Chapter 24
24
Lex
I’ll go to the grave with this fact, but I’m not as good a climber as Pace.
This becomes increasingly maddening as I struggle to scale the back of the building, wondering how the fuck he managed to catch a toehold over the window to reach the metal ladder next to it. It doesn’t help that hot, rushing panic is coursing through my veins, and the only thought that registers is that Verity is in there—right there—giving birth to our baby.
Without me.
The back lot is overgrown with things that must have been weeds at one point but are now approaching stalk status, which is good. It gives me a little bit of cover. Thankfully, Knight’s little goon crew is too busy with the PNZ procession that met me at the barricade to notice my piss-poor impression of Spiderman. Even halfway up to the roof, I can still hear Tommy out front, ranting, “This is a witchhunt! Do you know who my father is? Do you know what he’ll do when he finds out what you’ve done?”
Who knew his obnoxious assholery would actually be an asset?
Grunting, I strain for the ladder, realizing that Pace probably made a jump for it. Fucking psycho. Taking a deep breath—needs must—I plant my toes into the brick ledge, flex my knees, and leap.
I catch the bottom of the ladder with one hand, thrusting the other out to pull myself up.
Riiiiip.
Jerking, I look over to see the neck of my shirt caught on a broken piece of metal. “Son of a…” With a huff, I duck my head through the neckhole, thrashing until I can pull my arms from the sleeves.
I don’t give myself time to rest, the air cool against my sweaty, bare back as I scurry up the ladder the rest of the way to the roof. It’s just like Pace described it, lush with plants and flowers, but I barely register it, spotting the hatch.
As soon as I open it, my stomach sinks.
“Fuuuck!” comes a ragged, distant voice that I’d know anywhere.
The rickety ladder beneath me clatters noisily as I dart down the length of it, surprised to find Mama B waiting for me at the bottom.
“Finally,” she hisses, glancing out the door. “Two more minutes and they were going to insist on taking her out front to meet the ambulance on the other side of the barricade, and she’s made it clear to everyone that she’s not going anywhere without you.”
I peek around her, feeling sweaty and borderline crazed as I watch Agent Knight in a standoff with Lavinia Lucia. “What the hell is taking so long?!” she shouts. “If you’re holding back the EMS team because you’re being a petty bit?—”
“Watch it, Ms. Lucia,” he growls. “I’ve got another pair of handcuffs.” She steps back, arms crossed over her chest. “We’re not doing anything. It’s an absolute clusterfuck out there.”
“Whose fault is that?”
“It’s protocol to clear an area before we let anyone else in—including medical. There were enough guns in here to fill a warehouse, and my guys are still sweeping. We offered to take her out and meet the ambulance, but she’s refusing.” He exhales. “If you want to come out there with me and find the best route for the EMS team to get in and help your friend, I’m all ears.”
He’s not wrong about the clusterfuck. It’s absolutely pandemonium out there. Every cop in the city is clogging the streets outside the gym. I’d broken every speed limit to cross town, and once I had, I got out of my car and sprinted half the length of West End to the back entry. “How close is she?” I ask, lungs heaving. “What’s the timing on the contractions?”
It’s only been minutes since I put my phone in my pocket to climb the building, but that scream I just heard…
“I don’t know,” Mama B says, voice quiet but cutting. “Those fucking animals came in, and everything has been a madhouse—” Her words bite off into a gasp, and when I twist to find out why, I see her gaze fixed on my back. “Sweet suffering Jehovah, what the fuck happened there?”
Annoyed that she’s seeing my scars, I snap, “Not important. Come on, they’re leaving.”
As soon as Knight and Lavinia are out of sight, Mama B zips around me, leading me across the floor of the gym toward a door on the east wall. I crash through it with her, pulse thundering as I spot Verity on the floor.
She’s lying down, knees up, thighs spread wide, and a pale Wicker is beside her, squeezing her hand.
“Told you, Red,” he says, eyes lighting up. “Look—he made it.”
I don’t need to nudge Pace over. When he sees me, it’s like all the tension falls out of him, and he shoots to his feet, backing away so fast, he bumps into Pauly. “Thank fuck you’re here.”
But mostly, I just see her. Cheeks red, eyes wet, chest heaving with exertion. “Lex,” she pants, grabbing for me the moment my knees hit the mat before her. The kiss I give her is quick but searing, too full of the dread and terror I’ve been carrying with me ever since I got Wick’s text. “Lex, I was so scared to do this without you.”
“I’ve got you now,” I say, struggling to catch my breath. It’s more of a relief than it should be to look down and not see the baby’s head. “Okay, you’re not crowning yet. Uh, it’s Paul, right?” I glance at the trainer—at Pace’s dad—whose haggard face looks a bit green.
“Pauly,” he corrects. “I don’t know much about births, but she’s looking good.”
“Did I hear something about towels before? Antiseptic? Something to clean my hands with.”
Looking grateful for a task, he begins tossing me things from the shelves; sterile saline wipes, nitrile gloves, and a thick stack of hand towels that I try not to think too much about.
“Is it okay?” she asks, her green eyes full of fear. “Is everything happening right?” She reaches a trembling hand down to her core, wincing. “I don’t feel him.”
“Not yet, but that’s fine. Good, actually,” I assure. As I speed through the process of using the wipes, my hands are steadier than they have any right to be. “Wick,” I call as I pull on the first glove. “How long since the last?—”
“Now! Fuck!” Verity’s whole body tenses before me, lips pulling back on a gnashed cry. Her hand reaches out, nails clawing into my forearm, and I freeze, absorbing the pain. I’ve seen women giving birth before, but none of those were women I love. Even the sight of Verity in pain cleaves through my chest like a hot knife, she looks like a force of nature as her body clenches in a push, a spray of rabid spittle flying out through gritted teeth. Wild tendrils of her red hair are plastered with sweat to her forehead, the capillaries closest to her skin already blooming, breaking.
She looks like a warrior.
A creator.
“Never mind.” I don’t wait for the contraction to ease before grabbing her knee with one hand and sliding my fingers into her with the other. Wicker presses his forehead to her temple, whispering quiet, intense, soothing things.
“That’s right, Red,” he murmurs. “You’ve got this. You’re stronger than any of us are, that’s for fucking sure.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she snaps, and her mother snorts, muttering, “Men.”
“He’s coming,” I tell her, pitching forward to capture her gaze. “You’re doing so good, baby. We’re almost there, but not quite. You’re fully dilated and a hundred-percent effaced, just like we talked about, but you have to work with your body and the contractions—not against it. You’re going to need to wait to push until I tell you to, okay?”
She answers with a long, miserable sob. “They took Eugene, Lex.” A tear rolls down her cheek, voice thick and ragged. “Laura’s dead, and they think he?—”
“Don’t think of that right now,” I urge. “Your job is to get that baby here.”
Mama B leans down to catch Verity’s gaze. “Listen to me. Ballsy would beat his own ass if he knew you were worrying about him at a time like this.”
Jerking my chin at Wick, I order, “While you’ve got her hand, try to count her pulse.”
In the minutes between contractions, the room grows electric with anticipation, each second stretched thin with expectation. But he’s coming faster than I expected, and it’s not long before I notice her stomach tightening up and nod at Verity.
“It’s time. Do you think you can push now, baby?”
She responds with another of those body-seizing clenches, and Pace moves in behind her, giving her leverage. I brace her thighs as she bears down, releasing a guttural sound that might as well be a fist reaching into my chest. Her mother crouches down, almost like she’s remembering her own labor—sense memory—the two of them connected through the pain.
When Verity collapses, fatigue warring with determination in her eyes, I urge, “Breathe,” and watch her chest expand and contract. Reaching down, I enter her with two fingers, feeling our son, stretching her out to help keep her from tearing. “He’s close,” I say, glancing at the guys.
The air around Pace seems to hum with eagerness as he smooths her hair back, grinning. “Hear that, Rosi? Not much longer now.”
Wicker just looks fucking terrified. “Should she push?”
I nod. “Push again when you’re ready.”
I don’t hear the approaching footsteps, but I do hear Agent Knight’s abrupt, commanding voice ringing out from the doorway. “Where the hell did the other two Ashbys come from?” My jaw tightens as I see a tight fist grabbing Pace by the neck of his shirt. “How did the two of you get in here? You can’t be?—”
There’s a flurry of motion that I’m too distracted to see the progression of, but by the time I look up, Pauly’s got Agent Knight pushed up against the wall, his tattooed forearm pushing hard against his throat. “Do not,” he growls, teeth bared, “fucking touch him.”
Knight glares back. “This is an active crime scene.”
“Look around you, little piggy.” Pauly backs off with a hard shove, standing between Knight and Pace. “This has fuck-all to do with you.”
The air around us trembles with the strength of Verity’s sudden roar. “Get out!” The bellow rides the crest of another deep, clenching contraction, and she follows it with a push, face twisting with the effort.
The agent, rightly, turns on his heel, muttering, “Stubborn East End bullshit,” before shutting the door.
“Breathe!” I say, watching her suck in a hard breath. I glance down, and then nod rapidly at Verity. “He’s crowning. This is the hardest part, baby. I want you to build your strength up for a bit, okay?”
“I’m scared.” She exhales. “It hurts.”
“There’s no going back now. Look at me, you’ve got to push through the pain because on the other side of that is relief and our baby.” She nods. “Try not to tense up, okay?”
When she obeys, I don’t see the fatigue anymore. I see eyes filled with fire and steel resolve, and when the next push comes, it’s with a strength I wouldn’t believe her capable of. Here she is, this little slip of a girl, tendons popping, eyes squinching, mouth pulled into a grimace, and she’s giving life.
Even if all my plans had fallen into place—my training, the fancy instruments, and diagnostics—it wouldn’t matter.
I have no power here.
Mama B spurs her on as the head emerges. “That’s right, Ver Bear, you’ve got it.”
“One more push,” I tell her, reaching down to hold his head, keeping his airway clear, and checking to make sure the umbilical cord isn’t wrapped around his neck. “One more good push, baby, and it’s over. Can you give me one more?”
Against my arms, her thighs are quivering, and she releases a loud, wet sob. But when I look up, she’s bracing against Pace, sucking in a deep, deliberate breath.
Her final push is pure resilience, body shaking with the force of it. The room seems to hold its breath with her, listening as she grinds out another cry of raw fury.
I jolt forward when he emerges, gathering him close to flip him. Using my fingers, I clean the mucus and blood from his mouth and nose. He’s flushed a light purple, skin wrinkled and slick, and my heart skips when he doesn’t immediately begin breathing.
Frantically, I begin rubbing his back. “Come on, little guy. Let’s see it.”
Suddenly, he begins squirming.
“When he hears your voice, he squirms around, like he’s turning, searching…”
His first breath is this tiny, quivering thing, released in a cry just as raw with fury as his mother’s had been seconds ago. My vision swims as I take him in, and for a long moment, it hurts to breathe. He’s so small—so unbelievably fragile—and we made him with our bodies, with our minds, with our hearts.
In two-hundred and sixty-four days.
It’s only when I look up at Verity’s anxious face that I feel the heat of tears in my eyes. Gruffly, I assure, “He’s good,” before carefully laying him on her belly. “And you’re a fucking goddess.”
The cord is still attached, and the afterbirth will come, but the sound of sirens seems like they’re getting closer. Which is good, because at this moment, I seriously doubt my ability to function.
I’m too busy watching my family.
Verity releases a ragged gasp as she touches him for the first time, her wet eyes filled with awe and joy. His tiny body, warm and damp, settles instinctively against her skin, and she instantly gathers him closer, fingers grasping against his delicate skin. “Hey, Justice James,” she sobs, voice trembling with emotion.
Glancing over, I laugh breathlessly at the looks on my brothers’ faces, so full of astonishment and adoration.
The world narrows to just the five of us as we each meet our son in our own way.
Justice’s minuscule fingers grasp at nothing and everything all at once, and as Pace reaches down to stroke the fine, downy hair covering his head, Wicker extends his own trembling finger, face slackening when Justice’s flailing hand latches onto it.
Mama B tearfully says, “He’s beautiful.”
Wicker doesn’t even make any smirking, vain comments about him taking after his father. He just swallows, speaking through a tight throat, “He’s strong.”
“Of course he’s strong,” Pace says, clapping Wicker on the back and pulling him in for a hug. “Just like his mom and dad.”
It’s barely five minutes later that the EMS crew comes in to load Verity and Justice onto a gurney. It’s difficult to watch someone else touch them, a possessive heat coming over me as the medic covers her—my Princess—in a blanket.
“You did good.” Mama B’s warm palm comes to rest on my shoulder. “Let them take it from here.” Glancing over, I’m taken aback by the tenderness in her eyes.
“Yeah,” I agree, although my brothers and I may as well be fused to the stretcher as they wheel her from the gym, onto the crowded West End street.
Still shell-shocked in a way, I don’t expect the sight that awaits us.
On one side of the street is a long row of handcuffed DKS.
On the other is a line of PNZ.
As soon as the gurney emerges through the doors, all of them turn to look our way, a sea of hopeful, nervous faces. But then Justice releases another one of those squawking, raspy cries, and the crowd erupts as one.
DKS cheers while PNZ claps, and we make our march to the ambulance with congratulatory shouts of, “‘Atta girl, Princess!” and, “To the Victor, Ver!”
Maybe I never fully bought into Rufus’ bullshit—maybe East End was built on a foundation of suffering and degradation—but looking at my Princess, no five words have ever rang truer.
“To create,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to her damp forehead, “is to reign.”
Fresh from a shower, I pull the green scrub top over my head, and hear the nurse say, “Let’s help you out of this.”
Glancing over, I see her slipping Verity’s stained dress over her head, revealing her post-birth body to the entire postpartum room. Despite knowing this is a purely medical arena, it bothers me. I’m used to it just being us down in the palace’s medical wing, and right now, nurses are scrambling around us, in and out.
We were a mess when we came in, both of us covered in blood and fluid. They sent me to shower and get sterile, while the OB team checked both Verity and Justice.
“You did good work,” Dr. Hoffman says. “Both of your patients are in perfect health.”
“I didn’t do much,” I say, taking in Verity as they sponge her down. “She did the heavy lifting.”
He shakes his head. “Modesty will get you nowhere in this business, Ashby. Take the compliment—and congratulations.” He claps me on the back. “You’re a lucky man.”
When I turn back to where the team is assessing Justice, I lurch forward. “Can I do that?”
The nurse practitioner on staff pauses, holding up the syringe. “You want to administer the vitamin K injection?”
I take it. “Yes.”
I swab my son’s squirming thigh with an antiseptic wipe before uncapping the syringe. But when I look down at his tiny, writhing body, I freeze, a chill running through me at the thought of pushing the needle into him.
At causing him pain.
It twists in my stomach like sickness, the memory of all the times Father’s whip lashed my back with hot, stinging slashes.
Yakov, the NP—a burly guy I worked with occasionally during my internship—gently takes the needle from my stiff hand. “I wasn’t able to do it with mine, either. You wanna look away?”
Sighing, I turn, allowing him to administer the injection. “You’ve got kids?” I ask, watching Wicker pulling another scrub top over his head on his way out the door. He’d taken off his shirt right before EMS came to swaddle Justice in. So much for the sanctity of Versace.
“Two,” Yakov says, and then, “Boy and girl. All done. Took it like a champ.”
I spin right back around, not asking before I snatch up the bottle of prophylactic eye drops. This, I reason, won’t cause him any pain, even though he squirms an awful lot. His eyes are a fascinating shade of gray-blue, and when I gather him up in my arms to take him back to Verity, he mostly looks annoyed.
“Here he is, all cleaned up,” I announce, soothed by the weight of him against me. “Everything looks good. He’s healthy. And the doc said you’re doing good, too.”
“Am I?” she asks, eyes swollen and drooping. Her hair is a knotted mess, and she’s two shades paler, the white gown the nurse put her in doing nothing for her pallor. “I feel like I got run over by a truck.”
Grinning down at Justice, I reason, “That’s what happens when you have a six-pound, four-ounce baby on the floor of a gym.”
“Sounds like a bruin to me.” She laughs at my scowl but then winces. “Ouch.”
“You ready for him?” I ask, even though I’m not ready to let him go. I could hold him forever.
She nods and slowly stretches out her arms. “The nurse said I should feed him right away.”
Pausing, I glance at her chest. “Tell me what you need me to do.”
This is the stuff they don’t teach you in medical school; the stuff that happens after the procedure. The awkwardness and frustration of doing these things for the first time. Verity tugs the neck of her gown down, revealing a plump, ready tit, and I guide Justice to it as she takes him into her arms. Together, we adjust and readjust, nudging his mouth to her nipple.
“This is… weird,” she whispers, sliding a nervous glance at Yakov, who’s preparing the clear hospital bassinet.
Unable to disagree, I call out, “Hey, Yak, don’t take this wrong way, but could you fuck off?”
He barks a laugh, situating the blanket. “Sure thing, Ashby. Push the button if you need me.”
Once he’s left, Verity throws me a look that’s both admonishing and grateful. “Rude.”
“I’ll buy him dinner in the caf,” I promise, fluttering my fingers over Justice’s grasping hand. “Is he?—”
“Oh,” she says, eyes snapping wide as he finally gets with the program, lips latching onto her nipple. “There you go,” she coos down at him. “You’re such a quick learner.”
We share a quiet, soft smile, and by the time I hear the tap on the door, Pace entering reluctantly, Justice is latched on.
“He’s eating?” Pace says, perching on the other side of the bed. He leans down and kisses Verity on the forehead while resting his hand on Justice’s little head.
“He’s trying,” she says, nose wrinkling.
“He’ll figure it out in no time.” Pace watches him closely, his thumb running over the soft hair on his head.
“Where’s Wicker?” she asks, and I hate the line of worry on her forehead. I remember him leaving, but was too distracted to wonder why. “He didn’t freak out, did he?”
“About being a father?” Pace asks, chuckling. “Not… exactly.”
Before he can explain further, the door pushes open and Wick struts in. He’s in a clean shirt that he must have gotten from the gift shop, because emblazoned on the front in chunky collegiate letters is the word ‘DAD’. Clutched in one hand is a box of cigars, and in the other, a nondescript paper bag. I guess someone is finally embracing his role.
He stops short when he sees us, his eyes flicking over this wild little family of ours.
“Nice shirt,” I say, mouth twitching.
“I got you both one, too,” he hands Pace the gift bag. “But holy shit, Red. Look at you.”
“What?” she asks, face falling. “Do I look that bad?”
“What? No,” comes his instant response. “You just look so motherly and shit.” He walks over and squeezes in beside me, lifting her chin to plant a slow, tender kiss on her mouth. “It’s hot as fuck.”
“Stop,” she says, a small smile lifting her tired expression.
“He’s right.” Pace’s hand rises from Justice’s head to stroke the swell of Verity’s tit. “You’re like one of those fertility statues. If we put one in the garden, the frat would worship it.”
She gives me an exasperated look, as if she’s expecting me to talk some sense into them. But I can’t. “Don’t look at me,” I tell her. “I already told you that you’re a goddess.”
Some of the color returns to her cheeks as she looks down at Justice, his mouth abandoning her teat. She frowns. “Well, that wasn’t very much.”
“It’s okay,” I assure, stroking the shell of his tiny ear. “He’s not going to eat much at first. It’s more about muscle memory at this point.”
She looks at Wicker, a reluctant tilt to her smile. “Do you want to hold him?”
Neither he nor Pace have yet.
Wicker releases a long, tense breath as he reaches for him. Blue eyes dart to mine. “Tell me if I’m doing it wrong.”
Wicker’s palm cradles his head, the other hand tucked under Justice’s body, and then he pulls him into his chest, stiff as he carefully adjusts. “Is this…?”
“You’re good, Wick,” I assure, but stand behind him, directing his arm.
The three of us watch as Wicker settles, gazing nervously down at his son. “What if he starts crying?” he frets. “What if he—” But then Justice’s eyes flutter open, blue meeting blue, and Wicker looks gutted. “So, you’re what all the fuss is about, huh?” His whisper is light but strained with emotion, and when he ducks down to gently brush his lips over Justice’s forehead, Verity, Pace, and I share a long look, understanding the gravity of the moment.
Wicker, the person most afraid of loving something, has been captured, hook, line, and sinker.
“Pace,” he suddenly says, rising to round the bed to his brother. “Your turn.”
But my other brother fidgets, hands buried deep in his pockets. “You sure?” he asks. “You can take some time, Wick.”
Wick just scoffs. “I have a lifetime to be a dad, but we only get to meet our son once. Come on, make the arms.”
Amused by the clumsy directive, Pace holds his arms against his chest, pitching close as Wicker passes Justice into the cradle of his hold. When Wicker steps back, Pace furls. It’s like his whole body is holding the baby, shoulders both high and curled inward, as if he’s shielding him from something.
Up until this moment, I’ve been pretty well-versed in the field of Pace’s emotions. He’s never been as explosive as Wicker or as composed as me. Pace feels, but he expresses it tactically.
Nothing about the look on his face right now is tactical.
“I was so worried I’d feel different once I saw him,” he says, voice ragged as he glances up at me. “Like I’d meet him and know he wasn’t mine.”
Verity struggles up in bed, anguish on her face. “Oh, Pace.”
But he grins down at the baby, head shaking. “It’s just the opposite, though,” he says, eyes softening as he takes in Justice’s tired face. “He’s made of you and Wick—two people I love the most. Nothing has ever felt more mine than this.” He looks up at me, eyes both curious and wrecked. “Is it like that for you?”
My chest throbs. “Yeah,” I admit, taking Verity’s hand in mine. “That’s exactly what it’s like.”
Maybe Wick can’t understand it yet, how something they made together can feel so inexplicably linked to us.
Maybe someday he will.
The next morning, Pace and Wick stand outside her room, wrangling a sort of schedule for the string of visitors—from various territories—currently crowding the maternity ward’s lobby.
PNZ gets first dibs.
“Whoa.” Tucking his bouquet of white roses beneath an arm, Rory ducks down to get a good look at Justice, still nestled in Verity’s arms. “He’s got the cutest little chin.”
“I don’t know,” Tommy says, eyes narrowed as he assesses him. “He’s all wrinkly and red and bald. Looks kind of like my grandpa, actually.”
Rory smacks him with the bouquet. “He just came out of a person.”
Verity gives a tired chuckle, meeting my gaze. “I’m assured he won’t look like a ninety-eight-year-old man forever.”
Shrugging, Tommy places his own bouquet on the pile below the mounted TV. “From me and Heather.”
Verity’s eyebrow ticks up. “Heather sent me flowers?”
“No,” Tommy says, rocking back on his heels. “They’re specifically for the baby.”
A smile twitches at her lips. “I’m sure Justice appreciates it.”
After that comes Kramus, Baxter, Loeffler, and Mitch, each with their own bouquets of white roses. By the time PNZ leaves, the whole console table is bursting with them, a shock of white amongst the bare furnishings. They seem content to hang out all day, until I kick them out, telling them Verity needs a break.
“You need a break,” she says watching them exit the room. “You were up all night hovering.”
“I wasn’t hovering.” I was checking vitals, and fluids, and listening for Justice’s tiny, perfect breaths.
Her eyes harden into a threatening resolve. “When Pace and Wick get back, I want you to go home and sleep.” Somewhere in the procession of PNZ visits, she’d sent them home with a list of things to bring back for the rest of her stay. Hopefully, they remember to bring my glasses so I can take these godforsaken contacts out.
I rub my eyes, refusing to acknowledge how gritty they feel. “Ver, I’m fine. I got a solid two hours around three?—”
“Are you fucking me with this plaque?” Verity’s mother’s voice comes from the hallway. “‘The Rufus Ashby Maternity Suite’. Jesus Christ, that son of a bitch never saw a room he didn’t want to piss on.” She walks in with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Well, I wonder if rooms in the fiery pits of hell have plaques?”
“Hey, Mama,” Verity says, eyes lighting up when she sees her mother. “I’d ask to move rooms, but this one is really nice.”
The four of us came to an agreement when Verity killed Rufus. We’re going to enjoy every privilege and indulgence he left for us, and the maternity suite is exactly that. Indulgent. From the coffee maker and mini-bar to the jetted tub in the bathroom. The only reason I managed those two hours of sleep last night came down to an accidental lounging on the guest bed six feet away from hers.
“Sure enough. It’s a palace.” She looks around, taking in the couch and small kitchenette. She spots the wall of roses. “I see the frat has been here.”
“They just left,” I say gently, “and Verity needs to rest and feed?—”
“Lex Ashby, don’t even think of kicking me out,” she snaps, heading straight to the little bassinet where Justice is sleeping. “Verity can feed the baby in front of me. The girls, too. This is nothing we haven’t seen.”
“What girls?” I ask, but a moment later, Lavinia and Story appear in the doorway. A grin splits Verity’s face at the sight of them, and I remember what Tristian said that day working on the nursery. These women aren’t just contemporaries. They’re friends.
“You came,” Verity says, looking more alert than she has all day.
“And we brought food,” Story says, holding up a greasy bag.
Verity inhales deeply, immediately sitting up. “Is that from Se?or Mexicana?”
“Yep. Special number five.”
“Oh my god, I love you.” She snatches the bag from her. “I’m starving.”
At Verity’s defiant look, I hold up my hands. “Go for it. Your body needs fuel.”
“Got you one too, Dr. Daddy,” Lavinia says, thrusting a foil-covered burrito at me from another bag.
Since when does West End’s Queen buy food for a Prince?
Unable to hide how touched I am by the gesture, I say, “Wow.” My stomach rumbles, and I remember I haven’t eaten either. “Thanks.”
While Mama B is hunched over the bassinet and—there’s no other word for it—gushing, the two girls plop on the couch.
Lavinia begins, “Okay, tell us everything. Like, on a scale of one to Sy’s dick, how bad did it hurt?”
“Jesus.” I choke on the first bite of spicy chicken, not even caring that Verity’s exposing a breast for the hungry baby Mama B is bringing her. I can’t be here for this discussion. “I’ll, um, just go eat this down in the visitor's lounge.”
The sound of giggling follows me out the door.
I wander down the hall until I find the little room set aside for visitors, and pull out a chair. The second bite is as good as the first, and I relish the grease and carbs, idly wondering if Wick and Pace can take a detour on the way back to buy me three more.
I’m halfway done when a massive figure in black stalks by, and I call out over beans and rice, “Hey. In here.”
Sy loops back, exhaling in relief when he sees me. “This place is a fucking maze.”
“You get used to it.” I take another bite, and he nods at the burrito.
“The girls found you, I see.”
“Yep. They’re in there talking about—” Your massive dick, I don’t say, “—well, stuff no one wants to hear. Not even me. And Verity’s feeding the baby, which is still touch-and-go, so we may want to give her a few minutes.”
“Cool. Remy and Nick are parking the car.” He sits in the hard chair across from me, stretching his legs out, and I change the subject. “What’s the news on Ballsack?”
Sy looks almost as tired as I feel, and I find myself curious about what a night in the city lockup with a couple dozen of your own frat brothers even looks like. “It’s not good,” he begins, crossing his arms in a way that signals discomfort more than machismo. “They’ve got hard evidence on him this time, and I’m not sure it’ll be easy to beat.”
I frown. “What evidence?”
His eyebrows crouch low. “Our lawyer says there was blood at the scene of the crime. Specifically, Ballsy’s blood on Laura’s teeth.”
“Her teeth?” My blood runs cold. “So he did it?”
Sy’s face snaps with shock. “Fuck no, he didn’t do it. The coroner puts the time of death at about thirty-six hours ago, but they searched him over twice and couldn’t even find a break in his skin, let alone a bite wound.” Sy’s eyes skitter around the hall, a touch of paranoia in them. “Simply put, he’s being framed for this. Someone in Forsyth wants this pointed in our direction.”
“But,” I argue, “if he doesn’t have any wounds, then how would someone even get his blood?—”
My pulse stutters as it hits me.
The blood drive.
The samples I took.
The realization my little scheme may have played a part in this slams into me like a sack of bricks. May is the operative word here. Who would have gotten access to it? And how? It feels like a stretch to me, which means Knight will just think it’s bullshit. And if Ballsack is being framed, then that just puts me as a suspect—the person with access to his blood.
Motherfuck.
“Hell if I know,” Sy says, rubbing his face, “but we’ll deal with it. The lawyer is top-notch. One of Saul’s scumbags, so that’s good.” He looks over my shoulder, and I glance back, seeing Remy and Nick approaching. “The girls are down there now, and Verity’s feeding the baby.”
“Got it.” Remy jerks his chin at me. “How’s my nephew?”
It’s Maddox’s eager grin that makes me set aside worries about the blood evidence for the moment. Among the grief of Laura Walker’s death, Ballsy’s arrest, and missing women, it’s not often people like us get something to celebrate. Even so, my appetite is gone, so I toss the rest of the burrito in the trash and stand, saying, “Let’s go find out.”
Before letting them in, I crack the door, checking to make sure she’s decent. Verity can flash her tits to her mom and her girlfriends all she wants, but it’ll be over my dead body that the Dukes get even a glimpse of her nipples. Seeing that she’s put the goods away for now, I open the door for them to enter just as a burst of laughter comes from the women.
Nick eyes them skeptically, “I can’t ever tell if that’s a bad sign or not.”
“They’re happy,” Sy says, coming to the same conclusion I had. “They deserve that—especially right now, with the rest of West End planning a funeral.”
Death and birth.
No one understands the cycle more than a PNZ.
“Looking good, Ver,” Remy says, approaching the bed. “Wanna see what I did this morning?”
She sits straighter, eyes narrowing. “What did you do?”
He thrusts out his arm and pulls back his sleeve, revealing a clear bandage. Nestled against his other ink, a small crown is visible beneath the translucent bandage. In a looping script, the initials J.J. interlock. “For my nephew.”
Verity stares at it, her mouth pressed into a tight line as her eyes begin welling. “Oh, Remy,” she gasps, wiping a tear from her eye. “Fuck you. You know I’m hormonal right now.”
From the couch, Lavinia beams at him. “I helped with one of the roses on the bottom.”
Verity’s chin wobbles, and she looks at me, a plea in her eyes that I don’t have to consider for long. “Do you want to hold him?”
Remy freezes, glancing at me. “Can I?” Shrugging, I wave my hand, having had my possessive instincts whittled down over the course of so many visitors already. The Dukes don’t even feel like enemies anymore, which is something I might think to feel worried about later.
Right now, I watch as Justice meets his uncle.
“Oh,” Remy breathes adoringly as he lifts him. “He’s so small. Sy’s got books that weigh more than you, little guy.” He grins down at Justice, and if I inch a little closer as he adjusts to cradle him in his arms, then no one could blame me. “He’s got my chin,” he says, holding him up for the others to see.
Verity laughs. “Well, I think he’s actually got Wic?—”
“Ver,” Lavinia says with a sigh, “just let him have it.”
It’s still weird as fuck that Remy and Wick are half-brothers, but now that I know, it also kind of makes sense.
“Vinny, look,” he says, flashing her an excited grin. “Have you ever seen a brighter white than this?”
Brows knitting together, we all look toward Sy, and he snorts. “He doesn’t mean his skin color. White means?—”
“Fresh and clear, like a clean canvas.” Remy’s eyes light up, and he looks at Verity. “Can I give him his first tattoo?”
I jolt forward to take him. “Okay, enough of that.”
He frowns, but hands Justice over to me. “Not now. I mean when he turns sixteen.” At Nick’s elbow jabbing into his side, he hisses, “Fine, eighteen.”
Nick wraps his arm around Lavinia and places his hand over her belly, “Maybe it’s about time we thought about putting a baby in you.”
Verity perks. “Oh my god. Yes! It’d be fun to have a baby together,” she pleads, looking hopefully at both girls.
“As much as watching Remy holding that baby has obliterated my ovaries, no freaking way,” Lavina says, attempting to push Nick away. He just holds on tighter. “I can barely manage the three of you and the Archduke.”
“I’m not ready either,” Story says, giving Verity an apologetic grin. “I’ve got to finish school, and we’re still getting situated in the new house. That basement renovation is taking forever. Have you ever worked with contractors?” Even as she rolls her eyes a small smile tugs at her lips. “But my guys will be great dads. I know that.”
Sy leans against the end of the bed, dipping his chin at me. “So what is he going to call each of you? Dad? Papa?”
Verity and I share a look, and she admits, “We haven’t talked about it yet.”
Nick snorts. “Trust me, figure that shit out now. We’ve got two dads, and it gets confusing.”
“But you call them by different names,” Verity says. “Pops and Dad. How is that confusing?”
“Nick’s right,” Sy agrees. “It’s a pain in the ass.”
Giving Justice a gentle bounce, I try to imagine him calling out for me. What would it sound like? Rufus went by Father. It was all formal, and knowing him, intentionally stiff.
I think of the shirt Wicker got for all of us with the word Dad on it.
“I know one thing,” Verity’s mother says with certainty. “There’s only one Mama in this family.”
It’s not until later, after everyone leaves and Pace and Wick return, crashing together in the bed, that I realize I’m still thinking about it. Not what the baby will call us—Mom, Dad, Papa, or whatever else he comes up with will be perfect.
I’m thinking of Verity.
She’s finally asleep. I’ve got Justice bundled up in my arms, and it strikes me hard how amazing his mother is. In a single day, she’s had the Queen of South Side delivering her food. The Queen of West End—born and raised North—giggling on her couch. Even Maddox and his young fiancèe sent a bouquet of flowers and a card. Kings and Dukes, East End soldiers, PNZ members… people from every corner of this city.
They weren’t drawn here because of a Royal birth.
It was her.
Justice isn’t just a baby. He’s our baby. A Prince who is going to need a hell of a long time to be ready to lead. Verity’s already more than a mom and a partner.
More than a Princess.
She’s a goddamn Queen.