Page 83 of Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals 1)

“Then don’t,” I mumble. Outside of our bubble, the world could be exploding for all I care.

He nips my throat.

“Caleb.” I wrap my arms around his neck, trying not to whimper.

He nearly throws me into my seat, glaring at me. “This is the last time I’m going to tell you no.”

A dose of reality comes back for a second, and I slouch. “Maybe you should take me home.”

“That’s the plan,” he says, exhaling.

We start driving, and I kind of zone out while his hand traces patterns on my leg. Before I know it, he’s scooping me out of the car and carrying me up a walkway.

“They’re gonna see,” I moan. Lenora and Robert are going to freak out if Caleb carries me into the house.

But he doesn’t stop to knock. He pushes the door open, and I crack my eyes enough to realize I’m not about to be confronted by my foster parents. We’re not even at his house. Yet he knows his way around and goes straight to the basement. I force my eyes to open. The basement has been converted into a bedroom.

“Where are we?” I mutter.

“Shh,” he whispers. “If I bring you back to the Jenkinses like this, they’ll crucify me.”

“So this is a self-preservation thing.” I close my eyes again. He’s warm.

He sets me on the bed and tugs at my clothes.

“Caleb Asher, are you trying to get me naked?” I’m not against it. I let him pull my jacket off, and then my shoes.

He pushes me back into the mattress. “You’re so fucking drunk. On one drink?”

I lift my shoulder. “In my defense, it was mostly vodka.”

“A cup full of vodka.” He snorts.

“And a dash of soda.”

“That must’ve tasted great.” He sits next to me, the bed dipping. He brushes the hair away from my face gently.

I’m suddenly reminded of my dad doing the same thing.

My lungs stop working.

“Stop.” I knock his hand away, covering my fear with annoyance. When I open my eyes, he’s staring down at me with confusion. “God, don’t get soft on me.”

“Sleep, then,” he offers.

“I have a curfew.”

He strokes my hair again and grabs my wrist when I try to bat it away. “You have two hours before curfew. And let me fucking be nice to you.”

I hold still as he picks up strands of my hair. He seems determined to touch me, and I can’t relax.

“What’s the issue?” he murmurs. “You’re more tense now than…”

I scoot backward, clumsily, and pat the mattress. I can’t open my eyes and bear to see emotions on his face—whatever sort of emotion that may be. Anger. Annoyance. Curiosity.

Not today, Satan.

He lies down next to me. “Didn’t think I’d ever have a girl fully dressed in my bed,” he mumbles.

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