Page 106 of Wicked Games (Fallen Royals 2)

Right. The championship game at Lion’s Head. I only just invited Margo, and it already slipped out of my mind. I guess Uncle David has that effect on me. Now I just have to hope he doesn’t drag me back to his house to teach me some lesson—how to properly inform your family of college choices, perhaps.

I spent Thanksgiving with Eli’s family, ignoring all calls from my so-called family. I could practically feel his excitement. His dear nephew was breaking the rules again. Another excuse to use his fists.

My mind is torn in two different directions. I walk into the house and search the first floor for any sign of my uncle, then go down the stairs. He’s leaning against my dresser, holding the picture I had taken from my house the same night I took Margo’s bracelet.

It’s the two of us as children, our arms hooked around each other’s necks. We were young and happy.

But judging from my uncle’s expression, he doesn’t care that it was a happy memory. He cares that it’s Margo Wolfe. The destroyer of our families.

She’ll never win in his eyes.

I used to think the same way. If Margo came back, I’d make her life a living hell. And for a while, I fed on that energy. I got my wish. She came back to Emery-Rose for senior year. But then she got under my skin, and she’s stayed there ever since.

Uncle drops the frame to the floor, taking a deliberate step forward. The glass crunches under his heel.

“I tried to warn you, son. But you just. Don’t. Listen.”

I throw back my shoulders, regarding him silently.

He smirks at me. “Don’t worry. You’ll learn.”

26

Margo

Len walks into the dining room, a big grin in place. “Painting again?”

The portrait of Caleb is half finished. He’s still missing his eyes and lips. The two most defining features, and… difficult. I’ve been hemming and hawing over how exactly to do it.

“I need to get this done.” I shrug.

It’s due in a few weeks, Robert graciously reminded me. At the beginning of the project, Caleb was simple in my mind: vicious. The devil incarnate. A bully barely holding on to his demons.

But now he’s more than that. He has moments of softness and kindness. He’s not just the devil—he’s the angel who was always destined to fall. He’s a liar and a jerk and sweet and the most heartbreakingly beautiful boy I’ve ever laid eyes on.

How do I paint a liar’s lips?

How do I paint the devil’s eyes?

“I hate to interrupt, then. But you have a visitor,” Len says. She bites her lip, tipping her head toward the front of the house.

“Who?”

“Go see for yourself.” She takes my brush from my fingers and sets it down. “This will still be here later. Go on.”

I exhale and stand, sweeping invisible lint off my thighs. I’d barely started, my brush still dry and clean. I walk through the kitchen, toward the front door. My foster sister sits on the couch, typing on her phone.

Claire’s head jerks up, and we rush toward each other.

“I’m so sorry,” she blurts out, throwing her arms around my shoulders.

I hug her back tightly, leaning into her. The vanilla scent surrounding her is familiar. It brings back memories—most of them good.

“Why are you apologizing?”

“Because I totally dropped the ball after the ball,” she says. “No pun intended. Or maybe pun intended.” She releases me and stares into my eyes. “I know I dropped a big bomb, and then you didn’t reach back out, and I was just afraid you’d hate me for telling you about—”

Her attention go over my shoulder, then to me. “Can you come with me? Maybe go for a ride?”

---