She looks at me then, really looks at me, and I know there’s no changing her mind.
“Well, let’s get this over with.” I open the door and help her out.
The cold hits hard, biting through my coat and settling deep in my bones. Arianette walks between us, scarf tucked high around her neck, gloved hands wrapped around a bouquet of white roses that she had delivered to the house earlier in the day. Hunter and I fall into step on either side of her without speaking.
Lights glow ahead near the fountain, hundreds of them. Candles already lit, people clustering in dark coats and scarves, their voices low and restrained. It looks like every pocket of Forsyth came out to this event. Royal or not. I spot our Shadows in the crowd, evenly distributed as they’ve been directed. Unlike the other frats, we don’t clump together or form a clique. We’re supposed to be invisible, and if the Baroness wasn’t with us, Hunter and I would be, too.
“Let’s go put the flowers by the fountain,” I say, nudging Ari along.
East End is running the vigil. You can tell by the PNZ pins on their coats. They move through the gathering crowd, handing out candles and folded sheets of paper. When one is pressed into my hand, I glance down.
Kelsey Livingston.
Her photo is printed at the top. Bright-eyed. Smiling. Too alive for the finality of ink and paper.
While Ari sets the roses in the exact spot we found the body, I lift my gaze and start scanning.
The Princess isn’t here. Neither is the baby. That makes sense. But the Ashby brothers are, all of them, clustered together like they’re daring someone to challenge their presence. Despite their expensive clothes and prep-school manners, they make up half the Forsyth hockey team, broad-shouldered and known for handling themselves on the ice. Around them, a handful of rising Princes stand straighter than necessary, trying to look important without looking eager.
It’s then that I see him, just outside the perimeter. Timothy Maddox stands a few rows back from the fountain, hands folded loosely in front of him, black overcoat buttoned like any otherbusinessman braving the cold out of obligation and decency. There’s no mask tonight. No affiliation with the Barons outside his own legacy. No throne. Just a father and hotel owner. A man Forsyth recognizes as a leader.
It’s… jarring.
I only really know him in rooms where power hums through the thick stone walls, where Shadows lower their eyes and wait to be told what to do. Seeing him here, the candlelight catching in the silver at his temples, makes something in my chest twist. It’s not wrong… just strange.
I can’t help but look over at Remy, who is standing off to the side with the Dukes. It’s no surprise that when his gaze lands on his father, something hard flashes across his face. Maybe resentment. Like he can’t decide whether he’s angry that Timothy is here–or angry at him in general.
Timothy ignores his son the same way he ignores the rest of us. He’s only watching the crowd, specifically the victim’s family. I’m not even sure he’s noticed the threesome a few feet away.
“Check it out.” Hunter follows the direction that I’ve lifted my chin, and I can tell the moment he’s seen them. Liam and Billy, former Barons, are dressed in long leather coats, hands shoved in their pockets. Regina stands between them, wearing a long velvet cloak. Her gaze is set on the fountain, like she’s lost in thought.
Rory’s in the same general direction, eyes red and swollen, his posture slumped in a way that suggests he hasn’t slept in days. His parents hover close, grief pulling them inward, their hands clenched together like they’re afraid to let go of anything else. It’s raw and unfiltered. The kind of pain that makes the air feel thicker.
I find myself looking away, rather than getting sucked in. Next to the rest of the Dukes, Lavinia stands close to Mama B, their heads bent toward each other, sharing warmth and whispered words. On the opposite side of the fountain, Killian, Tristian, and Rath stand in a tight line. Story is tucked between them, protective arms wrapped around her body. They look solemn enough, but more than once, I catch Killian’s attention sliding toward Lex Ashby.
Something about that still doesn’t sit right.
I think about the meeting of the Kings. About how little I care about East End politics, and how, despite that, there’s something deep and instinctive in my chest that recoils at the idea of the killer being one of ours.
Hunter and I aren’t here just to mourn. We’re watching. Cataloging. Reading faces and movement, noting who stands where and who doesn’t quite fit.
Just before the vigil officially begins, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I glance back and see a man lingering at the edges, posture too alert for grief, dark eyes dragging across the gathering like he’s inventorying it.
Agent Knight.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
“What?” Hunter asks quietly.
“The Feds are here.”
Hunter’s voice stays calm, “He won’t cause trouble.”
I don’t share his confidence. “We’ll see.”
I don’t like Arianette anywhere near him, or any authority figure for that matter. She’s got too many secrets, too much blood on her hands. Two deaths that would look real bad on paper if anyone decided to dig. And when she’s overwhelmed, she loses focus. Says too much.
Then there’s the fact that Knight interfered with the KNT’s during their shitshow a few weeks ago. I don’t trust that guy, not one fucking bit.
