Page 14 of Wicked Games (Fallen Royals 2)

Present

It’s impossible to do anything except count cracks in the ceiling. The music is full blast, and the sounds of a million people layer on top of it. I tried scrolling Instagram, checking emails, listening to my own music…

Nothing drowns out the noise.

I stand and check my reflection. I look surprisingly okay for the day I’ve had.

I pull on a hoodie from Ian’s closet—the least I deserve—and cover my head. There’s not much I can do about my face, except let my hair half conceal it. Once my boots are on, I slip my phone into the hoodie pocket and crack the door.

The music is even louder in the hallway.

Remembering Ian’s warning, I lock his door behind me and try to act inconspicuous. No one throws me a second glance—maybe I am incognito—until I get to the back door. I open it and step out onto the porch, inhaling a deep breath.

“Margo.” Caleb leans on the house. He’s in shadows, but I’d recognize him anywhere.

“Waiting to lay another trap?” It’s amazing how quickly fury reawakens.

I wonder if that’s how he feels when he looks at me, too.

“Trying to convince myself not to carry you out of here and show you how I really feel.” His words are dark.

I shake off the chill. “How’s that going?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” He straightens. “Why are you?”

I saw him this morning. My heart shouldn’t be beating out of my chest like this. He’s just a boy. He’s just Caleb.

For a split second, I imagine hurting him. Punching him in the face or kneeing him in the groin. Anything to make him mirror the agony I feel on the inside. Because seeing him hurts in unexpected ways. There’s broken glass inside me, pushing its way out.

“Margo,” he repeats, walking toward me.

I stiffen, but I don’t move until he’s right in front of me. His hand comes up, sliding around my neck and into my hair.

It’s too gentle.

“You just—” I shove him away from me.

His face doesn’t show any reaction, like he’s numb to this. God, I hate him. I follow him, hitting his chest. I can’t stop, and he’s not doing anything to make me.

—fists against the door—

I blink. What was that?

In one smooth motion, Caleb grabs my wrists and maneuvers us so my back is against the side of the house.

I’m not a violent person, but he just makes me so angry—

“Come back,” he says in my ear.

I start. “Let go.”

“So you can hit me again? Unlikely.”

“Weren’t we happy?” I meet his gaze.

His fingers tighten on my wrists, which he keeps between us.

“We were happy—”

---