Page 142 of Wicked Games (Fallen Royals 2)

“Just let me,” he mutters. “Just once, okay?”

He carries me down the basement stairs.

He’s wrong. It isn’t just once. He’s had spontaneous moments of kindness since I returned to Emery-Rose. They were hard to recognize at first, but he really changed after finding me in the woods. Seeing me hurt by someone else’s hand…

Maybe that’s what this is. A premature apology for whatever damage my father’s going to cause.

I hold on to him and let him do what he has to do. It’ll make both of us feel better before… I guess I’m either going to walk out of the prison visitor’s entrance in one piece or not. Either way, I’m getting answers. I’ll be changed.

This is a goodbye to the Margo I was.

Am.

Will never be again.

“Shh,” he whispers. “You’re crying.”

“I’m not,” I murmur, blinking at the ceiling. “I just have something in my eye.”

“Both of them.”

“Right. A bit of mascara or an eyelash or a branch…”

He coughs a laugh. He hits the light in the bathroom with his elbow, then gently sets me on the counter. This, too, is familiar. Although I’ll confess—we haven’t done this with clothes on before.

“Are you wearing fake eyelashes?” he asks me.

I choke on my laugh. “Yeah, Caleb, I am.”

Thanks for noticing. I can’t even think that sentence in a straight voice.

Boys are so ridiculous. The only thing they tend to notice are boob jobs, new cars, and lingerie.

Sadly, I have none of those things.

He cocks his head. “How do you get them off?”

I pinch the outside edge between my finger and thumb and slowly peel it off. It’s a relief to get lashes off—not that I’m an expert or anything. Riley had to put them on for me in Ian’s bathroom.

He reaches out to my other eye, which flutters closed before he can touch me. Gently, he lifts it off.

“Like an unmasking,” he says under his breath. “Stay here.”

He disappears, returning a few minutes later with my overnight bag. At this rate, I don’t even know how it got inside. He pulls out a packet of makeup remover wipes.

“Can I?” he asks.

I squint at him. “Can you take off my makeup?”

He doesn’t answer but swipes at my forehead.

I lean away, catching his wrist. “You can, but not like that. My face doesn’t need to be scrubbed raw.”

He smiles, but it’s unsure. “Right.”

I cover his hand with my own and guide him. His strokes become soft, and I close my eyes. Let him remove the layers of foundation and concealer, the eyeliner and eyeshadow. I take it away from him to get the mascara off, then hand it back to him.

“This shit was on your face,” he says, holding it up.

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