Page 146 of Wicked Games (Fallen Royals 2)

“Inmates entering,” a guard calls.

A door in the center of one wall slowly slides open on its own, and a guard walks through. He stops just shy of the door and takes a step to his left, admitting the inmates. Prisoners.

Their uniforms are khaki, their last names stitched over a breast pocket. Some scary-looking dudes come through the door first, finding their visitors and making a beeline in their direction.

The room breaks out into murmurs as greetings are made.

I stare at the door, gripping the table like it’ll save me from getting sucked underwater.

What if I don’t recognize him?

An unnecessary thought.

He walks through the door, and he appears exactly like I remember him, if a little more tired. Sandy-brown hair trimmed too short, a straight nose and full lips. He has the barest hint of scruff on his face.

His eyes are dark, like mine, and they find me immediately.

He pauses, the guard removing his handcuffs, and then he strides toward me. Shuffles, really, because there are thin chains around his ankles.

“Margo,” he says with all the warmth in the world.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for it.

Tears fill my eyes, and I throw my arms around his shoulders. All my internal debating—to hug or not to hug, to smile or frown, to be happy or upset—flies out the window. Happy. Definitely happy.

But also… not.

“Hi, kiddo,” he whispers into my hair. His arms come around me more slowly, but once there, he locks on. “You’re so grown up.”

God, it feels so good to hug him.

We cling to each other until a guard barks at us to separate.

I shakily withdraw, swiping at my cheeks.

“Let’s sit,” he says. “God, it’s been a while.”

I nod.

“How have you been? Your case worker was allowed to tell me a little about your foster homes… and the trouble you had. Running away.” His eyebrows draw in. “I’ve never felt so fucking helpless.”

“It’s okay.”

“She made it pretty clear that you weren’t going to come see me.” Dad leans forward, into the table, and extends his hands. “You’re an adult now. I can’t even believe it.”

I take them in my own. His are calloused. He’s thinner than I remember, too, but harder.

“Angela doesn’t know I’m here.”

He winces. “Who—”

“My foster dad drove me,” I say quickly. “They… they’re going to petition to adopt.”

He glances down at our hands, then back at my face. “How do you feel about that? Are they good people?”

“They are, but—”

“Then I’m assuming you’re just here to see if I’ll give up my rights.”

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