Page 22 of Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals 1)

“Remember one thing about me.” I lean down into her face. She’s tiny. Fragile. All the easier to break. “I don’t fucking lose.”

6

My head is spinning when I walk out of the greenhouse. Caleb follows close behind me, like a menacing shadow. He said he doesn’t lose—but my heartbeat is stuttering and the fear is crawling up and down my throat.

I couldn’t speak if I wanted to.

He stole my first kiss. And then to feel his erection against my belly…

You’re not supposed to show fear to the enemy. Yet underneath it all, Caleb wasn’t always the enemy. He was a boy who I liked. A friend. We were closer than even Savannah and I, running wild together as kids.

Somehow, we both changed.

For the worse?

“Come with me.” He’s gruff, but he doesn’t touch me.

I follow him without a word, down the hallway to the nurse’s station.

“Ms. Peters.” He smiles at the nurse. “Margo isn’t feeling well. Mr. Jenkins said it would be all right if I brought her home, but I just wanted to check in with you.” His voice lowers. “I’m afraid she threw up a few minutes ago.”

The nurse tuts at me. She doesn’t do more than glance, because apparently Caleb’s word is law around here—even for the staff. “I’ll let him know, thank you.”

I have no choice but to go where he leads.

“You aren’t serious.”

“Can’t a guy bring a girl home?”

I roll my eyes. “Not when the girl is me, and the guy is you.”

He snorts, unlocking his car as we approach it. I’m not surprised that it’s a fast, expensive Audi. Matte black. The leather interior is black with lime-green accents.

He waits for me to get in and closes my door, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Well?”

I glance at him. “What?”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Back to school.” I glance back toward the doors we just came out of.

He snorts. “You’re a shit liar, Sheep. We’re skipping out on the last twenty minutes of the day. Don’t blow it.” His gaze turns contemplative. “Or do. After all, it’ll just make things more… interesting.”

I’m not afraid of him. Even with the posturing and the games. My head is spinning with everything that’s happened in the last week—at least that much is true—but suddenly, I don’t feel like he’s going to kill me.

And he knows it, judging from the expression on his face.

“Tell me,” he says. Dark and deadly. He’s back to how he acts in front of a crowd.

“Take me to your house.”

His face closes off. It’s the last thing he expected.

I feel like I’m the one disappointed. It rings through me like a bell in a minor key, too much dissonance to handle. How does he manage to make me feel so much with just a change of his mood?

“Now you’re playing the game,” he murmurs.

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