Page 33 of Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals 1)

“Because…”

I raise my eyebrow. “Spit it out, why don’t you.”

He groans. “Don’t punch me for that shit, okay? But what’s your issue?”

“With Margo?”

“See? You’re on a first-name basis with her. That’s fucked up, man. You won’t even tell us why you hate her so much.”

I throw back my shoulders. “I don’t need to tell you why.”

He sighs. We clash sometimes, like two idiots playing chicken. Most of the time, neither of us move. Crash.

“What?” I square up to him. We’re a pretty even match. Coach often puts us on opposite teams for practice to even things out. Because as much as we fight, when we’re on the same page? Magic.

He’s the same height as me. Around the same build. If not for the wildly different features, people might think we’re related.

“Oh, you asshole.” He shoves me back. “Get out of my fucking face.”

I crack my neck, grinning. “It’s been a while since we’ve done this.”

His eyebrows rise, but he grins back. “Fuck you, man.”

I lunge for him, getting the first punch. His head snaps back, eyes wide as the blood flows from his nose. It’s like a little switch flips in him. Game on.

Kids make space for us, some jeering while girls down the hall screams. It makes my blood hotter. He gets a hit in, his knuckles glancing off my cheekbone. I dive for him, a tackle better made for a football player than me, and we go down. I’m mid-attack when a teacher hauls me back, slamming me face-first into a locker.

Fuck.

Only one person in the school is strong enough to do that.

“Sorry, coach,” I say against the metal.

Coach’s grip on my neck doesn’t soften. “You think a sorry will cover this mess? In my office after school. Both of you.”

And then he’s gone. He’s as much of a legend as the rest of us, honestly. He went to Emery-Rose when he was in high school and captained the football and lacrosse teams. He was basically the original golden boy.

The disgust in his voice spears through me. I push myself off the locker and offer my hand to Liam. He takes it, letting me pull him up, and we both look in the direction Coach left.

“Damn,” Liam mutters. “He’s going to take it out on us with drills, isn’t he?”

I sigh. “I don’t even want to fucking think about it.”

He brushes under his nose, smearing blood, and then glances at me. “I got you good. Split lip.”

I laugh. “Better than my eyes swollen shut.”

He grimaces. “Fuck you.”

We go back to class. And I feel exponentially better—and worse.

10

I hate that the first words out of my mouth are, “You got into a fight?”

Caleb shrugs. The proof is in the pudding: his lip is fat, split open by—I’m assuming, here—his friend’s fist.

Boys are idiots.

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