“Well, this is…” A snowball whizzes past Sy’s ear, smashing into the wall behind him.
Nick reaches for his gun.
“Seriously?” Sy’s look is a characteristic mixture of deadly and exasperated. He holds out his hand. “I specifically said no firearms.”
“It could have been an assassination attempt.” Nick sighs, but puts the gun into Sy’s palm. Like we don’t all know there’s a knife in his boot.
“Sorry, dude.” The thrower, a guy wearing a stocking cap with the Greek letters LDZ across the front, shrugs, before bending over to grab another handful of snow. “My bad.”
“This is a lot,” Sy finishes, glaring at the kid who almost hit him across the Lords’ backyard. It’s been transformed into some kind of magical winter wonderland.
“Tucker!” Dimitri Rathbone appears out of the crowd. “Stop being a fuckhead.”
Tucker drops the snow, which scatters at his feet. “Yes, sir.”
“Go get our guests a drink.”
“On it.” Tucker runs off without a glance backward, rushing to the bar across the yard. Ducking into my scarf, I notice a lot of LDZs are much like Tucker. Drunk, happy, and playful.
“This is fucking elaborate.” Remy’s eyes are a vivid green, taking in everything. He loves seeing something new and different, and a snowy, glowing patch of South Side is definitely different. “Can you really sled down that?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the hill in the distance.
Rath follows his gaze. “Yeah, it’s fun as hell, especially if you’re going down it with your girl. It’s engineered to make you feel like you’re falling right off a cliff.”
Remy and I share a look. “Ugh, maybe later.”
“Lav!” Story’s happy, inebriated voice rings out. A moment later, she has me in a tight, crushing hug. “I’m so glad you and your guys could make it!”
I embrace her back with a laugh, her enthusiasm infectious. “Me, too.”
It’s not completely unheard of for the frats to invite the leadership to each other’s events. We all go to the Baron’s equinox celebration, and all the house girls compete in Screw Year’s Eve. I suppose, if things stay peaceful, we’ll get an invite to the Prince’s Valentine’s party. But when it comes to the Counts…
How wrong is it to make a barbecue joke right now?
Killian and Tristian walk up behind her and the two Kings share a nod.
“This might sound really inappropriate,” Tristian starts.
“Then don’t say it,” Killian says, eyes narrowed.
He does, anyway. “That explosion was better than a wet dream.” KIllian shakes his head while Rath actually slams his fist into his shoulder. Tristan grasps his arm, glowering. “Jesus! What? I’m just congratulating the Dukes for a job well done.”
“Yeah,” Killian says, eyeing Tucker and another LDZ who return carrying a drink for each of us. “You’re lucky things went well–since you’re the asshole that programmed the phone in the first place.”
“You know how it is,” Tristian winks. “Things have a way of working out for me.”
Story grabs one of the drinks, a mug of something warm and chocolatey with whipped cream on top, and hands it to me. She then links her arm with mine, and says, “Why don’t you guys go try out some of the activities? Lav and I need quality girl time. No boys allowed.”
Nick studies the two of us, his arms crossing over his chest. “I don’t know.”
Is he worried about the two of us getting close? Probably, considering the way we ganged up on him a few months back. I can admit it’s weird, but I can also accept that I need a friend. The cutsluts are great, but I really need someone who understands this life. “Nick, it’s fine. Go.”
He doesn’t relent without staring Story down for a good second. “Okay, but Screw Year’s Eve is in less than a week and she’s the reigning champion. This better not be some kind of sabotage.”
I look at Sy for help and he rolls his eyes, clapping his hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Come on, little brother. Is that curling over there? You’ll love it. It takes almost no upper body strength to push a rock.”
Nick turns to him, and–
Oh no.
I know that spark of intensity in his eyes. “Bet I’d be better than you.”
Sy might be the leader, but he’s still a Duke, and the hunger for competition–the chance to win–still breaks through. “You’re on.”
Leaning over, Nick plants a warm kiss on my cold cheek before walking off with the others.
Story watches them go, head shaking. “They’re going to be menaces with those brooms, aren’t they?”
I give her a weary look. “You have no idea. Last night, I had to referee a confusingly violent round of competitive gift wrapping.”
Her head tilts curiously. “Who won?”
This is an easy answer. “I did.”
She barks a laugh, and a few minutes later, we’re next to a roaring fire pit, bundled in blankets and sipping spiked hot chocolate. I have a thought that this isn’t too bad for a Christmas, and it reminds me of the last two, both spent under Nick Bruin’s intense, watching gaze, and somehow even those were better than the Christmases back home in North Side.
Loud voices erupt from across the yard and I cringe. “Do you think it’s really okay for them to be left alone together?”
“We’ll find out.” She raises her mug, her eyes sparkling in the firelight. “We should make a toast.”
Perking up, I wonder, “To what?”
“Girls who are fucking three guys? Being Queens?” Some of the mirth fades from her eyes. “Being a member of the shitty parent club?”
I hold up my mug and clink it to hers. “To all of that.” The drink burns going down, less from the heat and more from the liquor.
“How are you doing?” she asks, pinning me with a reluctant look. “Really.”
Shrugging, I don’t really need to think about it. “Better.”
Something reluctant pops up in her eyes. “When Daniel died, Killian felt… complicated. I gave him some really profound wisdom that I’m way too buzzed to remember, but I think it went something like this.” She holds my stare, face growing serious. “It’s okay to grieve for people who don’t deserve it–to grieve the people they could have been.”
I feel my face soften. She’s too good for this town. “I’m okay, Story. The truth is, I grieved my idea of who my father could’ve been a long time ago. He was already dead to me.”
She searches my face, but finding no thread of insincerity, she raises her glass. “Then we’ll toast to new beginnings.”
I touch my cup to hers, grinning. “To new beginnings.”
“Oh, my god,” she suddenly says, back straightening. “Speaking of, did you hear about the Princess?”
“No.” We’ve been firmly cocooned in our bubble since moving back in the tower. “Everything okay with the baby?”
“As far as I know, the baby is healthy,” she says, “but there is a problem.”
I frown. “What kind of problem?”
Story leans in with a conspiratorial smirk. “It’s not any of the Princes’.”
My jaw drops. “What? Holy shit.”
“Right?” She looks as shocked as I feel.
“How do they even know?” I wonder, since the Princess is barely showing.
Waving her hand, Story explains, “Auggie told me that it’s standard protocol that once the Princess reaches nine weeks, they perform a DNA test on the baby.” She leans forward, letting her fingers warm up. “Turns out, Piper had a boyfriend before she became Princess. Non-frat. They kept hooking up this whole time, which–as I’m sure you know–is a clear violation of the Psi Nu covenants.”
“Oh,” I reply, blinking. “That’s, like… a contract?”
“Well, yeah,” Story leans back, taking another sip. She notices my baffled expression. “Wait, you didn’t sign a contract to be the Dukes’ house girl?”
“No,” I say, wondering if that’s strange. The Counts don’t do it–that much I know. But even if the Dukes did, I came to them as a prize. A captive. There’s no contract for that. “But I guess everyone’s arrangement is different,” I offer. She nods, leaving it at that. “The Princes must be furious.”
She shakes her head. “Oh, not this time. From what Killian hears, they knew she was cheating and were okay with it, because they’d been fucking around, too.”
This can only mean one thing. “So Ashby is going to assign new Princes.” It’s the rule of their house. If they don’t produce an heir by the three-month mark, they get the boot. It’s why they fuck so doggedly, desperate to get a baby into her before the deadline comes and reduces them back to mediocrity.
“And a new Princess, too,” she adds, eyeing me over her mug. “I guess that’s one less Royal to worry about for Screw Year’s Eve.”
I snort. “Please. I don’t think any Princess has ever gotten into the ring. They’re always pregnant by the time New Year’s rolls around.”
“Vinny!” My name is shouted across the yard. “You’ve got to come see this.”
“I’m being summoned.” I stand, gathering the blanket around my shoulders. “Let’s make sure everyone is playing nice.”
I’m not surprised when I see a group of guys surrounding the flat sheet of ice. Competition is contagious, and now it’s not just the Dukes battling it out for whatever the hell curling is… rock sliding? Ice scrubbing? Winter bowling?
“How is this an Olympic sport?” Story asks, easing against Rath’s side as his arm comes around her.
Killian Payne is beside Nick, who’s propped against his broom handle. “You hear about this shit with the Princes?” he asks.
Nick dips his chin in a nod. “Never a shortage of drama in the purple palace.”
“There are rumors,” Killian says, ducking closer to keep his voice low, “that Ashby’s going to put his sons in the palace.”
Nick’s eyebrows knit together. “He can’t do that. Lex is graduating this year, and Pace just got out of prison for that stuff over spring break.”
Shrugging, Killian notes, “It’s what I’ve been hearing, and Ashby might just be nervous enough to buck tradition. My father’s dead. Saul’s dead. Lionel’s dead.” Killian glances up, catching my frozen eye for a split second. “Three out of five, Nick. The old generation is pissing their pants.”
Sy strolls up, having obviously heard some of this. “I say let them. Better off with Ashby’s spoiled little misfits than someone who poses a real threat. None of them are even real Royalty, anyway.” Pausing with a beer halfway to his mouth, Sy glances at Rath. “No offense. I obviously don’t buy into the bloodline bullshit.”
Nick says, “Ashby does, though.” I don’t like the look in his eyes, as if he’s struggling to come to a decision. The seed of something dark grows, turning his gaze on Killian. “Did your dad ever tell you Wicker’s real last name?”
Killian frowns, watching as an LDZ stokes the fire across the yard. “No. I didn’t even think he knew anything.”
“It’s Kayes,” Nick says, keeping his voice low. “Wicker Kayes.”
I jolt forward, eyes wide. “You mean like Clive Kayes?” I look at Remy, who’s currently crouched down on the ice, sliding a rock.
Story tips her head to the side. “Who’s Clive Kayes?”
I clutch my mug close, swallowing. “He’s the Baron legacy.” It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth, either.
Rath asks the question we’re all thinking. “What the fuck is a relation to the Baron King doing in East End?”
But that’s the thing. Clive Kayes isn’t the King of the Barons.
And we’re the only ones who know it.
Nick locks eyes with me, a silent understanding passing between us. “And what’s he doing with Ashby’s last name?”
The question hangs in the air, enticing but full of worry. If Wicker is a Kayes, and Ashby is a collector, then who are the other two, really?
Over the heaviness of my thoughts, I hear Tristian Mercer and Remy approaching. It’s an odd tableau, the eight of us. North and West. Lord and Duke.
“So,” Tristan says, cleaving through the tense silence. “Have you ever heard of a game called Candy Cocks?”
“Is this really necessary?”
Remy’s pupils are blown wide as they fix on my nipples. “Babe, you have to be slippery as fuck out there. Can’t let her get a hand on you.”
Remy’s been massaging oil onto my tits for a solid three minutes under the guise of covering me in what he claims is ‘absolutely necessary’ baby oil. The tenting in his jeans reveals an unmistakable erection.
“That’s gonna leave a mark!” Nick’s voice echoes into the lounge as he calls the match before mine.
“Rem,” I say, growing both exasperated and completely horny, “please finish up so I can get dressed.”
He sighs and squeezes them one last time before stepping back and assessing me. “God, the crowd is going to lose it over your nipples.”
“Are you trying to make Nick lose his shit and fly into a jealous rage?”
He grins. “I mean, it would definitely add an extra dose of excitement to the night.” His fingers grab for my hips but don’t make purchase, sliding right off. His smile falters as he realizes that he also can’t get a hand on me. “Just kick her ass, okay? This is the first time we’ve had two Queens battling it out, and there’s a lot on the table.”
I level him with an unimpressed look. “You mean bets.”
“Bragging rights, money, who gets to fuck you first tonight…” He hooks a finger in my bikini bottom and drags me close, capturing my mouth in a tongue-thrusting kiss. I slide my hands into his hair, and it isn’t long before I begin wondering how much time we have to maybe, possibly–
Knock knock.
He groans against my mouth. “I’ll get rid of them.”
“No,” I say, grabbing my bikini top. “See who it is and give me time to get dressed.”
He cracks the door open, greeting, “Hey, Verity.”
“Oh, thank god,” I say. “Come in, please.” His eyes dart down to my tits, barely covered by the arm I have pressed over them, the bikini top hanging from my fingertips. I give him a stern look. “Let her in.”
He swings the door open to reveal Verity, her red hair pulled up into a high ponytail. She assesses me with a wince. “Sorry! I can come back later. I know you’re busy, I just–”
“Please,” I say, shooing Remy out the door. Verity enters and I reach behind her to flip the lock. “This bikini that Remy’s friend made for me has some intricate strap system that I can’t manage by myself, and the person who’s supposed to be helping me is as distractible as a two-year-old.”
She eyes the tangle of straps and sets her purse on a chair, chuckling. “Sure, happy to help.”
We move in front of the dressing mirror and I manage to get my tits into the cups–sort of. Verity’s job will be to navigate the criss-cross mess in the back. “So you needed to talk to me?” I ask, noticing how quiet she is.
Her eyes jump to mine in the mirror. “It’s not important. We can talk about it when you’re not about to jump into a pit filled with Jell-O. I’m sure you need to focus.”
“Verity.” I catch her eye in the mirror. “I need a distraction from the horror that has become my life. Do I really look like the kind of girl who wants to wrestle my friend in front of two-hundred horny frat boys?”
She pauses before saying, “Not really,” but there’s a small smile on her lips as she untangles the straps and begins criss-crossing them over my back. “But you did kick Haley’s ass. I feel like you have a pretty good shot at winning.”
It wouldn’t be a lie to say I’m flattered. “Thanks. Now, what’s going on?” I’ve spent enough time around her to know when that usually sweet bubbly demeanor is being weighed down with something serious.
Scrunching her lips, she ties the strings in a knot, tugging on it to make sure it’s secure. “Well, there is… something.” Turning, she bends to unzip her purse, extracting an envelope. She thrusts it out to me while averting her gaze.
Frowning, I step closer to read it, seeing her name written on the front in a fancy script. Verity Sinclaire. “What’s this?” I ask, noting the thickness of the paper. Lush. Wealthy. “A wedding invitation?”
A nervous laugh escapes her lips. “Not exactly.” She removes a thick piece of cardstock and holds it out for me to see. I don’t touch it, not with all this oil on my fingers, but I can see it definitely is an invitation. There’s a crown embossed at the top, and it’s embellished with shiny gold and silver foil. The text is broken up into lines of simple script and elegant cursive.
It reads:
Verity Sinclaire has been cordially invited to attend the Princes’ seventy-eighth Masquerade ball, which will be celebrated at the purple palace on January 6th.
As an esteemed guest of honor, you’ll have the opportunity to become Forsyth’s next Princess, a position of the highest prestige.
Your attire and accommodations will be provided.
Respond by January 3rd.
“I don’t know why I would get an invitation like this.” She looks down at the paper like she’s trying to find a missing clue. “Usually, they pick girls from the higher tier sororities or daughters of former non-heir Princes. Cutsluts wouldn’t even rank.”
I try to find the missing clue myself. “That is weird.” I squirm around as I adjust my top. “Do you think it’s a joke? A way to get back at us for some reason?” I wouldn’t put it past those guys to bring in some unsuspecting girls just to cut them down and humiliate them for kicks. Invite the low West Ender to their fancy Princess coronation as if she has a chance, and then completely dump on her.
“Seems pretty elaborate.”
Unhappy by this possibility, I ask, “Have you shown your mom?”
Verity’s eyes widen, snatching the paper back. “God, no. She’ll either be completely furious or super excited. I don’t think I’ll like either option.”
I think about my first Friday Night Fury as Duchess, when Verity asked me what I wanted to wear. It had been the first time anyone had ever asked me for my opinion. I’d been so overwhelmed and confused. She has that look on her face now. “Well,” I say, “what do you want to do?”
She worries her lip between her teeth, staring around the lounge. “I don’t know, Lavinia. I’ve been so… aimless these last six months. All those years of prepping to be the Duchess, and it isn’t even an option anymore.”
My heart sinks. “I’m sorry.”
She looks up, a smile touching her lips. “Don’t be sorry. You’re an amazing Queen, and I’m so glad it was you. I just…” She looks at the invitation again. “I don’t know what’s next for me, but being humiliated by a group of Princes doesn’t make the list.” But then her eyes rise, locking with mine, and I see it. A flicker of temptation. “Right?”
There’s a bang on the door. “Vinny–you’re up.”
“Listen,” I say, taking out my earrings, “don’t do anything yet. Don’t tell your mom or RSVP. We can meet tomorrow, and I’ll help you work it out, okay?” It’s the least I can do. Verity has helped me through enough crises these last few months that I owe her.
“Okay.” Still looking a little overwhelmed, she tucks the invitation back in the envelope and looks me up and down. “Now, go kick some Lady ass.”
Our palms meet in a high-five as I exit the lounge.
“Ow,” I groan as I reach for the salt shaker, my breast aching. It’s been twelve hours, and it still hurts like a bitch. I give it a surly rub as I narrow my eyes at Story. “I can’t believe you slapped my tit. Twice.”
Frowning into her pancakes, she shifts uncomfortably. “Shove it, Lucia. You kneed me in my vag.”
We’re at the diner, which is on the boundary lines between North Side, West End, and East End. Not the best locale for Story, who’s far enough from South Side that her Lords would probably shit bricks.
“And anyway,” she adds, eyes hardening, “you won.”
Damn right, I did. “It doesn’t feel like it.” We’re both bruised and sore today. In truth, the match was so close that it had to be called by adding up our points. My knee to the vag put me over the top. However, “To the victor go the spoils.” I smirk, holding up my milkshake.
Smirking back, she touches her mug of coffee to my glass. “To the loser go the amazing consolation sex. I’m not mad.”
Just then the bell above the door chimes, drawing our eyes to the redhead who enters, and my belly flutters uncertainly.
“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” I whisper, smiling tightly when Verity catches my eye.
Story, however, disagrees. “We make our pitch, and she makes the move. Give her a choice, Lav. It’s more than you got.”
I toss Story an unamused look. “You’re such a dirty bitch.” She blows me a kiss just as Verity approaches, dropping onto the bench next to me.
“Sorry, I’m late,” she says, looking harried. “It was noon, and the bells…”
I slap a hand over my face. “Shit!” I’d completely forgotten.
Sy and I worked for two weeks tweaking the strike chain to make it only chime at noon and midnight. The West Enders weren’t happy about it. The bells ringing out over our corner of the city had everyone excited and enthralled. But it just wasn’t tenable. A week into the bells going off at the top of every hour had the four of us exhausted and frayed, not to mention poor Archie who spent every second on edge, awaiting the next assault.
Now that they only chime twice a day, people come out to appreciate them fully, clogging up the streets.
Verity pats my hand. “It’s okay. I actually really like the bells, and the novelty will wear off soon.” She shifts her attention to Story, thrusting out a hand. “Hey, I’m–”
“Verity Sinclaire!” Story gives her hand an eager shake. “Lavinia has told me so much about you. It’s really great, you know? When I became Lady, every girl in South Side hated me. I couldn’t find a friend anywhere.” She gives a small, self-deprecating laugh, but Verity’s eyes sadden.
“That’s terrible.”
Story nods, cutting into her pancakes. “It’s okay, though. I found Lavinia, and she’s… well, nice isn’t quite the word.” She wriggles, shooting me a glare.
“Oh, please,” I demand, poking at my milkshake. “Stop pretending your vag hurts because of my knee and not all that fantastic loser sex you got at the end of the night.”
Her jaw drops in outrage. “How dare you. My Lords are gentle creatures with nothing but tenderness for my Lady parts.” But even she can’t keep a straight face, cracking up at the look I give her.
“Wow.” Verity looks between us, flushing. “I can’t believe I’m having lunch with two Queens. And you’re not plotting to kill each other.”
All of the mirth falls out of me like a boulder. It’s strange that it should be like that. Queens against Queens. It’s the reason I find the strength to turn to Verity and say, “I think you should tell Story what you told me yesterday.”
Verity’s eyes widen, the side glance she gives Story a confirmation that she doesn’t trust her the way I do. At least not yet. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
I wipe my chin and rest the napkin next to my plate. “Do you know what one of the last things my father said to me was?”
She looks between me and Story. “I have no idea.”
Gesturing out the window, to the boundaries, I explain, “He told me to look around. That there are no Queens around for very long. That we’re given to the Royal men to keep them in line until they don’t need us anymore.” I exhale, shoulders sinking. “The sad thing is, he wasn’t wrong. My mother. Sy’s mother. Killian’s mother. Hell, probably even your mother. They were toys.”
Story clears her throat. “But Lavinia and I aren’t willing to be expendable. Not anymore.”
Placing my hand over Verity’s, I duck in close to tell her, “Story helped me when no one else could. She stuck her neck out for me and Sy when Saul sent his goons to jump us. She didn’t have to do that, and I’ve learned to trust her.” I lower my voice. “I think you should trust her, too.”
Verity doesn’t react right away. She looks down at her wringing hands and thinks about it, which is something I like about her. This isn’t a girl who was next in line for Duchess because of her blood. She has a cool head for conflict.
When her mind is made up, she unzips her purse and takes out the invitation, showing it to Story. She knows what it says already. I told her. We needed to come up with a plan, but there’s no lack of surprise when she reads the invitation for herself.
Story gapes at the card inside. “Wow, so they’ve asked you to, what? Audition? For Princess?”
Verity shrugs. “We all know Ashby picks the Princess this time around. If it is an audition, then he’s the one they’d all be bowing and scraping for.” Her face screws up at the thought. “No, thanks.”
Story and I share a look. That’d explain the conflict. Princess is the most coveted Royal position in Forsyth for a woman. It’s not all just being their baby factory. The Princess is known to be pampered and spoiled, set up for life. Less known are the women like Autumn, who get spit back out.
Story wonders, “And he wants you to be a part of it. Why?”
“That’s the question, right?” Verity pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. Her nails are perfectly manicured.
“He saw you that night at the gym,” I say, remembering her being cornered by Wicker. “Maybe he got a good look at you and liked what he saw.”
The words alone are enough to make my skin crawl, but it makes sense. Verity just has that look about her. She wears makeup that’s subtle but striking. Her clothes cover enough to be presentable but show just enough skin to make a guy wonder what she’s hiding underneath. She’s been raised for this role–house girl. Ashby’s not stupid enough not to see it himself.
And, like every other King, he wants what he can’t have.
Taking a breath, Story says, “We think you should do it,” and Verity’s head snaps back in surprise.
“What?” Her eyes flit wildly between us. “Why?”
I glower at Story for a moment–the plan had really been to break it to her a little more tactfully. “My point before was that things are changing in Forsyth, Verity.”
Story nods along. “And this may be our only chance to get in the double doors of the purple palace.”
“Our chance?” She looks between us, comprehension dawning on her features. “You want a spy.”
She’s not wrong. The idea came to me last night, up on the belfry. For all the trouble the bells have caused, I love being up there to hear them, the evidence of what I’ve built here ringing out like a physical force over the landscape.
I push my plate away. “Not just for me and Story, but for our Kings–Killian and Sy. Nick didn’t just spend two years in South Side causing trouble.” Snorting, Story and I lock eyes. “Well, not only causing trouble. He stuck around, waited until the right time to make a move, and claimed his title. Then he leveraged that trust with Killian to get me out of there.” I reach across the table and touch Story’s cuff, running my finger over the gold skull. “Every move we make is methodical. Tactical. And it’s about more than just surviving, Verity.” I look over, holding her stare. “It’s about changing this place and how it works against us.”
Story raises her chin. “It’s about seeing two Queens having lunch and not wondering why they’re friendly. It’s about–”
“Sisterhood,” I cut in, grinning.
Verity takes this in with a hard inhale, and we give her a moment. “But what if I don’t make the cut?”
Story leans forward. “They invited you for a reason, Verity. Like Lav said, every move is methodical. Ashby sent you that invitation for a reason, and we need to know why.”
Verity gives an uncomfortable laugh. “You have a lot of faith in a rejected South Side Duchess.”
“You’re not a reject,” I stress, grabbing her hand. “You’re a trained assassin. Sexy. Smart. A virgin–”
Story snorts. “Oh yeah, girl, you’ve already got the job.”
I shake my head. “You’ve said it yourself. Mama B spent her life raising you to be a house girl. Maybe she just didn’t realize which house that’d be.”
Squirming, she asks, “And what if they do want me? Then what? I let them…” Her words trail off, because yeah, we all know what the Princes do. They make heirs.
Story and I share a look because we both know she’s going to have to fuck them. Probably a lot. And I know in my gut it’s going to hurt. For all the Princess is a coveted position, girls like me and Story know the pampered facade is almost certainly just that.
A facade.
I take a breath, stomach churning uneasily. “I won’t pretend that what we’re asking doesn’t come with sacrifices. Story and I… we carry the evidence of our own on our bodies–our souls.” The brand on my back says it all. The puckered scars on Story’s chest. Girls like Autumn and Regina, who never found love in those dark, angry places, probably carry it somewhere even deeper. And then there’s Sutton. “You can say no.” After a beat, I add, “You probably should say no.”
Verity looks up. “I’ll do it.”
The decisive tone startles me, drawing my eyes to Story. “Well, you should think about–”
“I don’t need to think,” Verity says, sliding my milkshake in front of her. “If this is going to help you and Sy–if it’ll help change Forsyth into a place where women like my mother and the cutsluts can become something other than Royal waste–then I’ll give it a shot.”
Story looks just as worried as I feel, leaning over the table to ask, “You know what it means, right?”
Verity sighs, taking a sip of my milkshake. “I always wanted a big family. I always wanted kids. Did I ever want the Princes’ kids?” She grimaces but lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “My mom raised me all by herself, and she did just fine, but a little security would be nice. There are perks that come with the job right?”
It’s not until I get it that I realize it isn’t the answer I wanted to hear. Verity is sweet and kind, and far too good to be chewed up by this wretched machine. But then she looks me in the eye and I remember Verity is something else.
She’s West End.
She’s a fighter.
“It’s okay,” she says, voice softening. “I know what this means, and to be honest, it’s a good idea.” She looks at Story, nodding. “A sisterhood, right? One that doesn’t need Royal blood or special last names. A sisterhood for everyone.”
“For everyone,” Story says. It’s an agreement as much as a promise. What happens over this table today shouldn’t be a deal made between warring houses or competing territories. It should be something new.
In fact, I decide, “We won’t call ourselves Royals.” Looking at the two women who have been a big part of making this place a home, I think of the moth on my chest and how I got it. The day I asked Remy to give me wings, he made me promise not to fly away. But wings aren’t just for running away.
Sometimes they’re for soaring.
“We’ll call ourselves the Monarchs.”
