Princes of Legacy (Royals of Forsyth University #9)

Chapter 1

1

Verity

The first time I came into this room, it was with my heart in my throat and a pit of dread in my stomach.

Obviously, it’s different now.

The glare of the bright overhead lamp, the sharp scent of disinfectant, the tray of shiny instruments, and the small sonogram machine rolled up next to the exam table. I used to find these things cold and sterile, full of only malicious potential. Now, it’s a strange comfort to watch my Prince curl a familiar hand around the edge of the stool, rolling it closer to the exam table. The knowledge that the instruments are for his hands alone settles any unease. The smell of disinfectant is evidence of his diligence and meticulous care. The lamp is bright so he can see every part of me, always watching, analyzing. Even the snap of latex as he pulls on a glove is absent the nervousness I felt during my hospital stay—the nerves a result of all those strangers rallying to put their hands on me.

When Lex’s fingers press into my abdomen, it elicits a different sort of shiver.

“Cold?” he asks in a smooth voice that I know all too well. His unbuttoned sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his strong, wiry forearms as he pushes each side of my belly. It’s not the first time I’m struck by the fluid competence in his movements, nor the resonance of his quiet voice.

Outside of this room, we’re the Prince and Princess—Lagan and Verity, expectant father and mother—but inside, he keeps the line drawn between doctor and patient.

Even now.

I shake my head.

He continues his exploration of my swollen stomach, tone clinically pensive. “Any pain in the pelvis?”

“No.”

Another push, this time higher. “Belly?”

“No.”

His fingertips drag against my skin as they skate toward each of my hips. “Lower back?”

“Lex…” I sigh, fighting the urge to squirm. “You know the answer to all of these.”

“If you think I’m taking shortcuts with your recovery, then you got hit harder on the head than I realized.” He stands over me, hands firm as he measures my belly, a lock of auburn hair falling by the side of his face. I reach up and push it back, revealing the scowl. “Any fluid discharge?”

“Just the ones that happen when you keep touching me like that,” I complain, shifting uncomfortably.

Bed rest doesn’t mean just resting. It includes all kinds of things I never realized I took for granted, like climbing the stairs of the palace. Lifting my books or gardening tools. Walking across the palace grounds. All of that’s off-limits. My meals are brought to my room. Lex might allow me time in the garden, but only because the sunlight is good for me and the baby, and even that’s supervised by Rory Livingston, a gun strapped to his side. The solarium is also off- limits until Lex confirms all of the bodies have been uncovered. But as much as those things suck, none are the biggest hardship that’s befallen me for the past two weeks. That’s been the other rule.

No sex.

The scowl shifts, his amber eyes growing heavy and knowing as he continues, examining my exposed body. “You’re at twenty-two weeks. That’s the halfway point. He should be about one pound. His senses are developing.” His hands coast over the swell of my belly up to my breasts. Without missing a beat, he cups them in his large palms, a fat thumb rolling over each nipple. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips as they peak. “His eyelids are closed, so he can’t see, but he can discern light from dark.”

I swallow, throat clicking. “He’s moving around a lot.”

“A good sign,” he says, lips curving into a slow grin. “He’s strong. I know it.”

The barely-hidden softness in his eyes is too much to bear, and I find myself reaching for that lock of hair again, rubbing it between my fingers.

It’s stupid to miss someone I live with. Someone who’s barely been nice to me until recently. Someone I can hardly get off my back now that he occasionally is nice to me.

But I do miss him.

He doesn’t sleep in my bed anymore.

Neither does Pace—usually.

Lex’s hands leave my body, and I feel the loss of them so acutely that I arch into the air. These exams are the only time I can get him to touch me until I’m cleared for physical activity, which depending on how paranoid he is, could be after the baby is here. Which means if I’m going to get some freaking relief, it may be now or never.

“Lex,” I say, watching as he rolls the latex gloves off of his hands. “I do have one concern.”

His forehead furrows and he turns back to the table. “What is it?”

“I’ve been experiencing this strange… ache.” I touch my inner thigh, letting my knees unfold like a flower. “Right about here.”

His gaze darts to my exposed center, jaw tensing with a tic. “An ache?”

Nodding, I plead, “Can you check to make sure nothing’s wrong?”

He crosses the distance between us with a sure but unhurried stride, eyes never once leaving the apex of my thighs. Much like when he used to sleepwalk, it feels like I’m being stalked by a predatory animal, that spark of feral heat never far from the rippling surface of his control.

It’s dangerous, tinged with the promise of violence.

I’ve never felt safer.

He comes to a rest at the end of the exam table. The light reflects off of his glasses, but I still feel the heat of his gaze on me as those muscles in his forearms flex, lifting blunt fingers to graze the sensitive inside of my knee.

“Show me.” His voice is gruff in a way I’m not fully expecting. We’ve been doing these exams for two weeks—ever since I was released from the hospital—and he’s always been infuriatingly impeccable. “Show me where it aches.”

I don’t have to look to know he’s already hard. I see the strain in the hard set of his jaw, the ball of tension that only gets tighter when I reach down to brush against the hard bud of my clit. “It’s right around here.”

“Verity,” he says, his tone full of warning. “This is risky…”

“I can get off with doctor supervision, can’t I?” I take his hand off my thigh and move it between my legs. The instant his bare fingers meet the wet heat of me, a low, rough groan escapes his throat. “Or I can do it by myself. That, or we could always call one of your brothers in here and let them?—”

He lurches downward, capturing my lips with his, cutting off the threat with his mouth. His palm cups my breast, while the fingers on his other hand make delicious circles over my clit. It’s been weeks since I’ve felt anyone touch me like this. It won’t take long.

“Fuck me,” I whisper into his mouth. “Please?”

He jolts back, eyes flashing. “Absolutely fucking not.”

Dr. Lex is holding on by a thread, and I reach for him again, this time grabbing the tie in the back of his hair and letting it fall.

Lagan.

This is what he keeps from me at night. It’s the reason he gives me to Wicker or Pace in the hallway every evening before bed, leaving me with a slow, searing kiss before he goes to lock himself up tight in his room. Protecting me and our son from himself.

Lex growls, mouth dropping down to my nipple. The sensitivity is unreal, and fuck, even I’m turned on by how big they’re getting. “Every night, I think about these,” he mumbles mindlessly. “Wanting to bury my face in them—my cock. See my cum dripping down your pretty skin.”

His words are so constricted with longing that it sends an explosion of heat to my belly. I think about it—Lex, at night, leaving me with one of those deep, tongue-fucking kisses, only to retreat to his room and bring himself off to the thought of it.

Jesus.

“Wick is going to lose his fucking mind with these.” He grabs one in a big palm, pushing them together, and bows his head, again, breath hot on a peak. “So big and full, getting ready for the baby.”

Whitaker Ashby has already lost his mind, but I’m not worried about him right now. I just want to feel— “Oh, god, do that again.”

He obliges, swirling his tongue on my breast at the same time he flicks my clit. The sensation runs through me like a live wire. “Again,” I cry, my orgasm close.

He suckles me, tongue lathing against my nipple, and I fall, the rush of release so good, so excruciatingly intense, that it almost hurts.

Releasing my breast, I continue to ride his fingers, only half-aware as he unzips his pants. His cock is thick—erect—a bead of cum seeping from the tip.

“You finished?” he asks, watching me writhe against his hand.

I nod, too spent to talk. He takes the fingers sticky with my release and grips his length, those muscles in his forearm shifting as he moves his fist up and down. Filled with endorphins, I look up at him as he brings himself to the edge, the muscles in his neck tensing with every stroke. I’m still not used to seeing him like this outside of those feral nights from before. This man isn’t desperate. He’s taken back control of his mind and body. He’s clean. Healthy. The flush on his cheeks isn’t new, but the sight of it is different. The smolder in his stare as he watches me. The way a wild lock of his hair billows in the breath being forced through his flared nostrils.

He looks like a column of flame, the edges of him licking out, gathering fuel. The sound he makes is deep enough to feel in my gut, the growl reverberating like a punch. He seizes, snapping forward to rest a hand on the table, right between my legs. The orgasm is swift, cum spilling from the tip of his cock in thick, ropey spurts that meet my flesh hot as fire.

I watch, hypnotized as he milks himself onto the slick crevice of my pussy, fist flexing with every squeeze. I can see the sense returning to his eyes, that line between patient and doctor, and the thing is, there’s pain in it.

Hurt that he wants something he won’t allow himself to have.

Reaching between my legs, I catch his release myself, guiding it to my hole.

He flinches. “Don’t?—”

But it’s barely more than the tip of my finger pushing his seed inside. “That’s what you want,” I whisper. “Isn’t it?”

It’s hard for them, I think, to acknowledge the parts of themselves their father has built over his years of cruelty. Pace, and the way he seeks out isolation. Wicker, and the way he craves to binge on touch. And Lex…

Lex wants to create.

He never really got the chance, and now the thought of it alone is like a live wire to some primal, hindbrain instinct. And it’s so powerful that he can’t even trust himself to sleep beside me.

None of them can help it.

He watches me guide his seed inside with a slack jaw, his eyes tracking the movement as his own fingers join me, gathering up more of his release to feed carefully—reluctantly—into my hole.

“Verity,” he says, voice thick and gruff as he cups a palm against my center as if he’s holding it all in. “Do you ever think… after you have the baby…”

I wait for him to ask, the question lingering in his throat like a dangerous, secret thing.

But when he meets my gaze, I can see him pushing the words away, swallowing them up to hide them away. He pulls back. “Never mind,” he says, shaking it off. “You just… we have to be careful.”

Closing my legs, I shiver, the cold setting in. “I know,” I reply, relieved he never actually asked.

The most important thing is the son growing inside of me. Delivering him into this world, healthy and happy.

I’m not sure how I’d answer the prospect of getting pregnant all over again.

“So, what’s the verdict?” Pace asks, looking between us. He looks haggard and restless and messy, his dark hair unkempt and wild. His eyes look both glazed and too alert, and I wonder when he last got more than an hour of sleep. If it were anyone other than Lex’s brother, I might assume he’s been doing Scratch. But after Lex, no one in this palace would dare.

He just can’t stop watching the monitors.

“Like you weren’t watching,” Lex says, ushering me into the sitting room and directing me to the chair. Used to be the examination room didn’t have any cameras, much like the solarium. Pace has put a swift end to that.

“We were both watching,” Wick says, flipping through one of the pregnancy magazines that randomly started appearing at the palace. “And that was a fantastic show, but it didn’t quite confirm if the Princess is off bed rest yet, or if you two just wanted to bust a nut.”

“Women don’t have nuts,” Pace says.

Wick shrugs, pausing on a page about breast pumps, “I said what I said.”

“Lex,” I say, also needing to know where we go from here. “Seriously. Is my bed rest over, or what?”

There’s still a faint flush on his cheeks, the wrinkle in his brow a touch hunted. “As long as you’re being truthful in your replies to my questions, I see no reason why you can’t be released from bed rest?—”

“Oh, thank god.” I exhale. “I couldn’t take another day in that well-appointed prison you call a bedroom.”

Lex snaps, “Let me finish.” He looks between me and his brothers. “You’re released with conditions.”

“Fuck it,” Pace drops his head back, groaning, “what kind of conditions?”

Lex speaks directly to me. “Obviously, you’ll still need to have a PNZ member with you at all times.” I know they’d rather it be one of them protecting me, but with their focus on the dungeon right now, it’s just not possible. “Keep heavy lifting under ten pounds. Maintain your diet and nutrition. Report any changes to me immediately—and I mean anything. Pains, aches, discharge, anything that seems like a red flag.”

“Whatever you want,” I promise, “I’ll do it.”

“Good girl.” His approving stare is short-lived. “Also, no sex?—”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Wicker shouts. Unlike Pace, Wicker looks perfectly put together. Looking at him, one wouldn’t even know that he spends most of his nights in bed beside me gritting his teeth. “You two just had sex. Like two minutes ago. She’s still got her sex glow and you’ve got that dumb, post-coital look on your face.”

Pace snorts. “So dumb.”

Lex clears his throat. “As I was saying, no vaginal sex. Not yet. She needs a few more weeks of healing.”

Wicker tosses the magazine aside and perches on the edge of the sofa, a relieved gleam in his blue eyes. “So licking the Princess’ pussy is back on the table.”

I look hopefully to Lex. “It is?”

Wicker answers thoughtlessly, “Of course, and obviously handjobs and blowjobs.” This perks him right up, eyes darting to my chest and then back to Lex. “Where do we land on titty-fucking?”

Lex gives a clipped, long-suffering sigh. “Sure, Wick, if Verity feels up to it.”

Wicker nods, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Cool, but what’s the status on anal?” He doesn’t even flinch when my throw pillow slams into his face.

“I am right here, you know!”

“You’re always right here,” he stresses, batting the pillow away. “It’s driving me fucking insane!”

I wrestle down the instinct to feel stung. Wicker has been forbidden to touch me since I came back from the hospital. Since Lex can’t sleep in my bed and Pace is too busy on guard duty to even come to bed, Wicker and I are alone all night, every night.

Not touching.

Not kissing.

Just sleeping.

I can see it wearing on him just as tangibly as the lack of sleep is wearing on Pace, both of my Princes turning brittle in the mornings.

Lex runs his hand over his face. “Listen, nothing enters the Princess’ body for at least two more weeks.” He glares at Pace, who has been quiet through Wicker’s interrogation. “Nothing. That includes plugs, toys, and your cock.”

Pace nods solemnly. “I heard you, brother.”

“And you’re okay with that?” Wicker’s tone is shrill with disbelief.

I’m nearly as curious because I know he misses sleeping with his cock buried in me. If I’m being honest, I miss it too, and at this point, it might be the only way to even get him to sleep.

“What is wrong with the three of you today?” Lex bursts, brows snapping together in frustration. “We all agreed long ago that the most important thing is keeping the baby safe. We need to put our dicks—” he pointedly glares at me, “—and our clits aside, and do what’s right for the pregnancy.”

Feeling annoyingly cowed, Wicker and I both keep our mouths shut. But it’s Pace who stands, walking over to press a kiss to my forehead. “I miss falling asleep inside of you.” He smells like he’s just taken a shower, clean and masculine, and when he grabs the hem of my shirt to push it up, revealing the swell of my belly, I’m not even surprised when he kneels to greet it. “I miss waking up and fucking you. I even miss doing it beside these two fucking headcases.” He looks up to meet my gaze as he brushes his lips against the curve of my stomach. “But it’s worth the sacrifice.”

Behind him, Wicker scoffs, muttering under his breath, “Baby-whipped freaks.”

“I miss it, too.” I run my hand through his silky twists before cupping his chin. “But you’re right.”

“Well, Princess,” he asks, looking up at me with his hands still cupping our baby, “what do you want to do with your new-found freedom?”

And there’s really only one answer.

“I want to see him.”

The corridor down to the dungeon seems darker than I remember. I clutch onto Wicker’s sleeve as he leads the way, haltingly, as if he’s reminding himself to go slow for my sake. A shiver wracks me as we meet the turn that leads to the cell I know all too well.

Instead, we turn left.

I can feel Lex’s presence right behind me, the ghost of his touch lingering warm against my shoulder. I can’t hear Pace, but I can sense him trailing us, his movements no more than a vague disturbance in the dusty air.

Wicker stops suddenly and I flinch to a halt, ears pricking at the sound of metal. A door swings open. The light beyond it is dim, but it may as well be the sun itself given the way my eyes burn to adjust.

“Careful,” Lex says, his breath caressing my ear. “There’s a step.”

He holds my elbow as I find it, stepping carefully down into the room.

Behind us, Pace closes the door. “I don’t like her down here,” he says, not for the first time.

It is, however, the first time Lex turns to match Pace’s grim tone. “Neither do I.” His gaze meets mine, the line of his mouth so grave that it brings me up short. “You don’t need to be here. You don’t need to see what we’ve…”

But his words clip off, and a gnawing doubt grows in my belly at the look in his eyes. There’s unease in the way he cuts his gaze. Perhaps shame.

“You’ve hurt him,” I guess.

Lex meets my stare. “Yes.”

“Badly?”

Pace raises his chin, a glint of defiance in his dark eyes. “Sometimes.”

I look between them, deciding, “Good.”

Lex parts his lips to argue, but Wicker steps between us, reaching for a switch. “Give it a fucking rest. This isn’t some East End debutante we’re dealing with here. She’s West End. She can handle a little blood.” There’s a click, and then the room beyond a grimy glass window explodes with light. “Can’t you, Red?”

My answer—yes, of course—gets stuck in the back of my throat at the sight before me. I breathe sharply and force myself not to look away, because Wicker is right. I can handle blood. I can stomach the sight of Ashby’s mangled hand, two fingers missing. I can absolutely deal with the fact he’s mostly naked, strapped to a metal table, torso slashed with whip marks.

This isn’t the senseless violence of West End, I remind myself. It’s not the Dukes having an ugly spar with another frat in the ring. It’s not a bullet hole or a stab wound made for the purpose of winning.

This isn’t victory.

It’s justice.

The thought makes it easier to take the five steps to the window, peering through the dirty glass to get a better look at him. Rufus Ashby, no longer in his pristine white suit. The King of East End, completely absent of his poise and dignity. My father, little more than a sack of meat and bones.

I tilt my head, considering. “He looks…”

“Like a murderous piece of shit?” Pace asks.

“Well, yes but…” I try to find the words, assessing the changes as Lex watches me warily. Ashby’s skin is pale—even worse than mine. And there are dark, sunken circles under his eyes. There’s blood, certainly, and he looks smaller than I remember, but that’s not quite the issue. I frown, finally putting my finger on it. “Old,” I decide. “He looks old.” His hair looks more gray than blonde in this light, as does the raggedy beard that’s growing in.

“I’m not surprised.” Pace’s fingers flutter soothingly through my hair, the motion mindless, automatic. These last two weeks have built a few constants, one being Pace’s distracted fixation with brushing his fingers through my hair. “Every day down here feels like an eternity. You know that, Rosi.”

Swallowing, I ask the question there’s no good answer to. “Will he… die?” A quick death wouldn’t be just. To let him live, even less so.

“No,” Lex answers instantly, snagging a clipboard from the hook beside the window. “His vitals have been steady, if not strong. None of his wounds are life-threatening. A couple signs of infection, but we’re dealing with it.” The tone is cold and curt. The contrast between Lex’s clinical manner in my exam room versus Ashby’s couldn’t be more stark. “He won’t die.”

Darkly, Wicker adds, “Not yet.”

“But he’s in pain,” I wonder, glancing at Pace beside me.

“Pain?” Pace’s knuckle brushes the edge of my jaw, his lips curving into a slow, sinister smirk. “Fuckloads of pain.”

Excellent. “I want to talk to him,” I decide, moving toward the door.

To my surprise, it’s Wicker who blocks the way, his blue eyes wide. “What? You can’t go in there.”

I bristle. “Why not?”

“Interrogation isn’t all hack and slash,” he insists. “It’s easy to get in a man’s skin, but getting into his mind? That takes time. Manipulation, incentive, reinforcement.” Wicker’s eyes dart down to my belly, a shadow crossing his features. “If you walk in there, you’re going to give him something he wants. Something,” he stresses, “he hasn’t earned.”

I straighten my spine, annoyed. “What about what I’ve earned? I’ve earned the right to ask my own questions! We put him in there together. We’re supposed to be a team.”

But Wicker just scoffs. “Why do you think I let you down here?” His hand flies out, punching a button on the wall. “Wake up, fucknuts. We’ve got your daughter down here.”

Behind the glass, Ashby twitches, his eyelids fluttering open. The movement is small and contained when he twists his neck, his bloodshot eyes landing on the glass. “Verity?” he rasps, the hope clear in his voice. And then, quieter, “Michael?”

Wicker gives me a look that’s so obnoxious he doesn’t even have to say ‘told you so’. “Tell us the combination to your upstairs safe, and maybe we’ll let you see her.”

Lex’s gaze snaps to Wicker’s, and then Pace’s. There’s an electric current of eagerness running between them. A bated breath. This is something they’ve been trying to get for a while, I realize.

But Ashby’s face hardens at the request, and suddenly, he doesn’t look like the frail old victim he’d seemed mere moments ago. He looks like the King again. The monster. “She’s not worth it.”

I spring forward, fist clenched as I speak into the microphone. “But our baby is, isn’t he?”

Lex snags my hand, and when I turn to meet his gaze, I find a sharp, disapproving frown. “No,” he mouths.

But when I look back at Wicker, his grin is chilling. “Yes,” he mouths.

And that pretty much seals it. “Tell them the combination and I’ll show you my stomach.” I hold Wicker’s gaze. It’s probably not a good sign that he’s so willing to use our son as a cheap interrogation ploy, but… “Tell them, and I’ll show you your grandson.”

It’s barely the space between two breaths when Ashby lifts his neck, his red-rimmed eyes hard and wide. “Zero seven one,” beside me, Pace scrambles to get down the numbers, “four two zero zero two.” A ragged laugh rips from his throat. “You’re all worthless if you couldn’t figure that out. I’m even more disappointed in you than usual, Pace. If you were half the Prince you think you are, you’d know what this number means by now.”

Pace looks both furious and lost as he glances at his brothers, only getting their confused shrugs in response.

But my eyes never once leave Ashby’s gaunt face, a bitter taste lingering in the back of my throat. “It’s my birthday.”

That same ragged laugh tears through the speaker. “What, no celebration planned? It must be coming up soon. What is it, mid-June?”

Wicker’s hand disappears from the button, an aggressive tilt to his mouth. “Do not ever,” he grinds out, “tell him the date. Understand?”

I look at Pace, knowing the texture of the tally marks on his forearm well enough to give a slow, understanding nod. “Never.”

He hasn’t earned it.

And with that, Wicker wrenches open the heavy inner door.

The smell hits me before I even step over the threshold. It smells worse than death because it’s actually life. Proof that his body still works. I push my palm over my nose, halfway to being sick as I follow Wicker through. Behind us, Lex mutters a curse, but they’re different in here. No longer doting Princes. It’s just like Wicker had said. A sensitive operation. Even the way they move is different, purposeful and precise, giving nothing away.

Pace sweeps in with such a lack of expression that it makes my breath quicken.

“Show me,” Ashby demands, squirming in his restraints as he struggles to lever himself upright. “Show me my heir.”

Exchanging a glance with Wicker, I reluctantly reach for the hem of my shirt, inching it over the swell of my belly.

Ashby’s mouth forms a twisted grin. “He’s still growing.”

To say it’s unpleasant is an understatement. I hate the way he looks at me, his cold eyes fixed on my belly with that repulsive smirk. I hate the knowledge that I’ve been brought here to act as his vessel, just a cage for his next creation. I hate him.

So it’s a triumph to see his face fall when I tug my shirt down, hiding our son away. “Where’s Stella?” I ask.

Ashby scoffs. “She’s clearly not here. If she were, she’d give you the proper attire for a Princess to wear in her second trimester.” It’s almost impressive how he can lay there bleeding, dirty, and bruised, entirely stripped of his dignity, and still manage to sound above it all. His lip curls in disdain as he stares me down. “You look like street trash.”

The crack is unexpected, making me jolt in alarm. I’m not prepared for Ashby’s strained, gnashed scream, nor the sight of blood bubbling up from the slash of the whip.

But it’s satisfying, all the same.

“Manners, old man,” Pace says, fist tight around the handle of the whip. “That’s the mother of our child you’re speaking to.”

Behind me, Wicker slings an arm around my shoulder, deceptively casual as his other hand rests on my stomach. “Yeah, think about poor little CJ in there. We can’t expose our son to that sort of filth.”

I glance at him over my shoulder, brows knitted up in confusion. “CJ?”

Wicker grins. “Yes, little Clive Junior. It’s tradition for a man to give his son the name of his patriarch. You know how much East End loves their traditions.”

Lex’s lips twitch, which is my first clue that he’s not serious.

Ashby doesn’t know that, though. His face transforms into ugly, sharp edges. “Under no circumstances,” he grinds out, “are you to name my heir after a fucking Baron King.”

“He’s not your heir,” I snap, “and we’ll name him what we like. Maybe Clive.” Eyes narrowing, I add, “Or maybe Davis. After Davis Bruin, you know? That’s the closest thing to a patriarch I’ve ever had.”

I’m expecting all three of my Princes to pull a face, but to my surprise, none of them do.

“Clive Davis has a ring to it,” Wicker says, caressing my belly. “What do you think, Red? Should we hyphenate? Kayes-Sinclaire?”

Ashby roars, “Enough!” His restraints are pulled taut, the tendon in his neck bulging. “That’s my blood. My heir!” He collapses back, exhausted. “I know you think you’re in control, but I’m not alone. Danner?—”

“Is locked upstairs,” Wicker says cooly.

“Thaddius—”

“Is dead.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t believe it. He escaped.”

“He did,” Wick agrees, “but the network of PNZ alumni stretches far and wide. You saw to that. We contracted one to handle Thaddius.” He tilts his head. “Would you like to see pictures?”

I’ve known for a long while now that Rufus Ashby is crazy, but I’m somehow still stunned at the depth of his obsession. Is this East End’s true creation? I look at my Princes and wonder how long this obligation—this fanatical drive to breed—has been beaten into them. Is it just the Royalty, or is it the whole frat?

And why?

But these aren’t the questions I need the answer to yet. I only need the answer to one. “Tell me where Stella is.” Before he can argue, I offer, “Tell me, and I’ll let you touch him.” I rest my hand atop Wicker’s, watching as Ashby’s eyes grow impossibly more crazed. “I’ll let you feel him kick.”

“If these are the questions you’re asking,” he says, voice rough as gravel, “then I’m not worried. Obviously, none of you are prepared to lead a kingdom.” He looks away, that same haughty demeanor taking over. “I’ll get my heir, one way or another.”