Chapter 13
13
Lex
When I get Pace’s text on Friday morning—“drawing room, watch him”—I’m not really sure what to expect. My brother’s gotten really cryptic ever since he started kicking up training for the fall, as if it’s taken so much energy, he can’t even make a complete sentence.
What I’m not expecting to find, however, is Remington Maddox lounging on our settee.
I pause in the doorway, looking from him to Wicker, who’s sitting on the sofa across from him. The room is deathly silent. Remy is staring at a spot on the floor with such searing intensity that I follow his gaze, finding nothing but the old hardwoods.
Wicker has his arms crossed, a scowl set on his face.
We’d been expecting him, of course.
The whole palace has been eager for Ballsack’s—Eugene’s—return ever since Agent Knight took him off the ground in cuffs, and Remy was supposed to deliver him.
I don’t see the DKS soldier, but I do see his Duke, a crevice carved in his forehead.
The silence lingers on and on, and I’m not compelled to break it, needing more data before I act.
But then Remy lets out this soft, scoffing laugh. “Nah.”
“Yeah.” Wicker’s voice is firm. “Ask him yourself.”
When Remy whips out his phone, it all clicks.
“You told him,” I realize, unsure how to feel about that. On one hand, the fewer secrets, the better. On the other, Verity had a point. Letting information like this loose into the world could have unforeseen consequences.
Straightening, Remy puts the phone to his ear, eyes distant. Truthfully, I’m not sure how a normal Royal interacts with his father. If it were one of us, six months ago, it would have been stiff but respectful and polite.
Remy doesn’t bother with any of that. “Is Wicker fucking Ashby my brother?” he seethes into the phone.
Obviously, I can’t hear what’s being said on the other end, but I do see Remy’s reaction to it.
His face blanks out, bled of all expression.
Slowly, he says, “Right.” And then, “Naturally.” And then, “Hold on.” He gives the phone a perplexing glance before holding it out toward Wicker. “He wants to talk to you.”
Wicker pulls a face that’s all hard edges and aggression, but strains over the distance to snatch it out of Remy’s hand. “What?” he snaps into the phone, another silence stretching before us. “Hello?” Wicker pulls the phone away, gawking at it before raising his outraged gaze to Remy. “Did this fucker really ask you to give me the phone so he could hang up on me?”
Remy looks pale, springing to his feet. “I… I have to go,” he mutters, lifting a hand to grip at his platinum hair. “I have to find a color that isn’t gold.” But when he goes to rush out, he freezes, spotting me in the doorway. “Oh. Hey.” His eyes are a wild sort of green, zipping around like he’s being hunted.
“Are you okay?” I’m not sure what makes me ask. Maybe seeing Remy that night Nick Bruin got shot made me see him in a different light.
He’s weirdly fragile for a Duke.
Remy plucks something from behind his ear—a marker—and taps a rapid rhythm with it against his thigh. “Yeah,” he says, looking troubled. “I just need to see the sky and check my head, you know?”
I really don’t. “Wait,” I call as he rushes by. “This isn’t why we asked you to come.” When I shoot Wicker a disbelieving glare, all I get back is his middle finger. “I wanted to ask a favor.”
Remy stops, turning to me, but his eyes never quite reach mine, stopping at my throat. “A favor?” he asks, shoving a fist in each pocket.
Hearing the skeptical tone in his voice, I elaborate. “A painting for the nursery. I was thinking…” Reaching up, I rub the back of my neck, pissed at Wicker for marring this. “Well, Verity thinks of you as family, and we thought it’d be a nice surprise if you painted something on the walls in there. They’re completely bare.”
Remy’s gaze finally inches up, meeting mine. “They’re bare?” he asks, disgust clear in his voice. “I’ll—I’ll be back.”
And with that, he stalks down the hallway to the foyer, leaving.
I turn a blank look on my brother. “Seriously?”
Wick shrugs, spreading out on the couch. “He’s the only person in this town who hates Maddox more than I do. Seemed like some fun shit to stir.”
“We don’t need to stir shit,” I say, rubbing my temple. “Verity is going to give birth to our son in a month, and we still have our own fucking King held hostage.”
Wick points out, “I wanted to kill him and get it over with. You’re the one being all strategic and drag-ass about it.”
“There are things,” I say, teeth grinding, “we need to use him for.”
He makes a flippant sound. “Like what?”
“Like the Royal Ascension!”
Wicker’s eyes jump to mine and he straightens, mouth forming a slack moue. “We’re doing the ascension? There hasn’t been a Royal Ascension since?—”
“Michael. I know.” Shrugging, I remind him, “Our son is the heir to the kingdom. He deserves his birthright, and that’s how people need to see him.”
“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, fuck yeah.”
“Yeah,” I sigh, already cringing at the words I’m about to say. “So stop sowing discord and start taking Maddox’s advice. We have a kingdom to lead.”
I know I’ve driven the point home when Wicker rises to his feet. “I’ll start the preparations then. We won’t have much time.”
The flash of malicious delight in his eyes doesn’t bother me because I feel it, too. Upstairs, Pace probably has the same violently eager gleam in his own eyes.
But Verity doesn’t even know what the ascension is.
And she hates getting blood on her dresses.
“It’s down here.” I exchange a look with Rory Livingston as I walk down the hall. He nods in return, arms crossed over his chest. He’s turned into a reliable asset for PNZ. Loyal. Adaptable. I know he’ll have my back as I lead a rival into my house.
“The idea was to do it as a surprise, but unfortunately it became apparent very quickly that we’re way outside of our wheelhouse,” I explain. “That’s when Ballsack suggested we ask you.”
Ballsy’s still getting settled back into his rooms downstairs. In truth, I was surprised he wanted to come back at all. If he wanted to stay in West End under his own King’s protection, we wouldn’t have held it against him. When I asked, he just laughed, saying Verity and our little cantaloupe need a chauffeur. It was said as a joke, but we both know it’s true.
Everyone is growing more nervous with each day the birth approaches. A part of me feels relieved they do. I’ve had these nerves since she tested positive for pregnancy, tending the anxiety and pressure for long months.
It’s about fucking time everyone else did, too.
“We aren’t just outside our wheelhouse. We’re in another stratosphere,” Pace adds, appearing in the doorway. He eyes the man behind me dubiously. “Remy.” He shoots me a glare. “I’m still on the record for this situation being fucked.”
The situation is unprecedented, but so are a lot of other things lately. The night I made the decision to save Nick Bruin’s life, I proved we were a house who could be reached out to if the links were there. Now that we know Remy and Wicker are biologically brothers, those links are even more unavoidable.
If we’re going to make an ally, the Dukes are the most obvious and useful.
Remy must agree because he suddenly—awkwardly—thrusts his hand out to Pace, who stares at it much too hard, as if he’s trying to find the resemblance between ink-stained Maddox hands and Wicker’s.
In the end, Pace huffs, reaching out to grip it with a hard shake.
Remy doesn’t give it back, though. He tugs Pace closer, bending down to assess my brother’s tattoos. He purses his lips, using the tip of his ever-present capped marker to point to a whorl on Pace’s forearm. “This prison work?”
“Yeah,” Pace says, expression shuttered and hard.
Remy nods. “Violet.”
I chuff a laugh, glancing at Rory. “They’re gray, actually.”
But Pace just says, “Yeah,” looking weirdly impressed. “He did some of them.”
Remy nods. “I noticed it when you capped Oakfield. Good work, by the way.”
“Thanks.” Pace looks down at his arm. “How’d you know Bo Violet inked these?”
“All the red mostly.” He pops the marker back behind his ear. “And the thin lines. I’ve never met him, but some of the cubs have his ink. DK hooked you up, right?”
“What do you mean ‘red’?” Pace asks. The tattoos on his dark arm are also in dark, non-colored ink.
Remy blinks. “You got them in the Pen, right?”
“Yeah.”
Remy puts his inked fingers to a temple, and then mimics a trigger pull, saying, “Kapow! Red. Stay out of that place. It’ll kill you.”
“Sure.” Pace’s eyes slide to mine and I’m pretty sure he’s reconsidering letting this man into our house. “I’ll do that.”
“Now,” Remy rubs his hands together, “show me what we’re dealing with.”
Pace steps aside and allows Remy entry into the nursery. Wicker glances up from where he’s made some progress taping the windows. The two make eye contact but don’t speak. Wicker is probably the least on board with this idea, which is rich, considering his shit-stirring from earlier this morning.
I can’t blame him. The interactions he’s had lately with the Barons and Timothy Maddox surely are clouding his opinion. But when Ballsack heard we were struggling with a surprise decoration attempt for the nursery, he suggested we call in the only pro he trusted.
That’s why Remington Maddox is inside the palace walls, up in our private wing, walking around the perimeter of the room, fingers out, barely grazing the primed surface. “How old is this painted lady? Forget all the new plaster and shit. When were her stones set?”
I frown. “You mean the palace? It was built in the late 1800s.”
“Shit,” he breathes, running his palm along the exterior wall. “She was born around the same time as the clock tower.”
Confused, I wager, “I guess.”
His green eyes are wide, following the path of his hand up the wall. “Imagine everything she’s seen.”
“A hundred years of East End jizz,” Wicker mutters with a cold smirk. “I’ll pass.”
Remy stops, turning to Wick. “You don’t like her.”
Wicker glances at me, then back to Remy. “It’s just a house.”
“Just a house?” Remy gapes at him, an odd flash of anger building in his eyes. “She’s sheltered you, hasn’t she? Showed you her secret places? She’s let you in, kept you safe, and made you a part of her soul.” When all he gets is our silent, blank stare, Remy growls, pointing to a spot on the molding all the way in the top corner by the closet. “Here, you see? You put your initials—your real initials—into the heart of her. WCK.”
Wicker squints his eyes. “What, that little carving? I put those there in fifth grade.”
“Exactly,” Remy says, nodding. “You showed her who you were. Called dibs. Don’t be a fickle little bitch.”
Wicker shoots to his feet. “Excuse me?!”
Before I can get between them, Remy explains, “I’m not putting my work in this house unless you intend to keep it.” He turns to me, hands clasped behind his back in some kind of power move. It’s like someone turning their back to a predator, signaling they’re not intimidated. “Are you going to live here? I’m not doing art for the next Royal stock, am I?”
The best I can give him is this: “We don’t intend to leave.”
Seems good enough for Remy, thankfully. “Did she pick out a color?”
“No,” Pace says, reaching into a bag from the paint shop. He hands him a palette of colors. “These seem to be the ones she’s leaning toward.”
Remy flips through them, his face transforming from one color to the next. His forehead tenses, jaw tightening with each one. “Just colors,” he begins muttering. “Not feelings. Just colors. Not bad. Just colors.” Eventually, he glances up, noticing our confused expressions, and freezes. He looks uncharacteristically embarrassed. “Oh, it’s just…. Vinny and Sy say I need to find the good in every color. But, like—” He flashes a neon yellow swatch at us. “A guy can only handle so much.”
“Not that one,” Pace says, snatching it out of his hand and throwing it onto the floor. “I prefer our eyes not to bleed.”
Remy exhales, shoulders loosening. “I’ll need my kit for the mural.”
“The mural?” I ask.
“Something right here,” he lifts his hands, fingers making a picture square, “over the crib.”
“How did you know the crib would be there?” Pace asks.
“Best angles for security, of course.” He shrugs. “And the natural light, obviously.” I’m starting to understand that Remy doesn’t just see things that we don’t. He sees everything all at once.
“That sounds good,” I tell him. “Is there anything else you’ll need?”
He rubs idly at his chest as he inspects the plaster. “I’ll send you a list, and then we can figure out a schedule.”
“Oh,” I grimace. “Yeah, we can’t do it on a schedule. It has to be on a certain day.”
“And finished on the same day,” Pace adds. “For the surprise.”
“One day?” Remy asks, gaze going back to the wall, like he sees something already there. “That’s going to be tight.” He thinks on it for a moment longer. “But yeah. Okay.” I’m not expecting his next question. “So what’s he like?”
“Who?” I ask, only because Remy looks straight at me.
“The baby.”
I give Wicker a confused look. “He’s, uhhh…”
“Cantaloupe,” Wicker drawls. “That’s about the extent of our knowing him as a fetus.”
But that’s not entirely true, is it?
“He’s really active at night,” I say, thinking of Verity waking up at two every night.
Pace adds, “And she says he seems calmest when he hears music.”
Remy’s expression turns curious. “What kind of music?”
“Classical stuff,” he answers, sliding his gaze to Wicker. “Cello.”
Remy follows his gaze to Wicker. “Oh,” he says, brow knitting together. “He’s yours.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Wick bursts with a flare of annoyance. “He might come out brown like Pace—you fuckers don’t know.”
Remy just snorts. “It’s like the molding. I know dibs when I see them.” But he freezes abruptly, all the blood draining from his face. “Wait, would that make me…?”
I watch Pace carefully, knowing this is a point of tension for him. We’re different from other people. To us, blood ties are a big deal. Sometimes they're dangerous and worth keeping secret, but other times, they’re enormous. Maybe, for once, they can even be something good. Something that doesn’t need to be hidden and whispered about in dark, quiet places.
To my relief, Pace just shoves two fists in his pockets, head bowed. “Biologically, you’ll be his uncle.”
Remy blinks furiously, scanning the walls like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Oh, fuck,” he says. “That’s… that’s heavy. That’s a lot of responsibility.”
Wicker looks like he’s about to lose it. “For you?! It’s not like you’ll be paying child support here.”
But Remy just shakes his head, and since I can see it coming from a mile away, I step out of the doorway, anticipating his next words.
“I have to go?—”
“Check your head?” I guess, moving aside. “See the sky?”
Remy stops, his green eyes locked on mine. “Yeah,” he breathes, tucking the marker behind his ear. “Exactly. Fucking exactly.”
Getting a better sense of this guy’s mania, I ask, “But you’ll come back and do it, right?”
“You saved Nicky,” he says, as though that covers it. “And I’ll do anything for Ver. She deserves the best.”
If I’ve learned one thing that ties the Dukes and Princes together, it’s that one simple fact.
Verity deserves the best.
“Will August ever end? Who thought it was a good idea to be pregnant in the summer?” Verity stands in front of the refrigerator, tugging at the collar of her shirt while letting the cool air rush out. To be clear, it’s not hot in here. The thermostat is set on sixty-eight and runs continuously. “Also, do we have any more peaches?”
“I’ll add it to the list,” I say, giving Ballsack a look.
“Ver,” he says, “we should probably head out, so you’re not late.”
She slams the refrigerator door shut and looks down at her dress. “I should change.”
“I like that dress,” I tell her, truthfully.
Her nose wrinkles. This has been a point of contention ever since we danced that night in the ballroom. “It’s too tight.”
“I think it hugs your curves perfectly.”
“It’s tight,” she argues.
“It’s flattering.”
“I’m fat.”
“You’re literally the most gorgeous I’ve ever seen you.” This isn’t the first time I’ve said it, and it won’t be the last. “The more your body progresses, the more beautiful you get. This,” I say, taking a step toward her, “is a body of creation, ripe and full of life.”
Her jaw sets. “Like a melon.”
Fucking cantaloupe week.
Pinning her against the countertop, I trap her in with an arm on either side of her curvy body. “I know what you’re doing.”
She pointedly avoids my gaze. “What’s that?”
“Procrastinating,” I wager, leaning in to brush a kiss over the curve of her cheek. “You’re worried about the shower.”
She sighs, turning to graze my lips with hers. “I don’t like being the center of attention.”
“Too bad, because you’re a Princess. You gave up the option of anonymity the moment you accepted the invitation to the masquerade.” I push her hair off her neck, exposing the long line of her neck. “But I don’t think that’s it. I think you’re worried about your court.”
Her eyes flare with life. “Why wouldn’t I be? The last time I went to the Gilded Rose with those bitches, they tried to ruin my hair. And then I ruined their relationships.” Guilt flickers across her face. “We have a really complicated history.”
“And you’ve done the work to repair it.” The crown of her belly rubs against my lower belly, and fuck, I like it. “Tommy said he and Heather are back together.”
A small grin tugs at her mouth, giving away her pride at her leadership, but all she says is, “Aw. I hope they’re making each other miserable.”
I laugh. “Yeah, neither is my idea of an ideal partner, but if it makes them happy…”
She touches my cheek, fingers tucking my hair behind my ear. “I like it when you laugh. You don’t do it enough.” A shiver of want runs down my spine, and then she frowns. “But what if the whole thing goes sideways?”
“It won’t,” I promise her.
“You can’t know that.”
“I know your mother will be there, and I’d pay good money to see what happens if someone decides to fuck with her daughter and grandson,” I rest my hand on her stomach, “at their own baby shower.”
She purses her lips. “You have a point.”
“I usually do.” I lift her chin, taking the opportunity to swipe a kiss. I do this more often now. Taking little pieces of her when she’ll allow it. Getting closer because it feels like the only way I can breathe. “Go,” I insist, “get spoiled.”
I move, letting her out of my makeshift jail. Grabbing a banana off the counter she says, “I’m surprised one of you isn’t driving me.” She glances at Ballsack, who’s doing his best impression of an inanimate object. “Not that I won’t enjoy watching Ballsy get fussed over by thirty women.”
Ballsack looks more hunted than he had when the agent dragged him out of here. “I don’t have to go in.” He looks at me, pleading. “I don’t, right?”
The question was clear in her tone, so I choose my response carefully. “The rest of us have some frat business to take care of while all the women are busy. You’ll be safe with your very own Ballsack escorting you.” I pause, face scrunching. “Dude, your name makes for some really weird sentences,” I tell him.
A ghost of a grin tugs at his lips. “One of the other guys I pledged with got ‘Sphincter’, so I count myself lucky.”
She eyes us suspiciously, and I’m pretty sure our well-thought-out plan—decorating the nursery while she’s at the shower—has been blown. Until she says, “You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”
Huh. Plan not blown. I clear my throat. “No. Not today.”
“You sure?” Her eyes narrow. “You’re acting weird.”
I pull her into another spontaneous kiss, assuring, “Princess, as much as we’d like to get rid of him, today is not the day.”
“When then?” she asks, and I realize she’s getting anxious to get the weight of Rufus Ashby off her shoulders. That, or she’s still procrastinating.
Probably both.
“Soon. I promise.” I nudge her toward Ballsack. “Drive safe.”
“Will do,” he says, ushering her down the front hall toward the car waiting out front.
Ballsack has barely driven through the front gates when I hear a knock on the back door. “Took you long enough to say goodbye,” Remy mutters the instant I open it. “I thought maybe you were going to start going at it, and then I’d have to stab my ears out, but thankfully it didn’t go that far.”
“You were listening?” I ask, faintly disturbed.
He looks faintly insulted. “Only to see if it was safe to come in!”
There’s movement in the SUV behind him and my eyes slide over his shoulder, catching sight of Sy climbing out of the front seat. He rolls his eyes at Remy, saying, “Ignore him.”
I take in Sy’s ratty T-shirt and old jeans. “What are you doing here?”
Sy sidles up to him, arms crossed. “Every time my Duke comes into this fucking place, he comes out with another family member. I’m here to make sure you’re not about to ambush him with a long-lost sister or some shit.”
Ah.
So he told him.
“That,” I stress, “is between him and Wicker and whatever psycho is standing in as their father this week. I just wanted a nursery decorated for my Princess.”
“Well, here we are. Even Picasso had an assistant.” Sy walks back to the SUV, hauling a paint-splattered toolbox out of the back. “At least that’s what Remy told me.”
Remy gives me a look that doesn’t brook an argument. “Your one day timeline means I need another set of hands I can trust.” He grabs Sy by the wrist. “This is the hand of a man I can trust.”
I lift my chin to Sy, holding the door open for them. “By the way, how’s Bruin? I haven’t gotten any calls lately.”
“Pissy about having to take it easy for another few weeks, but he’s healing up well.” His expression turns awkward—maybe even softens. “Thanks, again.”
Before I can reply, I hear, “Incoming,” and Wicker’s voice enters the room before his body. Sy and Remy jolt, turning around and seeming startled at his sudden appearance.
“Where the fuck did you come from?” Remy asks, eyes narrowed at Wick like he’s seeing a ghost. I shoot my brother a look for using the hidden door next to the refrigerator, but the sound of wheels on the pavement takes precedence.
“Who is that?” Sy asks.
“Payne and Mercer,” Pace says, coming down the stairs. “I told Tommy he could let them through the gate. They said they needed to drop something off and willingly checked their weapons at the bridge.”
We have no business with the Lords, and from the tense set of Sy’s shoulders, I don’t think he does either.
Groaning, I demand, “No bloodshed!”
Sy holds up his hands. “No problem here. We promised Lav we’d be on our best behavior.”
The vehicle, a big truck, pulls to a stop. Whatever is in the back has been covered with a gray tarp.
Killian exits the cab, and Mercer follows from the passenger side.
“Perilini,” Killian says, nodding at Sy. “Maddox.” He shifts his gaze to me and my brothers. “Ashbys. We’ve got a delivery.”
“From our Lady,” Tristian adds, gesturing to the truck. “For your Princess.”
“A gift?” Wicker asks, eyes skeptical. “Why didn’t she take it to the shower?”
“It’s too big,” Killian says, glancing at Sy. “And it’s probably going to take three of us to get it upstairs unless you’ve got an elevator in this place.”
Pace narrows his eyes. “How do you know the nursery is upstairs?”
Killian and Tristian exchange a look, but the King replies, “Don’t get paranoid. I just assumed.” None of us have forgotten the condition of the nursery that we abandoned or the rumors that followed. “Anyway, she said you’d be here working on the room today and it would be a good day to drop it off.”
Remy assesses the two, apparently coming to a decision. “Sy, you can help Payne with that.”
Sy frowns. “I thought I was your trusted hands?”
Remy nods at Tristian. “You need a delicate touch to handle explosives. An artist’s touch. Mercer’s with me.”
Tristian manages to look both pleased and insulted. “The only thing I know how to draw is my Beretta, and Pace made me check it at the gate.”
Killian sighs, relenting, “Whatever. Let Picasso and Matisse get started. I just need someone to help me get this upstairs.”
As an undergrad, due to Father’s influence, I’ve had the opportunity to observe physicians at the hospital. To witness the undeniable skill it takes to stitch a suture, keep a steady hand, set a bone. I’ve even experienced it myself when I’d saved Nick Bruin’s life.
It feels like a higher power is in charge and working through you.
I never thought much about art or being an artist, but I’ve gotta give it to him. Remington Maddox has a gift. Somehow, by just using his hands, chalk, and a paintbrush, he’s able to bring the walls of the nursery to life.
“This is pretty damn impressive,” Tristian says, eyeing the mural. “You didn’t do a draft or anything?”
“Psh,” Remy scoffs, dabbing his brush into the makeshift palette he made out of a piece of cardboard. “Nah, I just visualize it and then bring it to life. Although Vinny did specifically demand I add the butterflies.” He looks at Sy, fidgeting with a tube of paint. “This color is okay? You’re sure?”
“All colors are okay,” Sy answers, clasping his Duke on the shoulder. His voice is low and patient in a way I’m not expecting. “Plus, the blue and green make teal, right? Which makes it overpower the yellow.”
Remy breathes out slowly, assessing the finished product. “Right. To the victor.”
“Those stars are cool,” Tristian adds. “I like how they look like they’re hanging by a thread.”
Remy follows his gaze, pushing his wild, platinum hair out of his eyes. “That’s so the baby always knows how to get home, even when it’s dark.” He whips around, facing me. “Nightmares get in your head sometimes, Lex. You have to be watchful.” His stare is almost too intense—seeking and pleading. “You’ll watch him, right? Make sure he doesn’t turn green? Because my mom,” Remy’s eyes flick to Wicker, “she gave that to me through her blood.”
I straighten, startled. “Wait. You mean something hereditary?”
“I turned out fine,” Wicker offers, looking unconcerned.
Still, I’m relieved when Sy dips close to say, “How about we go out for a drink tomorrow, and I’ll fill you in on the medical history.”
I exhale shakily. “Yeah. The colors are getting confusing.” I catch Killian’s eye and he shrugs. He and Pace have been building and arranging the furniture; a changing table and a bookshelf.
“She’s going to like that,” Wick says, gesturing to the chair in the corner. It’s the gift from the Lords and Lady—a rocker. “She’s going to love all of it.”
I don’t know how Maddox did it, but he managed to paint an entire garden on the wall. Roses rise from the floorboards, white and pure, while vines curl along the corners, hanging over the bed. There are the stars, a moon, and the silhouette of a bird taking flight.
When I point it out, Remy grins. “Oh yeah, that’s Effie. She’s a big soul. I bet the house loves her.”
Pace opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it, thinking better of it.
Smart.
That is, until he turns to Payne, saying, “Your FBI agent showed up here the other day.”
Killian instantly balks. “He’s not my agent. And I heard he had a warrant.” The muscle in the back of Killian’s jaw tics. “Why are you pushing back on this anyway? I thought you wanted to find the girl.”
“I’m not sure why finding a missing South Side girl means harassing one of my guys,” Sy chimes in. “Ballsack is a good kid.”
“He may be,” Killian says, standing to his full height, “but he was in a relationship with her and one of the other girls who went missing. No one can name a better suspect.”
“You’re not going to find anything on him,” Remy says, adding a flourish to a rose beneath the window. “Ballsy’s been one of the sturdiest guys in the frat. Now he’s…” he picks up a tube of yellow paint and twists it in his stained fingers. “Sad.”
“For the record,” Wick says, “we do want to know, but we’re not too keen on Feds showing up at the palace gates, making accusations.”
Killian rolls his eyes. “Let’s face it. There’s no way for there to be an impartial investigation by the locals. The corruption runs deep, and it leads back to every single one of our houses.” Cops, judges, clerks, attorneys, politicians. He’s right. No one is clean in Forsyth. “And I’m aware that it seems like we’re meddling by using our federal contact, but it was the best we could do. We want answers.”
“This is your fault, you know.” Pace looks at Sy. “You and your fucking contracts, insisting on keeping an eye on Verity, and you swapped that kid across territory lines like a rubber band.” He shifts his attention to the Lords. “And honestly, I’m not so sure you didn’t have something to do with a girl from South Side conveniently applying to be an East End handmaiden.”
“That wasn’t us,” Tristian says, hand pushing through his hair. “But it was orchestrated. By Story.”
I frown. “Why?”
Mercer snorts. “You haven’t noticed how close those girls are?”
Every guy in the room stares blankly, confirming that none of us had noticed, and I think about how I had to push her out the door to go to the shower today.
“None of you have sisters,” Mercer continues, “but I do. There’s a vibe. Our women have a connection.”
Wick nods, face pensive. “I can see it. You know how women like to travel in packs. Ours don’t have that option. Not even with their court or,” he waves his hand at Sy and Remy, “or those cub-sluts of yours, or,” he shoots the Lords a look, “the whores at your brothel. Sure, they have other women to talk to, but no one who gets what it’s like to be Royal. It’s an exclusive club.”
“Tell me about it,” Killian says, rubbing his forehead. “Is this a problem?”
The question seems to be directed at Sy—the other King in the room.
“Fuck if I know.” He leans against the changing table, arms crossed over his chest. “The Duke in me wants to say hell no. But the psychology student in me…” He grimaces. “It says that if we want these women in our lives for the long haul, then they’re going to need some kind of support outside of us. Someone who knows what it's like to carry the burden of being a Queen.”
I shift uneasily. We’ve all just barely started speaking to one another, but the idea of Verity being a Queen of Forsyth…
It feels destined.
“Then we let it be,” I say, knowing it’s the right thing. And if it’s not…
Then the three of our houses will deal with it in our own way.
Just like we always do.