaning over the rail to brush a kiss against his perfect head.
“Don’t worry.” A small, soft smile touches my lips. “I’ve got a name all picked out.”