Chapter 3
3
Lex
I’ve never been to the old Forsyth courthouse without Father until now.
The first time he brought me here, I was seven. One of Daniel Payne’s South Side soldiers had brazenly assassinated one of the Counts in a drive-by shooting. It’d been a huge scandal at the time—not just because of the audacity of the Lords to attack a rival so boldly, but because it exposed the Kings’ lack of control over their ranks.
But they were younger back then, new to their kingships, exuding the brash confidence of the newly empowered. They were men. Kings. And I wanted nothing more than to bask in their superiority. I observed Father engage with these men on equal footing as they deliberated over consequences for LDZ, but I couldn’t help but fixate on the Baron King, his unsettling mask sending shivers down my spine.
It wasn’t just the gleam of the twisted horns, the sunken cheeks, or lack of mouth. It was the efficacy of the illusion. With the black suit and gloved hands—even the neck hidden beneath dark fabric—no part of him was visible. The mask was all he was. The devil made flesh.
Even as a child, I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread, wondering about the enigma concealed behind the facade. I knew he was affiliated with the dead, the person Father called when something messy happened in times of that youth-fueled chaos.
In my imagination, the Baron King transcended the others, almost supernatural in nature. One of Death’s emissaries, haunting the nocturnal streets of Forsyth, seeking souls to add to his crypt.
Just like my parents.
Now, stepping into the stuffy, ornate room of the courthouse as a man in my own right, I catch sight of him, the Baron King, sitting at the head of the table. His features are still hidden behind that golden mask and black suit, but this evening, I’m distinctly lacking that old sense of awe. There’s nothing supernatural about him. He’s no longer a man shrouded in mystery. He’s undoubtedly human. Flesh and Bone. Not just a King, but a father.
Remy’s father.
And a killer of fathers.
I can only speculate about Wick’s inner turmoil. He sure as hell gives nothing away as he strides in behind me with an air of nonchalance. He leisurely unfastens his blazer and settles into the chair beside me at the elongated table. Among the three of us, he’s the most skilled at navigating interactions with nobility. Pace, on the other hand, visibly tenses, his discomfort palpable, especially after having to relinquish his weapons before entering the room.
“I hate this place,” he announced when we arrived. “Nothing good ever comes out of a courtroom.”
“I’m not sure why we have to justify what happens in our territory, anyway.” Wick scowled as he handed off his pistol to one of the lesser-known brN members manning the breezeway. I don’t know him, but the long, gnarled scar slashed across his throat was as conspicuous as the metal in his face, piercings scattered like violent speckles across his features. I certainly didn’t miss the nod he sent to Pace when Wicker groused, “It’s not like we’re digging around the Barons’ crypt.”
“We knew they’d want an update.” I’d kept my voice low while trying to reassure my brothers. “This isn’t some low-level PNZ we’ve got holed up in the dungeon, or even a fucker like Oakfield everyone’s happy to see taken care of. We’ve got a King down there in the midst of a mutiny, and that makes other Kings nervous.”
Especially Kings of the old generation.
They’re disappearing like smoke.
All of that logic holds up until we find ourselves face to face with the reigning Kings: Killian Payne, Simon Perilini, and Timothy Maddox, hidden beneath his mask. I strive to summon the same confidence that propelled me to the head of my class in Forsyth, the assurance that secured my place in the medical school of my choice. The steady heartbeat, the unwavering self-assurance, the deep-seated belief that I have every right to be in this room.
After a nod from the Baron King, Killian clears his throat. “Word’s gotten out that Rufus hasn’t been seen for seventeen days.” Normally, Payne makes it clear that he has little to few fucks to give about the larger matters in Forsyth, preferring to focus on his own territory. But I see the frustration in his eyes as he continues. “According to people in the community, he missed the annual report at Forsyth Mutual Bank, skipped a poker game at the Gentlemen’s Chamber, and failed to attend the symphony’s Summer Solstice event—of which he’s one of the acting chairs.”
“He sent me to the Solstice event,” Wick says with a wave of his hand. “The guest cellist from Milan was dreadful. He could barely manage the bow work.” He sniffs with displeasure, looking the very picture of snobby ease. “As was the strawberry shortcake. It was like eating sandpaper.”
“One of these is explainable,” the Baron King’s flat voice carries down the table. “Three is a problem, especially with something like the annual report. Rufus hasn’t missed one in twenty-two years. Trudie Stein has been asking enough questions that my associates are asking me questions.” He pauses before adding with heavy disdain, “This mutiny is sloppy work, boys.”
“Apologies, Your Grace,” Wicker’s sarcasm is as thick as the bald hatred in his glare. “We’ve been focusing on issues inside our house, like trying to force a psychopath into accounting for the five bodies he buried in the solarium. Or,” he glares at Killian, “telling us anything he knows about the current missing women in Forsyth.”
“As well as attending to our Princess and child,” I add. “Who, by the way, are both healthy and improving every day. Thanks for asking.”
Not missing the barb, Killian levels me with a scowl. “We’re well aware of the shit East End’s been through this past month, but ruling as a Royal means more than focusing on your own house. As much as I couldn’t personally care less, being the leader of a territory in Forsyth is about balance and presentation. It’s about assuring the members of your community—in and out of your house—that things are running smoothly. People need a sense of safety, dependability, and reliance. Rufus, for all he might be a piece of shit, was a consistent presence that made not only East End feel secure, but the whole fucking city.”
My nostrils flare with a restrained sigh because Payne isn’t wrong. Father is the devil PNZ knows. His absence is making people jumpy and suspicious. Clearly, we’ve been too absorbed in our own family dynamics. “We’re prepared to spread the word immediately that Father, along with his personal valet, is on an extended business trip.” When no one argues, I continue, “What started off as a week-long excursion to Asia turned into a much longer affair.”
“What kind of business?” Killian asks.
“His kind,” Pace responds. “After the assault on the palace and the attack on the Princess and our unborn child, we’ve been forced to elevate the security of East End. He’s found that the best in the business are not located in the US, but overseas.”
“Security is your specialty.” Sy eyes Pace. “So why didn’t you go with him?”
“With Verity on bed rest?” he snorts. “Like hell.”
“I don’t see the connection.” Sy leans back, his massive arms crossing over his chest. “It’s not like you protected her before.”
“This shit again?!” Pace’s hands slam down on the table and he bolts to his feet, the chair kicking out behind him. “Our commitment to the Princess is unwavering, and I’m sick and tired of West End acting like we’re holding her against her will. She chose to honor the contract.”
I reach for the back of his shirt, trying to get him under control.
“You say that,” Sy says, shrugging, “but she never got hurt in West End.”
Pace’s eyes flare hot. “Because I never took my eyes off of her when she crossed into your crusty, rundown territory.”
Sy’s face hardens. “Are you implying you’ve got West End wired, Ashby?”
“If our woman and child are there, then you can bet your ass I’ve got it under surveillance.”
This time, when I yank at his shirt, he relents, dropping back down into his seat with a huff.
Pace has spent the last two weeks researching exactly what he says Father is doing on his trip—just from inside the palace. The security surrounding the property is now military grade. Upgraded cameras cover every inch of the exterior. There are no weak links. No blind spots. No places for Father to bury bodies unnoticed. Pace has all of our devices synched, so honed in on the Princess that we can pinpoint her exact location at any time. And that’s just in East End. I’m not even sure what all he’s doing outside our territory, but I’ll put nothing past him. Not when it comes to protecting Verity or our baby.
“Do you hear this?” Sy says, looking between Killian and Maddox. “No one is going to believe that these three idiots can handle East End without Daddy’s involvement.”
Wicker scoffs. “You just want Verity to come back to West End.”
“Maybe we do,” Sy growls. “You’re not fit for protecting her, let alone her baby.”
My jaw clenches. “I think you mean our baby. And we can protect both of them just fine.”
“Then maybe someone,” Killian grinds out, “can finally fucking tell me why a South Sider disappeared in your territory.”
“Stella St. James disappeared in North Side,” Wicker corrects.
Killian gives a malicious smile. “How convenient.”
“Not especially,” Pace replies. “Ballsack and I have been going over footage for the last three fucking weeks. What has South Side been doing? Involving the feds?”
Killian balks at the accusation, straightening in his seat. “We had nothing to do with bringing that agent here. Augustine acted as?—”
“As one of your senior staff members,” Wicker offers, picking a piece of lint from his knee. “This mutiny is going to get a lot harder with them sniffing around, so kudos for that.”
Killian looks close to murderous, his eyes bugging out. “While we’re on the subject of staff members acting suspiciously, maybe you’d ought to look at your own.”
Pace snorts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means there’s a common denominator in at least two disappearances, and the Lords are done beating around its bush.”
Sy’s the one to stiffen though, leveling a slow, threatening stare at his fellow King. “Don’t you even fucking say what I think you’re saying.”
Killian raises his chin and says it anyway. “Two of the missing girls were involved with Eugene Warren.” He nods at Pace. “The same man you let in your palace with this pregnant Princess you’re so intent on protecting.”
“You motherfucker,” Sy growls. “Ballsack had nothing?—”
“Enough!” The Baron King’s voice commands the room, sharp and strong from behind his golden mask. His hands, hidden by black gloves, ball into fists. “We are not,” he seethes, “here to discuss the missing girls or your petty squabbles over the Princess. Verity Sinclaire is a problem of your Father’s making that’s trickled downstream. Staff members, arranged heirs, breeding with women who bear questionable allegiances…” His eyes burn with anger through the mask. “All of it is irrelevant to today’s meeting.”
We quiet, everyone sinking back in their chairs.
Brusquely, he continues, “The majority of Forsyth doesn’t give a damn if Rufus is alive, dead, or holed up in an opium house in the South China Sea.” He jabs the tip of his forefinger into the table, the movement swift and powerful. “When we talked on the phone fifteen days ago, I signed on for a mutiny in East End, not an indefinite interrogation of its King. People are talking, and to restore balance, you’ll need to give proof of life or crown someone else. Either way,” he grits out, glancing at Killian and Sy next, “I’m not going to Royally father all of you into honoring your kingships. Grow up and lead your goddamn kingdoms!”
I think of Father, bloody and scarred down in the basement, and wince. It’s not going to be that easy.
I take a deep breath. “How long do we have to give proof of life?”
The Baron King’s incensed eyes snap to mine. “One week.”
“And if we don’t cooperate?” I ask.
“Then someone in your house will choose for you,” Killian says, rising from his chair. “PNZ is watching. If you don’t rise to the occasion, then one of them will.”
“You can photoshop him into a picture, right?” Wicker asks, slamming the door. He’s twisted around, looking at Pace in the backseat. “Like some fucked up image of Father surrounded by underaged Thai girls?”
“I can,” Pace says, inspecting his gun before tucking it behind his back, “but we can do better than that.”
“Better how?” Wick’s forehead creases, and then he cackles. “Oh, Thai boys. Yes, that is so much better.”
The problem isn’t proof of life to the Kings, who wouldn’t blink at an image of Father’s gaunt face and oozing wounds. It’s the rest of Forsyth we have to convince. We need something to buy us time.
“Well, whatever we’re going to do, we better figure it out fast,” Wick says, slumping against the car window as we approach the palace grounds. The new sensor that Pace installed in the gate to trigger as we turn into the drive isn’t the only upgrade. Two armed guards nod as we pass—both alumni. Wick and Rory vetted each and every current and former PNZ for security positions. Anyone with lingering loyalties to Father didn’t make the cut.
“They’re on a rotating schedule,” Pace says, nodding as we pass. “Two hours at the gate, two hours patrolling the perimeter, and then two hours watching the cameras.”
I park the car in the turnaround in front of the house, sighing. “I know this is the least of our problems, but clearly the Lords think Ballsack had something to do with Stella.” Cutting the engine, I turn to look at my brothers. “That’s something we should probably keep to ourselves for now.”
Pace blinks. “Why?”
“Verity,” I answer, glancing at Wick. “She’s… protective of him.”
Wicker gives me a long look. “You sound like a jealous boyfriend.” And then, pulling a face, “Gross.”
Tightening my fist around the steering wheel, I insist, “I’m not jealous. I just don’t think it’d do her any good to add another do-gooder campaign to her list of projects. She’s already helping to volunteer for the search parties and the social media blitzes. Plus…” I don’t really want to say the next words, but as I look out the windshield at the palace grounds, I can’t help but wonder. “Maybe they have a point.”
Pace’s response is swift and annoyed. “Fuck that.”
“He’s West End,” I point out. “We don’t know what kind of shit he’s mixed up in. And you heard him on the monitor yesterday. Stella dumped him right before she disappeared. That’s suspicious as fuck and you know it.”
But when I meet his gaze, it’s the strangest thing. Pace, the most ridiculously paranoid and suspicious person I know, doesn’t look the least bit swayed. “I don’t care where he’s from,” he says. “I know when a man is desperate to find something. That street rat has been at my side for weeks, pushing me to look harder, and he’s not even fucking remotely ready to give up.”
Before I can argue, Wicker cuts in, “Fuck it—whatever. We’ll keep it to ourselves. Lex is probably right, anyway. She doesn’t need another friend to worry about, does she?”
This seems to convince Pace more than anything, but even when we walk into the house, he’s still giving me that look of his, like I’m disappointing him.
“What?” I snap when he grabs my arm, stalling me. I’m not about to apologize for seeing things from all angles. If anyone can appreciate that, it should be him.
But instead of pressing me about it, he eyes Wicker, who’s disappearing down the hall. Pace raises his eyebrows. “You need to talk to him.”
I follow his gaze, deflating. “Why me?” I ask, watching my brother duck into the kitchen.
“Because I’ve already told him what I think about him going in there every day. It’s a stupid risk that he shouldn’t be taking.” Pace rolls his eyes. “He didn’t care about my opinion. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to him.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, wondering how it is that, even with Father out of the equation, my days are still chock full of bullshit like Royal meetings and brotherly mind un-fucking. “You’ll check on her?”
“Yeah,” he says, already pointed in that direction. “I’m going to see if she and Effie want to get some air.”
“Nothing strenuous,” I remind him. Parting, Pace climbs the stairs and I go look for my other brother in the kitchen. I find him standing at the center island, pulling items out of the refrigerator and setting them on the counter. There’s bread, fruit, and a piece of salmon from last night’s dinner.
Leaning against the counter, I start, “Wick?—”
“Hand me one of those cookies, will you?” He points to the glass-covered dessert stand. “He likes chocolate chip.”
“Wick,” I try to measure my words carefully, “we talked about this. Danner can’t be trusted. He’s loyal to Father.”
Deciding what to do with Danner has been the one thing we’ve struggled to agree on since Father was locked away in the dungeon. Danner isn’t just Father’s closest confidant. He and his family have worked for PNZ since its inception. The original King hired his father as a valet and his mother as a cook for the palace, and when he came of age, Danner stepped in. There are few secrets he doesn’t know, which is the only reason Pace and I have kept him locked in his room instead of making other, more permanent, decisions.
If any part of this mutiny involves breaking the cog that turns East End’s worst institutions, then Danner is a part of that. There’s no getting around it.
Wick on the other hand…
He raises a slow glare in my direction. “Maybe he’s loyal to Father, but don’t forget, he’s also the one who actually took care of us.”
“It was his job, Wick,” I remind him as he slathers butter on the bread.
“His job was to feed us and make sure we had clean clothes and practice uniforms.” His jaw tightens. “Danner took care of us by bringing us the salves and ointments to heal the cuts on your back after father whipped you within an inch of your life. He visited Pace every week he was in prison and kept his commissary account in the black. If there’s a man in this house who’s earned the right to be called ‘Father’, it’s not the one down in the dungeon.”
I rub my temples, a headache setting in. “Look, I won’t deny Danner cared for us, but?—”
“Danner,” he cuts me off, “is the one who took me to get tested for STDs after events like Mayfield.” He swallows thickly. “I understand your concern. I hear it, but I can’t turn my back on him. He was a pawn to Father’s whim as much as we were.”
That’s when I decide this is the worst discussion of the day, by far. Wicker, with his set mouth and tired eyes as I try to convince him to abandon feelings for the only man who ever gave a shit about him? It makes my chest hurt as badly as my head.
But he’s not the only one struggling.
This past month has been the hardest of our lives, and that’s saying a lot. Standing up to Father, taking him to the dungeon, putting Verity and the baby before anything else in our lives… It's unfamiliar. Uncomfortable. And Danner has always been the constant.
“People need a sense of safety, dependability, and reliance…”
Killian’s words come back to me, and that’s what this is. Danner is to us what Father is to East End. Not good, just familiar.
But the main thing I can’t tell Wicker right now is that Danner didn’t do all of those things because he cared for us. He was taking care of us because we were assets of the crown. Father needed us under control, but healthy. He needed us to be fit in order to give him an heir.
“I don’t think this,” I wave my hand around the food he’s arranging on the tray, “is about Danner at all.”
“Here we go,” he mutters. “Enlighten me. What do you think this is about?”
“I think you’re avoiding any and everything to do with the fact you’re the biological father to Verity’s baby.”
He snorts, not even looking me in the eye. “Is that supposed to be a shocking announcement? Because it’s not. I’ve made it explicitly clear that I never wanted to be a father. I don’t want the obligations, the responsibility, or the dirty fucking diapers. Not to mention the crying. Have you ever heard a baby cry?”
“Have you?” I counter.
He blinks. “I mean, on TV. At restaurants. Once, on a plane to that tournament in Alberta,” he shoots me a glare, “for six fucking hours.”
“What about Verity?”
“What about her?” He slices strawberries into a small bowl.
“You’ve been avoiding her, too.”
His jaw drops. “I’ve been avoiding her? I sleep beside her every fucking night! And where the hell are you and Pace? Too obsessed with keeping her safe to bother realizing she’s in that big, stupid bed waiting for you.”
“You know what I mean,” I say, avoiding the accusation. “You don’t come to the exams, you weren’t even remotely interested in her last sonogram, and whenever you aren’t in bed with her, you hardly touch her.”
“Hey,” he points the sharp tip of the knife at me, “that’s on you. You’re the one who created a buffer around her bigger than the palace’s security fence. I’ve just been following orders.”
“For sex, Wick, not for all of the other things she needs right now. Like support, help, conversation, the decisions she’s about to face as the baby gets closer.”
His lip curls disdainfully. “Oh, like picking out baby furniture? Or maybe selecting a nice wallpaper for the nursery—something that’ll cover the blood stains still on the wall.” He rolls his eyes. “Because no thanks. She can call one of the girls in the Court to come do that.”
“You haven’t even been around when we read up on the baby’s progress and how her body is changing.” I grab a strawberry. “Dude, you haven’t even asked what piece of fruit the fetus is now.”
He drops the knife with a clatter and flattens his palms on the butcher block. “Tell me, Doc. I’m dying to know. Mango? Coconut? Pineapple?”
“Eggplant,” I smirk.
His lips press together. I can’t tell if he’s pissed or just trying really hard not to laugh. “That’s a vegetable.”
“Technically, it’s a fruit,” I tell him. “It has seeds and comes from a flowering plant, which makes it a?—”
“Great.” He lifts the tray, everything arranged nicely. In contrast, Father is lucky to get a bowl of soggy oatmeal once a day—just enough to keep him alive. “I’m all caught up.”
My face falls at the utter determination in his eyes. “Well, if you insist on going in there, then I’m coming with you. Maybe we can find out something useful for once. He needs to understand that keeping him alive and safe comes with conditions.”
“Fine,” Wick says, eyes narrowing at me as he lifts the tray, “but don’t be a dick about it.”
I don’t remember a time when Danner didn’t always look pale and wrinkled, like he may be a step from death’s door. He’s always looked old, and it’s no different now when I unlock and open the door from the outside with the key. He’s sitting in the recliner near the window that overlooks the back of the estate. A copy of the monthly Financial Times sits on a table next to his chair, along with a cup of tea.
“Afternoon, boys,” he says, mid-rise.
“Don’t get up,” Wicker says, striding into the room. He sets the tray on the small kitchen table that’s been pushed against the wall, and starts unloading the plates. “I know you like salmon, so I had the cook save you a piece from last night’s dinner.”
“Thank you, Whitaker.” His cloudy blue eyes glance over to where I’m standing in the corner, arms crossed over my chest, watching. “I didn’t expect you to come see me, Lex.” He chuckles. “Chaperoning your brother?”
“Just came in to see how you’re doing,” I say, deciding to play the game. Being rude to Danner will get me nowhere. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, overall.” He stretches out his right leg. “Muscles a little tight, and my digestion likes to act up before bed.”
It’s no secret Danner is lactose intolerant. “Any problems with your sciatica?”
He smiles. “Turns out not having to carry things up and down a staircase all day saves the back.”
“Father shouldn’t have had you doing those things,” Wick says, dropping into a wingback chair. “You’re not a pack mule.”
“Keeps me spry.” I notice that his hand shakes when he lifts his teacup. “I assume Pace is well.”
“He’s fine.”
“And your Princess? She should be about twenty-one, twenty?—”
“Twenty-two weeks,” Wicker finishes. I shoot him a glare, but he continues, “Fetus is about the size of an eggpl?—”
“The Princess’ condition is none of your concern, Danner,” I snap, cutting Wicker off. Jesus Christ. How can he be so diligent about Father’s interrogation, but Danner apparently gets all the information?
Rookie moves.
Danner meets my gaze. “You’re right, of course. I’ve lost the privilege of taking care of her and you.” He looks between us, a sad smile on his lips. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’ve hoped that finally having an heir would soothe your Father’s temperament. He tried desperately for years to have another child, but every attempt was futile. As you know, there’s so little about a King’s world that’s beyond his control. But the creation of life? That’s in the hands of a higher power. Verity and you boys were his last chance. Everything he did was out of desperation.”
“Don’t.” My voice is hard. “His actions are not defensible.”
“Of course not,” he says quickly. “I’m just providing some perspective on the actions of a man as complex as your father.”
“Was it desperation that led to him burying those bodies down in the solarium?” Rage surges through me, something I used to have under control, but has risen closer to the surface with every trip down to the dungeon. “Was it desperation that had him whore Wicker out? Or lock Pace up for almost two years? What about my beatings? Did he do that out of desperation, too?”
To my disgust, Danner nods. “All of it, Lagan. Every step. Every move. These were all the actions of a terribly desperate man.”
Anger is one match strike away from a lit fuse. I try to cloak it with a cool facade, with the demeanor of a physician—steady like a surgeon—but at times like this, it’s impossible to hold back. “So that’s why there’s five dead bodies buried in the solarium? Because Father was desperate?” I scoff. “Bullshit. He’s nothing but a monster.”
He frowns at the language, but I notice he doesn’t even make an attempt to argue. “Have you made progress on identifying the bones?”
I weigh how much I want to tell him versus how much he can tell me. “Not as much as I’d like,” I admit. “Whoever placed them there did it with some care, which makes it easier. But excavating the bodies, tagging and sorting, is a big task, and we currently have bigger Kings to fry.”
I do know that they’re all female. And young—approximately eighteen to twenty-four. There are no obvious signs of trauma or violence. No bullet holes or broken bones. No cracked skulls. The bones themselves are old, having been in the ground for several years, and there’s no indication they belong to the current missing girls. I’m aware of all of this, but I don’t reveal it.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Danner says. “You’re a smart boy.”
Impatiently, I reply, “I think you can help me figure it out a lot faster. Who do the bones belong to?”
“Your science hasn’t told you?” There’s a trace of mocking in his tone that makes me want to glance at Wicker, as if to say, see? It’s a brief glimpse of the truth—the man Danner actually is. “I thought your father gave you access to the Forsyth DNA profiles. Surely, the answers to your questions are there.”
“Danner,” Wick interjects, his voice calmer than my own. “It may improve your position if you cooperate.”
The old man takes another long sip of tea, his throat shifting as he swallows. “Ask. I’ll answer if possible.”
I take my shot. “Why were they left here, in the solarium, and not disposed of by the Barons?” That’s the part that really gets me. It’s not that Father’s responsible for the deaths. My brothers and I were molded to be his weapons. We know firsthand just how casually he decides to end a life.
But he hid it from the Royalty, which was built to handle such things neatly and quietly and without complications. There are precious few reasons he’d circumvent those sorts of established procedures, and none of them are good.
“Even the Baron King and his shadows have their… moral limits.” Danner’s eyes are steady. “Innocent girls seem to be one of them.”
“Innocents?” Wicker asks, leaning forward.
“As innocent as one can be,” Danner clarifies, “after going through the throning ceremony and taking the role of Princess.”
“So it’s true,” I say. “They’re princesses.” The age of the victims and location of the bones had made me suspect as much, but it’s nice to have confirmation—something to help me narrow down the search.
“Each and every one.” He glances at his wrinkled, age-spotted hands. “Failed, of course. Of no use to East End.”
Wick and I share a look before he stands, moving closer to Danner. “Nothing you’re saying makes sense. Why would Father kill a failed Princess? Don’t they just get sent away?”
“Usually,” Danner says, but then there’s a stretch of silence that bothers me. It’s like he’s choosing his words a little too carefully. Tactically. “But there for… a time, there were some princesses he chose to offer a chance at… redemption.”
Wicker recoils. “Tell me this isn’t going where I think it’s going.”
“All princesses are chosen as vessels for a reason,” Danner explains, looking at me now. “Strong genes. Excellent behavior. Icons of purity and motherhood.”
“It’d be such a waste, wouldn’t it?” My grin is brittle, carved from the hot, wild thing that’s always throbbing in my chest when I look at Verity. “Letting those fertile vessels just waltz out of East End, unused?”
Danner gives me a serious nod. “Indeed.”
“So he’d rape them.”
His mouth forms a disapproving frown. “Every Princess gives her consent to?—”
“Her Princes.” Wicker bites out.
Danner’s eyes soften. “The covenants are very clear about our King’s place as head of this household.”
Uninterested in hearing more of the Royal spin, I ask, “So, he dumps his seed into East End’s finest disgraced princesses, hoping to get his precious fucking heir out of one of them, and then what? Why kill them? What happened?”
“The day after Michael died, I found Master Ashby in the water.” Danner’s eyes seem far away, lost in a memory. “It was winter. Cold and gray. Made my bones hurt something awful. I saw him out there, just standing in it, chest-deep. Not moving. I thought at first he was trying to end it. I panicked,” a shaky, wrinkled finger rises, pointing out the window, “waded out there myself, splashing around like a fool. And you know what I saw when I grabbed him?” He looks between me and Wick. “Nothing. He never cried for Michael, you know. There wasn’t anything there to give. He just became… empty. A shell of a person.” A slow, wistful smile touches his lips. “Until the night he brought Whitaker home.”
My fists clench. “Oh, bullshit.”
“It’s true,” Danner stresses. “Suddenly, he had a purpose. Not an heir—not really—but enough to make him want one again.” He reaches out to grab Wicker’s hand, the move making my chest burn with hot fury. “My boy, you were a miracle.”
It’s manipulation, pure and simple, and I worry that Wick’s too blinded by affection for the old man to see it.
But suddenly, he tugs his hand away from Danner’s grasp, face twisted in disgust. “I wasn’t a miracle. I was stolen. I was cut away from my real family. I was a fucking pet.”
“You were a boy without a father,” Danner replies. “He was a father without a boy. In another life, maybe that would have been enough.” A shadow fills his expression. “But it wasn’t. Instead of filling Michael’s place, you reminded him of what he could have had: a blood heir.”
Frustrated, I snap. “You didn’t answer the question, Danner.”
“Oh, but I did.” Danner takes a slow, shaky sip of his tea, “You just didn’t listen to the answer.”
I give Wicker a tired look. Great. Cryptic horseshit. This isn’t any better than interrogating Father. At least when we do that, there’s a sense of satisfaction at the whip slicing into his flesh. “Who were the princesses?” I ask instead. “I’m going to find out eventually. Might as well save East End the lab fees.”
“Oh, I couldn’t remember their names if I tried,” he says, waving this off. “It was so long ago now—so many girls in and out of this palace. They’re all ‘Princess’ to me.”
“Here’s a name you’ll remember.” I watch him closely. “Odette Delisle.”
There it is.
A twitch of his eyebrow.
“Doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid.”
Deciding I’ve had enough of this game, I jerk my chin at my brother. “Let’s go.”
Wick doesn’t argue, and although he still says a quiet goodnight to Danner, I sense a change in him as we exit the room. At the back staircase, I ask, “Are you okay?”
“Peachy,” he says, climbing the steps with those long legs. “Finding out Father was inspired to kidnap, rape, and murder failed princesses because you’re not good enough is an excellent way to end the day.” We get to the landing of our wing and he turns to me, bitterness in his eyes. “Maybe I’ll go fuck out my shame with my own Princess, who’s undoubtedly curled up in that massive bed right now, sneaking the candy she has hidden in the weapons chamber.” He cuts me a look. “Oh wait, that’s not allowed either because even though we’re not in the dungeon, we’re all fucking trapped.”
Melodramatic much?
“You see, this is exactly why we didn’t want you going in there. Danner can’t be trusted. He’s a liar and a manipulator, just like Father. That story about finding him in the water? It’s bullshit, Wick.” I don’t know the truth, but I’m not letting that old man mindfuck my brother any worse than he already is. “He found an opportunity to get you off-balance, and it worked. Father is a raping, murderous monster, and Danner is programmed to make excuses for what he does.”
Wick stops in front of our shared bedroom. “What about you? Did that throw you off-balance?”
“Enough that I’m going to ask Pace to lock me in tonight.” I’ve been better lately, but the long days, sober life, and lack of sex has me on edge. Adding in a dose of white hot rage from the news Danner just told me is enough to spill out in my sleep. “Go to her.” I grimace. “And be nice. Don’t take all this shit out on her.”
“Fine.” He heads toward her room, then tosses back, “But I’m getting a handjob at the very minimum.”
An hour later, I’m exhausted. I strip down and turn on the shower, spinning the knob to make it as hot as possible. The room fills with steam, and I think about the bones. I don’t doubt that Danner’s telling the truth about them belonging to failed princesses. Father would believe he had the right to them until they were no longer of value, and in his twisted mind, that may have been after he’d tried to create with them. With the way the females are valued in East End—Forsyth as a whole—no one would have questioned where they went after being disgraced.
Stepping into the shower, I ease into the scalding water. I set my back to the spray, palms flat on the wall, and let the burn wash over me.
I’ve been too busy—too distracted by Father being down in the dungeon, taking care of Verity, and handling the needs of East End—to really focus on identifying the bones. Danner’s mocking may have been a diversion, but he’s right. The proof will be in the science. However, if I’m lucky, digging through the files for a match may not be necessary.
Shutting off the water, I dry off and change into a pair of sweats before sliding on my glasses. I open my kit, grab what I need, and take it into Pace’s room. He sits behind his monitors, each one focused on a different part of the palace, interior and exterior.
Standing over him, my gaze goes directly to the screen in the center—it’s the largest—the one covering the Princess’ room. She and Wick are in bed, asleep, the image of them captured in infrared. He’s got her pulled close, because despite whatever tensions run between them, Wick is an aggressive cuddler. His face is buried in her neck, his arm wrapped tight around her body, although I notice that even in sleep, he avoids touching her stomach.
Fuck, I miss being there beside them.
The feel of the three of us all in the bed at once, surrounding her, and keeping her safe—we didn’t get many of those nights before everything went to hell in a handbasket, but it was enough to make me crave more. Unfortunately, right now, I don’t trust myself. Not until Father’s been handled.
“Hey,” I say, dragging my eyes away from the screen, “look at me.”
Pace turns, frowning as I unwrap the sealed package I brought in with me. “What the hell is that for?”
“I need a sample.”
He eyes me suspiciously. “Don’t you have one in the system?”
“Yeah, but ask me if I trust that system. At least when it comes to those bodies down there.” He stares at the swab, jaw clamped shut. “Open up, brother. This is one mystery we can solve.”
Pace relents, opening his mouth, and I take a sample from the inside of his cheek. Once I’m finished, I secure the swab in the tube and place it back in my kit. “I’ll run it against the DNA profiles in the morning.”
“So you believe Danner,” he says, turning back to the monitors.
“Do I believe he was using failed princesses in an attempt to create an heir? Absolutely.” Arching an eyebrow, I add, “But do I believe it was some redemption story they all agreed to? Not a chance. I’d bet anything he had them locked downstairs.”
“Yeah, me too.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “Thanks for asking about her.”
“It was a long shot.” I rub beneath my glasses, eyes stinging and gritty. Everything about me feels tired and edgy, like I’m about to burst out of my skin. “You going to be up tonight?”
“Yeah, I’ve got an idea for this proof of life thing.” He glances over at me. “Why? You need a chaperone?”
“More like a warden. Hey,” I ask, nodding to the center screen, “does she really sneak candy when I’m not looking?”
Without the slightest hesitation, he says, “Yes.”
I groan. “Seriously? That’s not on her meal plan.”
“Dude, it’s been a stressful few weeks—for all of us. Don’t even think about taking those from her.” Behind Pace’s head, there’s movement on the screen in Verity’s room. There’s no volume, but the camera catches her rolling around, pushing Wicker onto his back.
“What’s she doing?” I ask, moving closer to sit on the arm of the couch. Wick’s eyes flutter open as she slings her leg over his body.
“Looks like Rosi’s horny,” Pace says, leaning back in his chair with a smirk.
“They can’t fuck,” I point out. “Her body isn’t ready.”
Physically, maybe not, but from what we’re watching, hormonally is a different story. Wick’s eyes are glued to the woman straddling him. He’s frozen, watching as she strips off her gown, revealing her full tits and swollen belly.
“Chill, her panties are still on.” Pace shifts in his seat, adjusting himself. “Trust him.”
Wick snaps out of his stupor and surges up, pushing her hair off her face. He leans into her, kissing her long and slow. Verity takes his hands and places them over her tits.
“Fuck me. They’re so fucking hot together, aren’t they?” Pace exhales. “Her nipples are insanely sensitive. I made her come yesterday just by sucking on them.”
“It’s hormones,” I reply, even though I’m barely paying attention to the way my mouth forms the words. “Estrogen, primarily.”
Wick pulls the band out of her hair, letting the red waves fall down her back. Her hips rock greedily. I knew she was horny, her body flush with hormones, but watching her glide her body over Wicker’s reinforces the concept. It reinforces why I can’t be alone with her, because my brother, despite his hypersexuality and impulsivity, knows how to control himself. But this hot, wild thing clamoring around inside my chest? It’s primal, beyond sense or logic or concepts like love.
And it’d tear her apart just to find a place to plant its seed.