Page 88 of Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals 1)

That noise will haunt me for a while.

My phone rings, cutting off the video. I jump a foot and slowly flip it over. If it’s Unknown, suddenly calling, I may lose it.

It’s a number I’m not familiar with, so I ignore the call and go back to Unknown’s conversation. They’ve sent me another text.

Unknown: Now… what to do with that? So many options.

Me: What do you want?

Unknown: That would be too easy.

Unknown: Keep your phone on you. I’ll be in touch.

My stomach heaves. I rush to the bathroom, falling to my knees in front of the toilet. When I’m done, I stand on shaky legs. My mouth and throat burn from the acid.

Lenora is in the doorway, frowning at me.

“Just another reason to not overdo the alcohol,” she murmurs.

I cup my hands under the faucet and rinse out my mouth, ignoring her for a moment. I spit and clear my throat, then straighten. “I’m sorry.”

She hands me a towel. “We can only discipline you so much. There are consequences you’ll learn on your own. Are you feeling hungover?”

I shake my head. “I was okay up until now.”

A little white lie never hurt anyone.

She pats my shoulder. “Well, you’ve only got homework to do today. Guess you get off easy.”

I shrug, and we move into the hallway. I force myself back into the room, and she heads for the stairs. Fear constricts my lungs. I close myself back in. I should delete the video and any evidence of Unknown.

They could ruin everything.

My life at school. Staying with the Jenkinses.

What if they saw it? It’d be icing on the cake. One mistake is just that: a mistake.

Someone has a video of Caleb putting his hand down my pants.

The funny thing is—it wouldn’t even blow back on him. He’d be lauded as the guy who got some action from the drunk outcast. And me… I’m the drunk outcast in that scenario.

I contemplate begging Unknown to delete it. But the more I think about it, the more I know it’s a bad idea. They’ve been out for blood before I even started going to Emery-Rose. And now they finally have a blade sharp enough to cut.

My phone rings, and I jump again.

It’s the same unfamiliar number as before. This time, I answer it.

“Margo?” The voice is familiar.

I sigh in relief. “Oh my god, Claire! I just asked Angela—”

“She dropped it off,” she interrupts. “Things have been crazy here. I wanted to reach out, but…”

“How’s Hanna?”

“As well as can be expected,” she says. “It’s been a hard transition. We loved—well, you know.”

I do.

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