Chapter 4
4
Verity
Nights in the palace have grown painfully quiet.
It’s not the same kind of quiet it used to be, with the guys sneaking around, trying to keep things from their father. There was fear in that quiet. Pain. Secrets.
But this silence is unique and fragile, as if the smallest breath could shatter it.
I wish something would.
I’m not sure when the prospect of sleeping in a quiet bed began disturbing me. Maybe it was all those lonely nights in the hospital, so scared for the delicate life growing inside of me, but ever since I came back to the palace, it feels like something’s missing, and I’ve been unable to shake this strange hunger. Not for sex, although with the way my hormones have been raging, it certainly wouldn’t hurt.
The hunger is for the way it used to be—even briefly. The sensation of the four of us packed in tight, wrapped around one another, had been an aching comfort. It’s taken me a long time to put my finger on it, but I think it must remind me of home. The warmth of bodies, the press of shameless limbs, and heady breaths. West End has an undeniably physical nature. I never really considered it before I was thrust into East End, with its cold dinners and stiff, formal rituals.
Then there’s the baby, his size making it harder and harder to find a comfortable position. And if I do settle down, he’ll press on my bladder giving me the urge to pee every forty-five minutes. My sleep is always restless now, as if my limbs are seeking the closest warm body and only finding his.
Not that Wicker isn’t a fantastic cuddler.
I can’t tell what rouses me tonight, but I know that when I surface from the foggy veil of sleep, it’s the breadth of him against my back. Wicker always smells clean, but there’s an edge of something spicy buried beneath it, sharp as a razor. I don’t even need to open my eyes to know it’s him.
Also, his erection is drilling into the small of my back and turns into a small, mindless, rut.
It’s not the first time. Usually, I just jostle him with a jerk of my body, and he grumbles something soft and frustrated into my neck before aggressively flopping to the other side of the bed.
Tonight, that hunger throbs between my legs.
It’s the first time I’ve felt a warm, sticky wetness accompanying the pressure.
“Wick?” I whisper, arching my back into the sleepy curve of his body. “Wicker, you awake?”
All I get in response is his gritty chuff, his arm tightening around my middle. Against my backside, his cock gives a strong twitch, the wetness surging. I groan at the realization of what’s happened, pressing back into his lazy, mindless thrust. He’s the most difficult to be around these days. Mostly, he’s absent, always busy down in the dungeon or sweeping the palace grounds. Aside from our quiet, fragile bedtime, he hardly spends any time with me at all.
And the hunger burns.
I wonder, as I roll toward him and straddle his hips, if this is how Lex feels when he’s sleeping. Does the need for touch burn like an inferno through his veins? Does he look down at me like I’m watching Wicker, hoping to see a gaze staring back? Does it twist painfully in his gut when I don’t?
But then Wicker’s blue eyes suddenly blink to life, his cock hard against my center as I rock into him. “Red?” he rasps, pushing his hair from his eyes. “Can we fuck yet?”
“No,” I say, pulling off my nightgown. Everything feels unbearably slow and far too heavy. It hurts to hold myself up, the gravity dragging me down into the expanse of his warm chest. Even the blink of his eyes as they settle on my exposed breasts seems to take a century.
“Oh,” he breathes, fingers grazing my bare sides. “Brutal, Red. Can’t fuck you yet. Lex said.”
Holding his gaze, I feel ripe and too warm, rocking down against the bulge in his boxer briefs. “This’ll do.”
He hisses at the motion, grinding his head back into the pillow. Strong hands grasp my hips, fingertips bruising as he drags me up the length of his cock. “Jizzed in my shorts already. Jesus. Fucking junior high shit. That’s how desperate I’ve become.”
“You complaining?”
The air between us is full of hot exhalations, and suddenly he’s rearing up, licking a hot path from my collarbone to my nipple. My belly protrudes between us, but he manages to avoid it carefully, like it isn’t even there. “Would you care?”
Freezing, I thread my fingers through his hair, pulling until his dazed blue eyes lock with mine. “I’ll always care, Wick.”
He stares at me like that for a long moment, his left palm cupping the weight of my breast.
And then he falls back.
“Come on, then,” he rumbles, guiding my hips into a slow, aching rhythm. “Ride me.”
It’s never difficult with him, as if our bodies have known what they wanted long before our brains ever caught up. It’s like being possessed, my hips working of their own accord in long, rolling writhes. I can see his building pleasure in the slack part of his mouth. The way the tendons in his neck strain when he rocks up into me. The pinch of his eyes as he watches the sway of my breasts, so quiet.
“No one touches me like you do, you know,” he murmurs, skating his fingertips up to my nipple. “You gonna come like this?”
God, he has no idea.
One brush of his fingertip over my nipple has me trembling, but it’s the hardness against my center that drives my movements, the fabric between us damp with arousal. Mine? His? Ours?
Wicker already came in his sleep, but he’s still hard.
Still throbbing.
Somehow, I’m not expecting it when he surges up to kiss me, a hand tangled in my hair. It’s sloppier than I’m used to from him, all serrated teeth and clipped grunts, and when I palm his chest, it’s rock solid. Tense. Strung so tight I can practically feel him vibrating with restraint.
“You won’t hurt me,” I promise, willing him to let go, “if that’s what you’re thinking about.”
His mouth curves deliciously against mine. “Nah, I’m just thinking about how much I want to fuck your tits, Red.” He punctuates this with a gentle pinch to my nipple, rolling the peak between forefinger and thumb, and I whimper.
Honest to god whimper.
“Fuck, you’re so hot when you’re like this,” he says, panting. He never stops spurring me on, the hand on my hip moving to the small of my back, forceful as it yanks me into him. “Never had as many wet dreams as I’ve had after meeting you.”
It’s his dirty mouth that tips me over the edge, along with my wet panties and his touch. The combination is too much, and the orgasm trips through me, like releasing a series of locks. I feel it all over—from my nipples, down my spine, to the throbbing heat in my clit. Wicker grunts, stilling my body with his big hands. He pumps furiously, back arching as he comes a second time, then falls flat on the pillow.
“That shouldn’t have been as hot as it was,” he admits, throwing an arm over his forehead as his chest rises and falls. His eyes cut to the top right corner of the room. “Hope the boys enjoyed it.”
I laugh, endorphins rushing through my body. “A dry hump? Not quite the X-rated material they’re used to.”
“Rosi, you’re not watching the right porn.” Gently, he rolls me off his body, onto my back, bending my knees. His nose wrinkles at the front of his shorts before he discards them. When he climbs out of bed to walk to the bathroom, I can’t help but watch the way he moves, naked and shameless, the muscles in his ass shifting like art.
For a while, the faucet runs, and then he returns with a wet cloth. “It’s warm,” he tells me, easing off my soiled panties. It’s not even awkward when he wipes away the sticky mess. “Don’t do that with Pace. We’ll be cleaning up spunk for a week.”
Cleaned up and back in my gown, I settle back on my side, pulling one of the extra blankets to my chest. Wick gets back in and quickly clears the distance, dragging us together.
I feel his hand rest on my thigh.
“You never touch my belly,” I say, feeling his heartbeat against my back. “Does it bother you?”
Softly, he confesses, “Not in the way you’re thinking.” His eyelids are heavy, gaze wandering aimlessly around the room. “I wish it were Lex’s.”
He’s right. That’s not what I’m thinking. “Why?”
“Because he’s ready for this and I’m not.” I expect him to move but he doesn’t. If anything, he draws me closer. “Lex grew up ten years ago—probably right after the first beating. He still remembers what it was like to have parents. A family. He’s talked about it before, how it was a feeling he had. This security that was there one day and gone the next. I don’t even have that.”
I rest my hand on his, linking our fingers. “Just because you didn’t have something doesn’t mean you never can.”
His chest twitches with a snort. “I’m not a creator, Red. That’s not what I was made for.”
I think about this for a long moment, watching his chest expand and contract. “Creation and death are two sides of the same coin.” The words from my attacker that night in the garden still haunt me. They’re Ashby’s words, too. “You’re the coin, Wicker. You’re more than one thing.”
His fingertip taps mine in a mindless rhythm. “That’s the problem, Red. I don’t know what I am anymore. So what the fuck am I supposed to tell this kid? Is he an Ashby? Is he a Kayes? Is he a Sinclaire?” He exhales, the line of his brow more troubled than I like. “Some day he’s going to wonder where he belongs.”
“He belongs with us,” I say, matter-of-factly. “Kayes, Ashby… those are definitions made by other men who never knew you. We’re building our own family. Our own legacy. One where this child will have three fathers, and he’ll know each and every one.”
I know what I’m saying sounds like a fantasy, out of reach, but in my heart, I believe it. I believe Wicker can be a good father. He just needs to believe it himself.
“I think…” he starts, then stops. To my surprise, he looks at it—my belly—and slowly lifts a hand, resting his palm right there in the middle. Something complicated passes over his features. It’s not quite a frown, and even less of a grimace, but it still makes my heart sink.
He looks so lost.
Pulling back, he clears his throat. “I think I just need a little time to adjust to it all.” And then a rough, “Sorry I can’t be as into it as them.”
I’m the one who frowns then, using my own palm to chase the fading heat of his on my belly. “You don’t need to be sorry, Wick.”
The sad fact is that Wicker has been forced to be with many women, but this is the first time it’s created something. And though I mean the words, it still sits heavily in my chest, because the two of us have this in common. For a while there, this baby had been a wound for me, too. Painful, festering. The product of abuse. Evidence of hurt.
I can’t heal Wicker. Neither can his brothers or our son.
But maybe I can give him a place to start.
“That one, too,” I say, pointing to the large portrait on the landing of the stairs.
Lex purses his lips, head tilting as he inspects it. “Why that one?”
“He’s creepy,” is my answer.
The man in the painting is middle-aged and stick-thin. His eyes are hollow and he’s holding a rose like it’s a weapon. I don’t even know who he is. Maybe he’s an Ashby. Maybe we’re related. Maybe this is some distant granduncle or something.
I shudder. “Put it with the cherubs.”
Shrugging, Pace drags the ladder over and climbs the four rungs to reach it, smoothly unmounting it from the wall. Something inside of my chest unwinds when he stacks it with the others, face down.
“What’s next?” Wicker asks, only half paying attention. He’s leaning against the wall in an annoyingly artful curve, a half-full beer bottle dangling from his hand. “Wanna take down the drapes? Pull up the carpet?”
Actually, I kind of do.
I’ve been taking them all throughout the second floor, removing the portraits I hate. Sometimes Pace or Wicker will chime in with their own opinion—they really don’t like still lifes—and they’d go into the pile. But mostly, I’m just trying to erase it of him. Unfortunately, de-Rufus’ing the palace is probably an exercise in futility.
We’d have to burn it down.
“The drapes,” I agree, smirking at Pace, who grabs two fistfuls of the heavy brocade covering the window and gives it a powerful yank.
Suddenly, the landing is bathed in colorful light.
It really is a beautiful palace, the window bearing a geometric stained glass design. Burning it down would be effective, but a real shame.
We’ll just have to make it our own.
Hands on my hips, I nod decisively. “Let’s go to the next wing.”
It’s not the best way to spend a summer’s day, but also not the worst. I stand by as Pace, Lex, and a couple of PNZ members labor through it, removing paintings and ornate tables, crude figurines, and creepy busts. Somewhere in the middle of this, guys begin losing their shirts, tucking them into their waistbands. A fine sheen of sweat covers Lex’s brow as he and Rory push an old armoire to the end of the hall. I watch him specifically—Lex—and the way his muscles shift and ripple as he pushes. It doesn’t even matter that he pulled off his shirt to reveal a white tank top.
He’s magnificent.
I’m used to seeing him do such precise, delicate things that it’s almost easy to miss the pure, masculine power of his body.
There is rippling.
“You’ve got a little something…” Pace says, thumbing at the corner of my mouth. “Oh, that’s just drool.”
I try to snap out of the lust-fog, sending him a tepid glare. “Shouldn’t you be destroying more drapes?” He groans when I point out the tall, gargantuan window in the library, its windows covered with heavy velvet.
“You’re just trying to make it hotter in here so we’ll sweat more,” he grumbles, stalking over to the window in question.
Well, it doesn’t hurt.
Wicker, however, does almost nothing. “Does this,” he asks, pointing to his cheek, “look like a face for manual labor?”
I roll my eyes. “You’ve lived under Ashby’s elaborate roof your whole life. Now he’s out of the equation, this place belongs to us. Don’t you want to make it yours?”
Plainly, he says, “It is mine. I don’t need to gut it to feel better.”
“Really?” I step up to him, arms crossed. “So that painting in the foyer—you know, the one with the Prince standing over the dead Baron—you don’t feel any desire to burn it?”
His lip twitches. “Father didn’t kill my father.” Brow knitting up, he backtracks, “Ashby didn’t kill my father. You know what I mean. I think that painting is hilarious, though. It’s perfectly him. More about the illusion of victory than anything real.” Tipping the bottle to his mouth, he takes a long swig of the beer. “I know you’re new here and all, but I came to terms with my world a long time ago, Red.”
“Oh?” I arch an eyebrow. “So you haven’t even considered taking it down and pissing on it?”
He pauses, the bottle poised against his lips, and then hums thoughtfully. “Hm.”
I jerk my chin at the staircase, holding back a laugh. “Go on.”
But the moment he pushes off the door he’s been leaning against, I stop him. “Wait. What’s in here?”
Wicker turns, making a face. “That room? That’s?—”
“The nursery.” Pace approaches, dragging the slain drapes behind him. “It’s been closed off ever since the vandalization incident.”
Lex returns, mopping his brow with his discarded shirt. “According to Father’s calendar, we’re supposed to be cleaning it out right about now, calling the decorator, anointing it with oil.”
I check his expression for seriousness. Honestly, I can’t tell. “Is that last one true?”
“No.” His lips twitch. “I mean, I don’t think so.”
Turning to the door, my stomach flutters as I reach for the knob, swinging it open.
The smell alone makes me stumble back, Pace’s strong hands catching me. “Oh my god,” I choke, pushing my wrist beneath my nose. “What is that?”
“That,” Wicker says, smirking, “is the smell of rancid pig’s blood.”
“They never cleaned up the blood?!” I gawk into the room, but it’s not what I’m expecting. There’s not any blood visible. It looks clean enough, if overly bare. There’s an old, ornate crib against one wall with no mattress or bedding. Against the other wall are a long antique cabinet and a rocking chair. There’s an empty iron clothing rack on the other side, and the walls are a dull, faded orange and lilac color.
But then I realize the orange is just the blood stains.
“It got into the base and floorboards,” Lex comments, ducking his head inside with a grimace. “We’re going to have to strip it down to the studs.”
“Like hell we are,” I squawk. “My baby is not sleeping in here. The grossness of rancid floorboard blood aside, it’s like a mile from my bedroom. How am I supposed to hear him crying?” Turning, I notice the tense, grim looks on their faces. “What?”
Lex pushes a lock of hair behind his ear. “Well…. usually, a Princess’ handmaiden would sleep next door.” He jerks his chin to the room. “That door beside the crib connects the rooms.”
A lump grows in my throat as I inspect the room, imagining Stella waking in the middle of the night to pad her way in here, reaching down into the crib, and shushing our son with her soft, lilting voice. It’s difficult to shove it back down. “Well, I don’t have a handmaiden anymore,” I reply, clearing the ache from my throat. “And even if I did, I’m not letting some other woman mother my baby. That’s absurd.”
Lex nods like he agrees with me, but, “It’s just… there aren’t any free rooms in our wing.”
“Is anyone else going to say it?” Pace looks between the three of us, raising an eyebrow. “We don’t need to live in this house of nightmares.”
I shuffle my feet, frowning. “Where else would we go?” I see the way they look at one another, my emphasis on we not having gone unheard.
“Our trust funds are still locked,” Lex says, sighing. He braces his hands against each side of the door jamb, his biceps flexing with the motion. “I have years of med school and residency ahead of me. It’ll be a long time before I can pull enough income to support us all.”
Wicker takes another pull from the bottle, snorting. “Fuck, I’ve barely chosen a major.”
“We don’t need a whole palace.” Pace crosses his arms, looking pretty serious about it.
But I eye Lex and Wicker, and know they’re wondering the same thing. Who would take the palace, if not us? Would Danner stay here? The next set of Princes, totally unchecked? A place like this needs staff, upkeep, and money, but most important of all is the idea of it. The Purple Palace is an institution just as much as a home—exactly like West End’s clock tower. There’s power in living here and the minute we walk away, there’s a power vacuum that someone will fill.
Lex snorts, tossing his brother a skeptical look. “So you’re ready to give up the military-grade surveillance of our massive estate? Because the baby is going to be here in three months.”
Pace reaches up to rub his neck, forehead knitted into a pensive frown. “Okay, maybe you have a point.”
Wicker mutters a curse, drawing our attention to him. “Fuck it. He can have my room.” At the ensuing, stunned silence, Wicker just shrugs. “Pace needs his room for the equipment, and Lex needs his for the lock. But let’s be real, I almost never use mine. It’s mostly just there to hold all my clothes.” He freezes, eyes widening. “Wait. Is there any chance we can expand her closet?”
Lex rubs his chin, amber eyes lost in thought. “You know, if we knock out a doorway beside the bathroom, we can connect her room to Wick’s, easy peasy.”
That lump returns to my throat again when I face Wicker. “You’re sure you’re okay with that?”
He glances around, looking panicked. “I’m serious about the closet situation. Do you have any idea how many clothes I have?” He rolls his eyes, though. “But yeah, if it’ll get me out of having to pull up these floorboards, consider the room all his. No skin off my back.”
I grin at him, hoping he can see the softness in it. “Thank you.”
It was barely fifteen hours ago that we were in that big, half-empty bed, somber and quiet as Wicker visibly struggled to reconcile the concept of fatherhood.
With a lazy salute, he saunters away, loudly stressing, “Closet space first, Red.”
A shiver runs through me as I peer into the darkened room on the other side of the glass. The open wounds he had when I came down a few days ago have started to scab over, red and raw and angry. According to Pace, my Princes have altered their approach, shifting more toward sensory deprivation than physical torture.
“If this makes you uncomfortable,” Lex says, ever observant, “we can do it another time.”
“It’s not the situation,” I say, rubbing my arms to quell the goosebumps. “My body can’t regulate the temperature these days. One minute I’m hot. The next I’m freezing.”
“Here,” Pace says, shrugging off his hoodie. It’s marked with ‘FU Hockey’ over the heart, the number three stitched on the sleeve. The shirt he’s wearing underneath is sleeveless, revealing the lean, hard muscle in his inked arms. He drapes the sweatshirt over my shoulders. “This’ll piss him off, anyway. Just another reminder of who you belong to.”
His scent lingers, and that does more to bolster my courage than anything else. “Thank you.”
“Bulky, too.” A hand comes down on my shoulder and spins me around. Wicker stands before me, catching the ends of the zipper between his long fingers. He drags it slowly up, covering my belly and stopping just below my breasts. “Father loathes a tease—especially when it’s hiding his heir.” His eyes linger a beat longer than necessary on my cleavage, and he licks his bottom lip. “You ready?”
I nod. Asking Ashby about the women in the garden is easy. Until now, they’ve been faceless, nameless victims, left to rot into compost. I want to know who they are as much as anyone else, but I have a bigger question for the fallen King, one I’ve been too angry and frankly too fragile to ask until now: who the hell did he send after me that night?
“Let’s do this,” I tell him, ignoring the concerned gaze of my other two Princes.
After an arm wrestling match, three rounds of rock, paper, scissors, and then some unspoken game involving punches that I couldn’t quite follow, I made the ultimate decision about who I wanted to go with me into the torture chamber with Ashby. There are two primary reasons I chose Wicker. One is because he’s the baby’s biological father, a Kayes, and that alone is enough to spark Ashby’s innate jealousy. And two, Wicker is the least protective of the baby. I need someone with me who understands the mind games Ashby is playing, and Wicker is fluent in pretentious bullshit.
“Be careful,” Lex says, taking one last chance to frame my belly with both hands. “He’ll manipulate you any way he can to get information about him.”
“I can handle myself.” I’m not afraid of him. I’m afraid of the anger that surges every time I think about the risk he put me and his unborn grandson in just to prove some deranged and delusional point. That he, over my Princes, should raise my child. This man truly knows no bounds.
Wick opens the door at the same time Pace flips on the overhead lights. The chamber is flooded with the glare of fluorescents, and a small cry of surprise echoes off the stone walls. I walk in first, Wicker right behind me, closing the door with the latch snapping into place. Instantly, I’m reminded of my own time down here. The cold, damp chill. The musty scent is now co-mingled with the coppery residue of blood.
“Verity,” Ashby says, eyes squinting. “You came to see me.”
“Weird.” I sniff the air.
“What’s that, Princess?” Wicker asks, pulling over a chair for me to sit across from the blinking, bound man.
I ease down, resting my hand on my stomach. Wicker moves to lean his back against the door, his eyebrow raised in exaggerated interest. “You’d think the way Rufus goes on about bloodlines and legacies, that Royal blood would smell different.” I sniff again. “But it’s exactly the same as everyone else’s.”
“Ah, I see you came ready to play,” Ashby says, his eyes acclimating. He frowns as I come into view, taking in my body head to toe. Other than the hoodie, I’m in a comfortable pair of stretchy leggings. Commoner clothes. “I guess that’s why you’re dressed like a West End hooligan. Prepared for a fight?”
“I’m not here to fight with you. I’m here for answers.”
He raises his chin, just as haughty as ever. “You know my parameters. Update me on my grandson, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Wrong,” I reply. “You’re the one tied up, emaciated, and reeking of piss. You’re definitely the one running out of time. Give me what I want, and I’ll consider providing you with an update.”
His eyes shift from me to Wick.
“Am I really running out of time, Whitaker, or are you? There are procedures in place. I’m sure you’ve been called in by the Kings by now, ordered to give proof of life.”
Wick picks at the ever-present scabs on his knuckles. “The other Kings are well aware of your current status. They aren’t too bothered, really. They have questions of their own, particularly the Baron King, who made it quite clear he’s alarmed about the dead bodies in your solarium—bodies he wasn’t tasked with removing. And as for Perilini and Payne… well. They’d be almost as happy as us to see you rot down here for eternity. The new generation of Royals aren’t very impressed with you.”
If it bothers him to hear this, he does a good job of hiding it, sniffing dismissively. “And what about those outside of leadership? People are talking, aren’t they? By this point, I’m missed, and not just by the society types. Have your PNZ brothers started whispering about your slapdash coup? I can think of a few boys who’d be more than interested in a mutiny. Thomas has had sour grapes since I named the three of you my Princes.”
Wicker, god love him, in all his arrogant beauty, lazily pushes off the door and walks over to me. He strokes my hair, brushing it off my neck, then plants a slow kiss on the skin beneath my ear. It’s inappropriate as fuck, but chills run across my skin, and I’m glad my nipples are covered by Pace’s thick hoodie.
“That’s your problem, you know that? Always underestimating us. Thinking we’re too common, or inbred, or subservient to make it on our own.” Wick straightens. “Proof of life is in process and will be delivered to the Kings as directed. The residents of East End and Forsyth are content with the fact you’re on an extended business trip. No one will blink when you’re not seen for another month, and by then, we’ll have you replaced entirely. Now that we’re clear on that,” Wick nods down at me, “why don’t you ask your question, Red.”
Ashby sighs heavily, as though we’re wasting his time, but finally shuts up long enough for me to ask, “Who did you hire to attack me?”
“That’s your big question?” He scoffs. “A common thug.”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning back, letting my stomach protrude. “I don’t think so. There was something about his voice. His choice of words. He sounded quite educated.”
“Impressive,” he replies, “although I can see why to someone raised with non-Royals it would be distinct.”
Wicker tenses next to me, and I know if I don’t want this to end in a pummeling I need to get him to talk. “So? Who was it? It couldn’t have been anyone who liked you very much. I’m willing to bet you had a different agreement from what went down.”
For all my Princes and I are expendable to him, there’s one thing I can trust for certain:
Rufus Ashby would never want this baby to die.
His lips are cracked and peeling, split in the center, drawing my grimace as he speaks. “The man I hired wasn’t just a test for the boys, but for the other houses as well. I found a weak link in one of Forsyth’s strongest foundations.” His cracked lips form a thin line. “But you’re right. I’m displeased that he took it so far. You and the child were never to be harmed, and if I weren’t locked down here, I’d have already dealt with the matter swiftly and decisively.” He lifts his chin at my stomach. “Now. Tit for tat, Verity.”
I glance at Wicker, and he gives me a curt nod.
Straightening in the chair, I pull at the zipper, revealing the entirety of my stomach. Ashby grins, a strange, feral expression transforming his face. “Such a strange thought, isn’t it? To know there’s life growing just beneath all that skin and muscle? So much potential…”
I give Wicker an uncertain look, but he just gives a minute shake of his head. So, I ignore the comment. “So I was right. He is Royal,” I say, trying not to squirm under his gaze. “What’s his name?”
Ashby’s eyes narrow. “I’ll need to know how much weight you’ve gained, the fetal heart rate, and I want to know if he’s active. The fall you took…” A coldness seeps into the hard angles of his face. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to get hurt.”
Lex prepared me for comments like these. “He’ll try to make himself out to be a victim,” he said. “He’ll try to act like you’re on the same side.”
It’s what makes it easy for me to school my face and square my shoulders. “You’ll tell me the attacker’s name if I give you this information?”
“Yes,” Ashby says, eyeing me greedily. “I promise.”
“As of this morning, I’ve gained fifteen-point-two pounds.” Ashby’s expression brightens with every word, like a thirsty man being given water. “And the baby’s heart rate is 136 beats per minute…” I glance at Wicker, whose jaw is tight, his eyes watching his Father carefully. “And yes, the baby is active. Mostly at night?—”
“That’s enough,” Wick says. “Give us the name.”
Our Father grins. “That heartbeat is strong. Virile. Just like an Ashby.”
“Spit it out,” Wicker barks.
“And, fifteen pounds…” Ashby repeats, his eyes calculating. “You’re thin, however, which would put you somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-four weeks?” I know the math he’s doing isn’t about the baby. It’s about the passage of time, how long he’s been down here.
Wicker’s large frame steps between us, his broad shoulders and wide back dominating the space. His fist balls and he swings, cracking his father in the face. “Stop fucking around and talk!”
Head turned, Ashby spits, a gob of blood splattering on the floor. Red-tinged drool oozes down his chin. “Violence has never suited you, Whitaker.”
“Yeah, well, neither does patience,” Wicker responds. “Your daughter asked you a question.”
“Fine. You want a name?” Ashby looks up at me, craning his neck, and there’s a spark in his eyes that I haven’t seen since the day my Princes tossed him in here. “William,” he snarls. “His name is William.”
Wicker rushes me from the room, and Pace shuts off the lights, sending our father back into pitch-black darkness.
“What the fuck?” Lex seethes once we enter the observation room. “William? As in one of the Barons?”
Pace doesn’t look convinced. “He knows the Kings have blessed the mutiny. He could be trying to sow discord between us. You know how Father?—”
“No.” Wicker wears a path from one side of the room to the other, flexing his fists in tight, tense bursts. “He’s doing it again.”
Shivering, I hug my middle. “Who? Ashby?”
His blue eyes blaze into mine. “Maddox. That motherfucker!” With a crash, he sends everything on the low table to the floor. Pliers, the whip, a large knife. I skitter back, stunned. “First my grandfather, then my dad, and now my son. He won’t stop until he’s exterminated my whole fucking bloodline!”
It’s rare for Wicker to lose his cool. The only times I’ve truly seen it are during the gender reveal, and when he stopped his father from whipping me in the study. Even then, there’d been a sense of detachment, a lost boy trapped in a man’s anger. But standing here now, his face red and his forearms strained, it’s not just anger rolling off of him in waves.
I swallow, resting a shaking hand on my stomach.
It’s the first time he’s ever called the baby his son.
“This,” he spits, thrusting a finger at my stomach, “is a declaration of war.”
“Calm down,” Lex says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We don’t know enough, Wick. Father said this was about testing weak links. Maybe he wanted to see if the Barons are as loyal as everyone thinks. If he’s even telling the truth,” everyone in the room knows that Ashby could be lying, “that means whichever William this is, he could be undermining Maddox as well. We need evidence. We need facts.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck. This is a fucking disaster.” Pace stops muttering and looks up, resting his hands on his hips. “Obviously we have to kill him.”
“Which one?” Lex asks.
Wicker is quick to offer a solution. “All fucking three of them, and their King, too.”
I can feel the energy of the room ramping up, teetering on the edge of spiraling out of control.
And then a knock sounds on the door behind me.
Three raps. Then two.
Pace looks at me, jerking his head to the door, and I emit a relieved sigh when I swing it open, revealing a jittery Ballsack. “Oh, thank God.” Then I see his face, the dark set of concern marring his features. My heart skips a beat, dread building in my stomach. “What’s wrong?”
“We have a problem.” His gaze goes from mine to the men behind me. “There’s an FBI agent waiting for you at the front gate.”