Chapter 16
16
Verity
“This ceremony will be different,” Pace says, not for the first time. He’s huddled close, a finger hooked beneath my chin so I’ll look him in the eye when he assures, “No one in there will hurt you. Don’t forget,” he adds, gently fingering one of the curls framing my face, “to create is to reign.”
I stand in front of the same doors I entered the night of the masquerade when I was whisked from the ballroom into the ceremonial chamber. That night, I had no idea what I was getting into, only that there was an adventure ahead. I had no clue what was to come, but tonight is simple. It’s planned.
Even so…
I feel Lex’s hand on my lower back before I hear his words. “You're nervous.”
“A little.” I run my hands down the flowy gauze, thinking this might be the first ceremonial dress I’ve worn and liked. It’s new, gifted to me by Rory Livingston’s family, and comfortable. So comfortable, like wearing one of my nightdresses. It looks like something from an old Greek statue, the back of it slung around each shoulder and gathered below my breasts to make an empire waist. However, I do wonder, “Why do I always have to wear white to these?”
“Tradition,” Lex says simply, his hand moving slowly up my spine, underneath my hair to the column of my neck. “And I like it, you look stunning.”
“You look like a fucking goddess,” Pace agrees, fingering the fabric covering my breasts. One tug would easily free them. “Jesus Christ, Rosi.”
“Thank you.” A warm blush heats every inch of my skin. “You two look pretty good, too.”
Clad in dark suits, they’re the embodiment of sex, distinction, and masculine power. Somewhere, underneath this massive belly, my panties feel damp.
“We can do this privately if you want,” Lex says.
But I shake my head. This is the only ceremony I’ve ever felt good about—like it’ll bring something positive to East End. “No, something formal seems right. I just…” I rest my hand on my stomach, the new Princess ring gleaming in the sconce light. I’m fully aware that as a shield, skin and bone will do nothing. “It’s just that this room and I have a lot of history, and none of it’s good.”
There’s an energy to this room I’ve been avoiding, and mine is only part of it. It needs a cleansing, and not the Royal kind. Something… spiritual. It’s as if decades of thronings, cleansings, and de-crownings have left a lingering scum of negative vibes that permeate the plaster walls and marble floors. It’s like it’s embedded in the chandeliers and gold accents. Sometimes, I think we should do like Lavinia did and just blow the whole fucking place to smithereens.
But no.
I’m not letting him run my Princes out of their home—the home he forced on them. It’s a pillar of Forsyth and it belongs to them, and since we’re set on making this place into a home, we’ll do what East Enders do.
We’ll have a rebirth.
Announcing my son’s name, his claim as heir, and gaining the approval of the frat is how we’ll do it.
“Hopefully, this will be the end of it,” Lex says, the way he tugs at the collar of his dress shirt telling me he feels it, too. “I think we’ve done the groundwork with the guys to gain their full support.”
It’s not all weekly luncheons, either. I had Story pull some strings with Dimitri Rathbone to get Baxter into the music program. Lex has been checking in with Loeffler’s grandfather at the hospital every Wednesday night. Pace has been tutoring a couple of the CS guys, and Wicker donated Rufus’ car to be auctioned off to benefit a charity run by Mitch’s mother.
It’s these tiny, incremental things over the last few months that have shaped a new, fragile brotherhood.
“And if they don’t?” Wick asks. He tucks a flask into his jacket pocket as he walks up. I frown at the dark smudges under his eyes, which are still a touch troubled. He hasn’t slept well since they found Danner, two mornings ago. At night, he curls next to me, holding on tighter than ever, but there’s no sense of peace. Maybe this will help.
“They will,” Pace says, with utter confidence. “Our son is the heir, and Verity is Father’s blood…” He nods again. “They’ll be on the side of creation.”
I have to hope he’s right, but I also know we’re in Forsyth, a place where ‘right’ doesn’t always mean much.
“You promised I’d get through the night without getting blood on my dress,” I remind Lex.
For some reason, he glances at Pace, mouth tightening. “I’ll do my best.” He squeezes my hand. Pace’s dark eyes hold mine as he places a hand on my belly and pulls me in for a kiss just hard enough to leave me breathless before he follows his brother to the door of the ceremonial room.
Wicker, as the father of the child, waits with me. It’s another one of the reveals—officially, anyway. Word has spread, like gossip always does in Forsyth, that Wicker is most likely the biological father.
“Guess we’re doing this.” Running his hand through his hair, he tousles the blonde locks in that way I know is meant to make himself look like he doesn’t care. They all have their armor on today. Lex’s hair is pulled back. Pace has the palace crawling with security. Every inch of Wicker’s body, from his hair to the casual way he stands, is adjusted into an air of giving zero fucks, which means he’s on high alert. They’ve promised me everything will go smoothly, but I guess years of trauma-filled ceremonies will give even the strongest man some reservations. “But if you want to turn back now, hop in the car and go for burritos, I’ve got the keys.”
It’s all I can do not to drool, groaning instead. “As enticing as that sounds, they’ll just drag us back and make us do it again later, so we may as well face it now.” I adjust my dress, making sure my overripe tits aren’t going to spill out. “I’m not sure I’m getting into this dress a second time anyway.”
Lex gives Loeffler the go-ahead to open the doors, revealing the ceremonial room for us. We’re met with the overpowering scent of roses. I asked Adeline for guidance, making sure to follow the traditions for an East End baby-naming ceremony. She’d been thrilled, digging through her archives with photographs and announcements for prior events. She helped me by contacting the caterer and Fran the florist, and even helped me unearth the traditional decor for the event.
‘People, Verity,’ she told me, while flipping through a photo book, ‘especially like those in Forsyth, crave consistency. In a time of change, it’s important to show them that you’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe.’
That’s why, despite the chill of the massive room, there’s warmth from the lit candelabras mounted in every arched window sill, and the purple carpet rolled out before us softens our footsteps on the marble floors. Wicker offers me the crook of his arm, and I slip mine into his.
For security reasons, Pace insisted we make this a PNZ-only event—no outsiders, not even Ballsy—and the men of the frat flank the carpet, creating a safe channel for us to walk through.
I look into each pair of eyes, skeptical but defiant.
It’s impossible to forget the last time I made this walk. I’d been filled with both rage and fear. I was newly pregnant, the almost fully formed baby I’m carrying tonight barely a cluster of cells. I’d betrayed my Princes, publicly and harshly, and I’d been punished for it. Tonight, everything feels different, though. I’m not being forced down the aisle; I’m being escorted. The anger and hatred I felt directed at me by the PNZs that night are replaced by gentler expressions now, smiles, and even some genuine encouragement.
Part of me wants to yell and scream, to tell them to get on their knees and let me ruin them the way they ruined me, but I’m made for something bigger than a moment of revenge.
I’m made to be the mother of a king.
Ahead, at the end of the royal carpet, four men wait. Lex and Pace are in the center, while Matt and Rory stand on each side. As we get closer, they step aside, revealing a backward throne. It doesn’t matter that it’s not the throne I was forced to bleed and ache on. For a brief moment, I stiffen, remembering the sensation of being torn into and held down. Next to the backward throne is a table covered in a white cloth that’s been embroidered in gold thread. There’s an object in the center, wrapped in white linen, and the setting doesn’t give me any comfort.
I didn’t arrange or approve either of these.
“I never apologized for that night,” Wick whispers, his eyes pinned to the table as well. “The way I claimed you after your throning…” His jaw tightens, which is the only reason I realize it’s the same table he bent me over, stealing my virginity and innocence with untethered brutality. “I was just so fucking angry,” he says, blue eyes swimming with the memory. It’s impossible not to remember the words he said to me that night after giving Danner the tea.
Sometimes it really fucks me up to know that everything I’ve come to love was given to me by Father…
Wicker isn’t the type to say words like that aloud. I understood what he was trying to tell me then, and I didn’t need the words because I felt them.
So it brings me up short to hear him say these.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is low but strained, and when he glances at me, I see the regret. “I thought he was chaining me to him, and I resented you—everything about you. But I’m starting to realize that’s what he wanted. He never wanted us to think of you as a gift.” He rests his hand on top of mine and gives it a squeeze. “But you were, Red. You were a gift. And that’s what this is. Remember that.”
An apology by Wicker Ashby is enough to steal my breath, but the gut punch comes a moment later when Rory and Matt move to turn the throne, and it’s not empty.
My father is sitting in it.
A quiet murmur rushes through the crowd, revealing that I’m not the only one surprised. It’s not just his presence that’s shocking, but the state of him. Their King isn’t just sitting on the throne, he’s strapped in, limbs secured at the ankles and wrists. Someone cleaned him up and dressed him in a tux, but there’s little hiding the abuse he suffered. A welt on his cheek. Burn marks peeking out from beneath his collar. Thin strips of tape suturing a deep, raw cut on his forehead. The hand resting on the arm of the throne is missing two fingers, the stumps purple and grotesque.
And that’s just what they can see, the pentagram Wicker carved into his chest hidden from view.
The only reason Ashby isn’t spewing his toxicity is the gag in his mouth. Unfortunately, he isn’t blindfolded because his blue eyes are trained on me. They dip down to my stomach, widening, and he tugs futilely against his restraints. Wicker lifts his chin but keeps his gait easy as he encourages me to walk all the way to his brothers.
The first thing out of my mouth is, “Why the fuck is he here?”
The guys share a look.
“This isn’t a naming ceremony,” I guess, halting. “This is a… de-crowning?”
Lex argues, “It is a naming ceremony,” and lifts a hand to stroke my belly. “But if the frat blesses it, it’ll also be the beginning of our son’s ascension.”
Pace adds, “We didn’t want you worrying over the vote.”
“Now?” I ask, feeling more than a bit blindsided, but the resolution in their expressions tells me this wasn’t a sudden decision. I look back toward my father, and then sweep my gaze over the men in the room. Just like my Princes, they’re dressed in their malicious best, black ties and coattails. The scent of their collective cologne and aftershave is a radiant, throbbing thing, but mostly I sense their restless energy.
These are terrible men, and in Forsyth, there’s only two things to do with terrible men.
Kill them or recruit them.
I take a deep breath. “Okay.”
Tommy, on the other hand, isn’t okay. “What the hell is this? Why is the King bound and gagged?”
Lex steps forward, eyes hardening. “As you can see, your King hasn’t been away on business for the last few months. He’s been here, secure in the dungeon. He was placed there after we discovered that he was the one responsible for the attacks on the Princess and the palace.”
“Bullshit,” someone in the crowd mutters. “The King would never kill his daughter and grandson.”
“You’d think that,” I say, trying to keep my voice even, “but you’ve all seen—and participated in—the lengths my father will go to in order to keep me in line. There’s not a man in the room who can deny that.”
Gazes shift, feet shuffle, and no one does.
“He hired a Baron to do the dirty work,” Wick announces, lifting his chin. “Their own King confirmed it before offering his Baron up to me as a sacrifice for the affront.”
“You killed a Baron?” a voice says. “Fuck. That’s savage.”
“That’s what a real father does for his son,” Wicker replies, eyes sharp as blades. “Rufus made an attempt on my blood, and in return, he’s paid the price, too.”
“You’re the father?” Matt asks, and I see it, the shift in respect as they all regard him. These men buy into this world hook, line, and sinker. The fact that Wicker’s sperm fought its way upstream to fertilize my egg sheds him in a new light.
Dory barks a joyful laugh. “Fuck, man, congratulations!”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think a spot of color rises to his cheeks. “This baby is mine and Verity’s, and by the rules of Psi Nu Zeta, also my brothers’. But hear this,” he adds, meeting the eyes of each man in the room. “Rufus Ashby has no claim to him, not after what we’ve learned.”
Pace thrusts a hand out, pointing to the King. “This man is not a creator.” Face hard, he looks at Rufus, lip curling in disgust. “He’s nothing. He’s firing blanks.”
A wave of confused mutters rise over the room.
“What does that mean?” Tommy asks.
“He’s medically infertile,” Lex confirms as he approaches the throne. Seeming to derive satisfaction from the way Rufus pales, he leans forward, spitting the words like venom. “It seems that after Verity and Michael, he was unable to impregnate anyone else. And trust us,” he slams his hands onto Rufus’ arms, meeting his glare with a stony smirk, “he tried.”
“Farrah Baxter.” Pace clasps his hands behind his back as he strolls down the front row, pausing in front of Dorian Baxter. “Dethroned as Princess and held captive in the palace dungeon for ten months while Rufus raped her. She was abused—defiled—and then murdered.”
Dory stares at him, face slack. “Farrah Baxter? My father’s sister?” He shifts his gaze to Rufus. “That’s not possible. She ran away to their grandparents’ home in Korea forever ago. I never even met her.”
“You can meet her now, if you like.” Pace doesn’t look happy to give the news, his own eyes swirling with turmoil. “Her bones are still in the basement. We kept them for you, so your family can put her to rest.” Dory is still reeling from the news, but Pace suddenly spins, stalking down the aisle. “Margo Hampton. Held captive in the palace dungeon for five months. Murdered.” He stops in front of Julian Carter, who for some reason seems to know the name.
“Hampton?” he asks, stunned. “Was she?—”
“Chloe’s second cousin,” Pace confirms, and I realize why he stopped at Julian. Chloe is his girlfriend. “You wouldn’t know the other three women whose bones we found buried in the solarium,” Pace goes on, returning to the front of the room. “They were just women. No old money names or reputations. They never had the chance to build any.”
The room falls silent as they all take in the horrific details of lives lost to this man. A man who forced his body and will on them until there was nothing left but bones and dirt.
“Yes,” Pace says, turning his gaze to Ashby, “even Danner betrayed your pitiful ass.”
It’s a verbal hit, but the punch lands, Rufus unable to hide his shock at Danner ratting him out. If this were a coffin, his would have just been nailed shut.
“Rufus Ashby spent his life extolling the virtues of creation,” Lex says, turning his back on his father. “We’ve learned that Rufus Ashby isn’t a creator. He’s an instrument of death, and nothing more. He’s a selfish, narcissistic megalomaniac who’s never made East End his priority. If he had, he would have stepped down two decades ago. He was focused on his own needs. His own failed desire to procreate. His lust for torture and control.” Lex’s amber eyes glow violently in the candlelight. “As his sons and Princes, it’s true that we’re trained to apply pressure when needed. But we don’t do it for our own pleasure. We do it for the good of this kingdom. That’s the difference.”
It’s almost like Wicker absorbs the energy because suddenly he’s raising his voice. “He took our ideals and twisted them into something ugly and wasteful,” he insists. “He wasted our women. Our creators. Our mothers and sisters. He used their flesh and discarded them when he was finished.”
The room is quiet for a moment, until Dorian asks, “What are you asking us to do?”
“We handle situations like this internally. No police or external investigations.” Lex pulls out the PNZ pledgebook and flips to a bookmarked page in the middle. “The King can abdicate, stepping down with grace and accepting his failed position. If he refuses, we can invoke an Oath of Fealty, where each member can decide if they want the King to continue to rule, despite the evidence presented today.”
“And who’d be King instead?” Tommy asks, raising his voice over the din. “You?”
Lex is unfathomably steady as he puts down the book. “We’ve given a lot of thought to that, actually. I can’t deny that I’d make an awful King. Since I’m about to begin med school, you’re all aware I have ambitions that’d require too much of my dedication and attention.” He gestures to his brothers. “Wick would make a fantastic King. He’d forge alliances that would enrich us, and he’d run the Royal businesses like a well-oiled machine. But he’d be miserable in a position that ties him to the obligations of ruling, and I won’t ask it of him. And Pace,” he adds, sighing. “My brother would make this kingdom prosperous and safe, but he’d never get to feel any peace, always looking over his shoulder.”
Dorian looks confused. “If not any of you, then who?”
“All of us,” Lex says, nodding at my belly. “Or rather, all of us until our son—the true heir—comes of age. And you can be assured,” he calls out over the rising protests, “our child will be taught how to rule properly?—”
“He’ll be taught kindness,” I snap, giving Lex a disbelieving staredown. Turning to the men in the audience, I say, “My child will be given a choice to rule or not, but if he does, it’ll be to make East End a home that’s safe for his mother, his sisters, and his future daughters as well as yours.” I rest my hand on my belly, watching the way the dress tugs and pleats under the pressure. “If that’s not a kingdom you’re willing to serve, then de-crown me now. I’ll take my Princes and child with me when I leave, because I’ll—” I swallow, “—we’ll want nothing to do with it.”
A hush falls over the room, and I’m only mildly disarmed by Lex’s apologetic grin. “What she said.”
But Tommy shoots forward, demanding, “The King should get to say his piece, shouldn’t he?”
My stomach builds with dread at the naked betrayal in Tommy’s eyes. I’d come so far with him. For him to see this as deceit is disappointing.
“Fine.” Pace gestures to the men next to Rufus and Matt yanks the gag out of his mouth. Ashby coughs, and then swallows repeatedly before clearing his throat one last time.
“Matthew.” He gives him a look of disdain. “I always knew you didn’t have what it took for true leadership, always chasing the next thing.” He swings his gaze to Rory. “But you, Rory, I expected more of you. You come from fine Royal stock. If it hadn’t been for my own children coming of age, you would have been Prince.”
Rory’s face flickers with annoyance. “And I’m sure in the next two years, my sister might have become Princess. I mean, if she weren’t missing,” he adds, tossing Rufus a searing glare. “A lot of Royal women seem to go missing around you.”
Before Rufus can deny it, Wicker scoffs. “These are your final words, old man? Insults to the next generation?”
Ashby swings a glower around the room. “I have no fear of this generation, or the next, or the one after that. Your stories are nothing more than fabrications to justify your treasonous actions.” He sniffs, able to put on an air of pretentiousness even while bound like a prisoner. “Even if it was true, I’m a King. I rule this territory. I choose who lives and dies. Who creates.” His eyes land on his sons, and I feel the struggle between them. A father trying to get his children in line. Grown men, ready to forge their own lives. “Do they know what you’ve done? How you’ve locked away their King for months on end, and undoubtedly ruined everything I’ve spent the last two decades building in East End while you were playing house with my daughter?”
Dryly, Lex answers, “Well, we did just tell them.”
“And did you tell them about all your new Royal friendships? Oh,” he says at the looks on our faces. “You think I don’t know that you’ve allowed the FBI into our gates, and forged relationships with our truest enemies, the Lords and Dukes.” His eyes spark to life. “Yes, Lagan, I know you saved Nick Bruin’s life.” To Wicker, he adds, “I know you’ve tasted the curse of your bloodline.” Rufus lifts his chin toward Pace. “I know you’re still seeking a truth you’ll never find. One I’ll never give you.” Rufus releases a chilling, ragged laugh. “And to you, daughter. You think I don’t know you’re thirty-five weeks pregnant, craving salted mango, still fretting over your missing handmaiden, and trying your best to tame my sons?” He shifts his gaze to my Princes, snarling. “You think you’re in control, that you’ve got a handle on this kingdom, but I always know what’s happening in my house. In my kingdom. With my creations.”
I freeze, heart in my throat.
He shouldn’t know these things, and from the look Wicker gives me, he’s thinking the same thing. Wick’s been so careful about keeping him contained like a quarantined virus. The things he knows are so precise, so personal, that he can’t know them.
But somehow he does.
Grinning, Rufus declares, “No, I will not be abdicating my kingdom, nor my throne. Because I know what you don’t. That the men of PNZ aren’t behind you. They’re behind me. As always.”
His confidence is unwavering, and for a moment, I feel like I’m back kneeling on that carpet in front of the fireplace. We’re all kneeling because we’ve taken a swing that we cannot miss. Yet the fist just whiffed past Rufus’ head and, fuck.
We’re screwed.
“Thomas,” Rufus’ voice rings out clear and controlled. “Start the proceeding.”
Tommy emerges from the crowd and passes us, a smirk lifting his lips. There’s no doubt I read the whole thing wrong with him. I’d never won him over. I’d never repaired the rift.
I didn’t do my job.
A sense of hopelessness drapes over me like a weighted cloak as I watch, nearly disassociating from my body as Tommy steps up to the table and removes the cloth. Underneath sits a crystal bowl and a purple velvet pillow. Placed on top is a sharp-bladed dagger with a gold, jeweled handle, the hilt flared out in the design of a crown, similar to the bed up in my room. He lifts it, allowing the glint of light to pass over the metal, revealing the PNZ crest and letters forged into the blade.
“In the face of opposition,” Tommy says, lifting the knife, “fealty must be declared.”
His movements are slow and precise, and Wicker tenses next to me, ready to take action if Tommy makes a move. They called for this ceremony—I fucking planned it—but there’s nothing we can do now but see it through.
Tommy stands before my father, shoulders tipped back. Pace’s shoulders rise when Tommy lifts his left hand, and in a quick move, slices the tip of the blade across his palm. He turns to face his frat brothers, and as blood runs down his hand, he makes a fist. “I swear my fealty to the King of East End.”
He turns, but not to face my father. Instead, he stares down at me with fire in his eyes. In the corner of my vision, a flash of purple falls to the floor—the pillow.
And then Tommy Wright drops to his knees.
Startled, I lurch back, but not before Tommy has thrust out his bloody hand, placing it on the crown of my distended stomach. Holding my stunned gaze, he dips his chin. “To create,” he says, voice like steel, “is to reign.”
Warmth from the blood seeps through the dress and into my flesh. Standing, he faces Rufus, whose expression is twisted in fury. “Don’t trust him!” he hisses. “He’s the one that came to me, spilling secrets of your ill-conceived mutiny.”
“I’ve proven my loyalty,” Tommy says, wiping the blade on his thigh. “Just not to you, but to the throne. You thought I was working for you,” he smirks over his shoulder at Pace, “but in reality, I was working for them.”
From there, the dominos fall. He hands the knife to Dorian, who makes his own long, deep cut before placing his blood-soaked hand against my belly. “To create is to reign.”
Theodore Loeffler follows, and then Dexter, Mitchell, and Matt Kramus. I don’t think I even break out of the shocked daze until Rory gets on his knees before me, raising a bloody palm to my stomach.
“To create is to reign,” he says, and when I place my hand over his, holding it close, a tear slips down my cheek.
“I’m sorry we haven’t found her, Ror.”
Slowly, he shakes his head. “It wouldn’t make a difference, Princess. I know a kind heart when I see it. That’s all we need from you.”
Another twenty men kneel to stain my dress, but for the first time, I’m proud to have my white dress bloodied. With each man who looks me in the eye, pledging their oath to my son, the memory of the throning—the cleansing—grows more and more hazy and undefined. The men who watched and participated in those vile ceremonies didn’t know me, and I hadn’t yet realized how strangled their hearts were by Ashby’s rule.
There could be no greater proof of Rufus Ashby’s failed kingship than the knowledge he hadn’t snuffed everything good out of his own men.
I just hope I can keep finding more of it.
It’s harder when the line ends because now it’s just the three of them.
My Princes.
Lex takes the knife first, kneeling on the pillow with a crooked grin. “I want you to know this is fucking disgusting, and I’m running a million tests on you tomorrow.” Still, he slices his palm, placing it over the blood-soaked fabric with a grimace. “To create is to reign.”
Pace follows, licking his lips as he kneels. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”
My laugh is half delirious. “Absolutely.”
He doesn’t even flinch when he slices his palm, but then he drops the knife, taking my belly in both hands. “To create is to reign,” he whispers, leaning in to brush his lips against my belly.
Wicker, however, is silent as he drops to his knees, cutting into his flesh. “To create is to reign,” he breathes.
Reaching out, I stroke my fingers through his hair, watching his eyelashes flutter. “Are you okay with this?”
His blue eyes rise to meet mine, and there’s no reservation there. Instead, the silence is heavy, filled with the weight of significance. “I never thought I’d be able to pass on a real legacy,” he says, the candlelight glinting in his eyes. “This is…” Visibly struggling to find the words, he pauses, inhaling, “everything, Red. Everything.”
Lex steps in then, clearing his throat. “Rule of law says the new King has to kill the old one. But since our son’s hands are a little too small to hold the knife, we decided it’d be?—”
“The Princess,” Rory calls out, gesturing to me. “Obviously.”
No one’s more surprised by the suggestion than me, but I can’t deny the logic.
When I meet Lex’s gaze, I don’t waver. “Until he’s born, I’m an extension of him,” I explain, unwilling to bring a failure of tradition into this. “Any wrong move could put us at risk. I’ll do it.” But when I reach for the knife, Wicker pulls it away, frowning.
“Red…” he begins, shifting uncomfortably. “Murder isn’t something you come back from.”
“Neither is this,” I insist, cradling my belly. Creation and destruction, two sides of the same coin. “I can handle it.”
Pace looks like he wants to argue, but from one glance around the room, it’s clear the men agree with Rory.
So he hands me the knife.
I’ve never killed a person before. Wicker is probably right. Murder isn’t something I can wipe away from my inner slate. The knife is heavy in my hand, but it’s also warm from the heat of forty hands. That’s the notion that consumes me as I round the purple throne, unwilling to look my father in the eye one last time.
Rufus struggles against his binds again, thrashing and shrieking. “You will tell me!” he’s crying out. “This is a naming ceremony. You will tell me the name of my heir. You will tell them it’s Michael!”
It’s sad is what it is. Rufus Ashby lost his family, and if there was ever a human morsel in his heart to begin with, he never got it back. I think of him strangling this kingdom and turning it to ash. I think of Lex’s pained eyes after that whipping. I think of the way Pace can never quite relax until he’s alone with me in a room. I think of Wicker, two nights before, and the agony in his eyes when he questioned if his love was real.
I think of my mother.
But mostly, when I grip a handful of Ashby’s hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat, I think of my son.
Of making this kingdom a home for him.
Of hope and change.
Putting the blade to his neck, I take a deep breath, letting that anger—the West End fury that flows through my veins—infuse my voice with stone. “I’d never name my creation after you,” I tell him, pushing the blade into his skin. “I’m naming him after this.”
The knife slices as I yank it to the side, feeling the tendon cut. A wet gurgle sounds out, but I don’t look down as I hold him by the hair. Not to watch his blood spill. Not to see the life fading from his eyes. Not even to see how long it takes for his final breath to spill out of his wound.
I watch my Princes, tall and strong, as I give them a gift almost as good as our creation.
“Justice.” Dropping the knife, I square my shoulders. “Our son will be named Justice.”