The Never King (Vicious Lost Boys #1)(33)

“Here, Darling,” Kas says and hands me what looks like a metal brush. He flops a fish onto a thick wooden cutting board. Thankfully, this fish is dead and doesn’t jump around. “Hold it by the tail,” he says and shows me how, “then rake the fish scaler over it from the tail to the head. Like this.” He drags the brush over the fish’s body and scales come off in clumps, but several fly off too and one lands smack dab on my face.

My mouth screws up as the overwhelming scent of fish fills my nose.

Laughing, Kas reaches over, plucking the scale from my cheek.

“Already a natural,” he says.

“Is this like a normal day for you two?” I ask and resume the scaling.

“Fishing on an island? Making messes? Yes.” Bash pulls himself up on the counter opposite me. “Some days are saved for taking care of naughty Darlings though.”

I shoot him a glare. He winks at me.

“I don’t need to be taken care of.” I reposition the fish to get around one of the fins. More scales fly through the air.

“I disagree.” Kas’s voice is light, but his gaze dark.

My face pinks again. “I’ve literally taken care of myself my entire life on my own. When my mom wasn’t out escorting old white men, she was home descending further and further into madness. The only person I could count on was me.”

“Old white men, eh?” Bash says behind me.

“You know the ones.”

“Of course I do. There are a dozen buried beneath this house. We enjoyed breaking them.”

“You’re joking.” I look at Kas. “Is he joking?”

Kas shakes his head.

“Why?”

“I think the better question is, why not?” Bash says.

“Do you all just go around murdering on the regular?”

“Yes,” Bash answers. “We murder a lot.”

“Why?”

“Because in this world, and in yours, if you’re not the monster, then you’re the prey. And we can’t have that, Darling. Especially when it comes to old white men.” He laughs like it’s a joke but I know he’s not kidding.

“Flip over,” Kas says.

“What?” I blink up at him.

“The fish. Flip it over and scale the other side.”

“Right.” I do as he asks and when I’m done, he orders me to step aside. He pulls out a sharp knife and runs it over a block of stone, sharpening it. The quick movements make a rasping sound.

“Are you watching?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Insert the blade here.” He points the tip just below the fish’s mouth. “Then run it back to the anal fin.”

I blanch at the mention of anal.

Why is everything the boys do sexual?

He’s quick and precise with his movements and the fish’s belly parts beneath his hand. Guts spill out.

“Cut here,” he says next and lifts a fin by its head, angling the blade in.

“You’re good with a knife,” I hear myself saying.

He makes several more cuts and the fish’s guts come clean out.

“He’s not just good,” Bash says. “He’s an expert with a blade.” He hops off the counter, comes over to me and yanks down the waistband of his pants, revealing an old scar with an intentional design.

It’s a circle with several lines through it, then more forks off the lines.

“What is that?”

“Symbol of our house,” he answers.

“This house?”

Kas stops cutting and glares at his brother over his shoulder. “Must we dredge this up?”

“He’s still salty about it.” Bash grabs a croissant from the basket and starts for the door. “I suppose you’ll hear it from our sister soon enough, so what’s the sense in waiting? We’re princes of the fae.”





22





KAS


I can feel the Darling look at me with new interest.

This is precisely why I don’t like telling the Darlings who we are and especially not this one.

Being a prince makes people treat you differently. Even if you are sullied.

“Is that true?” she asks low.

“It is.” I finish filleting the fish in hand then toss the spine and the ribs into a bowl, the filet into another.

“If you’re princes, then why are you here?”

“We were banished.”

“Why?”

I start gutting a second fish. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Kas and I killed our father.”

The admission steals some of the oxygen from my lungs.

The memory is still vivid all of these years later. The anger that came over his face when the blade sunk deep. Followed by shock when he realized he was going to die from the wound.

It took all of ten seconds.

One minute our father was alive and the next he was on the floor, rimmed in blood.

“Why?” she asks again.

“Because we could.”

Not the real reason, but the real reason is more complicated and I’ve dredged up too much already.

If it wasn’t for the blade in my hand, I might be losing my damn mind.