Page 19 of Wicked Court

I gently guide the door closed once I step inside so it doesn’t make a sound. Then I stand in front of it, taking stock of a room that smells so much like her.

The scabs on my back itch and I reach over my shoulder and scratch at them absently while I assess the rumpled beds and cluttered surfaces on both sides of the room.

I go to the desk on the left to figure out whose side is Elara’s. It doesn’t take me long. Propped up in a sterling silver frame is a picture of Elara and another dude, his arm slung casually over her shoulder as they both laugh at the camera.

My eye twitches at the thought of some unknown, no-name male touching her until it occurs to me their features are too much alike. The same brownish-red hair, similar sunburst eyes, and of course, identical joyous, perfect-life smiles as they pose for whomever was behind the camera.

A brother, possibly. I use my phone to input a reminder to ask Kaspian about the brother and what type of nuisance he may be. I forget things if I don’t set regular reminders or alarms to go off. It’s been a problem for me since I was 4 years old. I’d been in so many foster homes, punted between one too many drunk foster dads, that one doctor once told me I had the brain of an offensive lineman nearing the end of his football career.

I pull out my phone to take pictures of Elara’s organized desk drawers with way too many fluffy pens and pink sticky notepads before going to search the closet.

My concentration is interrupted when I find a pair of torn panties on top of her hamper.

I hook her used underwear with a finger, bringing them to eye-level. The soft pink satin holds lingering traces of her scent, and I bring it to my nose to inhale deeply, kissing the material before sliding it over my face.

Why do I feel this way? This … doll is the epitome of dick repellent. She’s too put-together, too composed, too pink for the likes of me.

I like women emotionally unavailable and self-destructive, someone with my similar jaded view of this fucked-up world. Elara is so far away from my preference, it’s laughable that I’m staring at her dirty laundry with an erection right now.

Fuck if I don’t want to see what it’s like to have her wet for me, though.

Immediately, jealousy over Wilder being the only one who’s tasted her hits me.

I ball her underwear up and shove them into my mouth like a gag, choking, my throat working over time to swallow. I keep them there until my vision sparks with black stars, then drag them out, ensuring I lick clean all that I can. I tongue the remnants of her pleasure in her panties, refusing to allow Wilder to have the sole claim on how delectably she dances over tastebuds.

I shove the damp panties under my pants and against my crotch, cupping my heavy erection with them and groaning while leaning my forehead on the closet’s sliding door and giving myself a few rough strokes.

But there’s work to be done.

Regrettably, I stuff them in my pocket for later.

I search the closet, running my hands along the shelves, feeling for any clues or hell, the ruby Heart itself. A shoe box in the corner catches my attention: dented, torn, and scratched.

Pulling it out, I lift the lid and reveal a disorganized pile of jewelry, their gold, silver, and other clunky chains tangled together. My fingers brush over the various lockets and gemstones, tracing the sharp edges that could easily cut me but don’t. They glint in the soft light from her window.

Other than being fucking annoying to untangle and individually inspect, I find nothing relating to the Heart and put the shoe box away with only the knowledge that, while valuable, this flashy jewelry isn’t Elara’s style at all.

Look at that. I’m already thinking about her like I know her.

Grunting with amusement, I continue the search on my knees, lifting her mattress to see if she’s shoved anything underneath, feeling the underside to make sure.

Nothing is of interest. Not even a hidden dildo. Of course, a doll wouldn’t have a sex toy for her plastic parts.

Yet, that snide thought doesn’t ring true. I keep going back to that picture of her on her desk and that smile she shares with the guy beside her.

Elara has a brightness to her. Annoyingly sunny. But I’ve never seen her smile the way she does in that photo.

It’s lower at the corners now, her dimples not as deep. Her eyes aren’t nearly as cheerful, either.

The longer I hover near the picture, studying it, the clearer the answer becomes.

Tragedy has a way of showing on the face, and that’s exactly what’s painted over her smile these days.

I angle my head, murmuring, “Who did you lose, pretty dolly?”

A loud bang in the hallway draws my head up. People coming back from class.

Because of my distraction over the photo, I’ve lost time in escaping unnoticed.

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