Page 118 of Wicked Games (Fallen Royals 2)

Riley smirks. “Does that bother you? I still have a curfew, even on a Saturday.”

“Fine,” he snaps. “I’ll drive.”

I watch the two of them walk out, and suddenly I’m entirely alone. It doesn’t feel good.

I hurry to the basement and stop on the third-to-last stair. Caleb suddenly appears at the bottom. At this angle, I’m just a little taller than him.

“Eli and Riley leave?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“And you?”

I shake my head. “What about me?”

“Do you want to leave?” His eyes are impossibly dark.

“You should get some rest.” I take a step back.

He follows me up. “They say the opposite for a concussion,” he argues. “If I have one, which is doubtful.”

I bite my lip. “What do you remember?”

He huffs. “I’ll tell you if you’re naked.”

I hesitate.

He smirks. “Clothes, off. All of them this time.”

In our haste, we hadn’t removed our shirts. But now… I grab the hem of my shirt and lift it off, letting it fall from my fingertips behind me. My bra is next. He drags my leggings over my hips, and I hold his shoulders to step out of them. Then panties.

He hops off the step and stares at me.

“Your turn,” I mumble, trying not to let my self-consciousness overwhelm me. I haven’t had this feeling before—shaky. The last time we had good sex, in the hotel room after the ball, I trusted him.

I don’t know if I trust him now.

He captured my heart so slowly, I barely realized he was taking it. But my heart is just a fraction of the picture. And now, letting him peruse my body, I realize there’s still broken shards between us.

He wants it that way. He thinks he’s broken. The thought comes on suddenly, out of nowhere. But he’s so wrong. I will file you smooth, I vow. One sharp edge at a time.

“Strip,” I demand. “Fair is fair.”

His eyebrow jumps up. “Have we ever played fair?”

I raise my chin. “Starting now.”

He just watches me for a moment, then nods. He unbuttons his pants and lets them drop around his ankles. Then boxers. He hesitates on his shirt, but I have no such reservations. Not when it comes to him.

I walk to him and take over, pulling his shirt over his head. I drop it on the floor and run my finger down his chest. He has hard abs and faint white scars. I circle around him, tracing an invisible path with my index finger, and he stands perfectly still.

I touch a pink, raised scar. This was a welt not too long ago. A welt that was his uncle’s doing. He shudders.

I bite my lip and keep going. There are old scars, barely visible in the low light. Circular ones that catch the light. “He burned you?”

“I don’t know what’s worse—growing up like you did, or like me.”

I lean forward and kiss one of the scars. He shivers beneath my lips, and my chest aches like he just punched out my heart. He had family, but at a steep cost.

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