Page 21 of Wicked Games (Fallen Royals 2)

I run my finger over the top of the dresser, and then I step into the hallway. There’s more risk out here. Robert or Lenora could come out any minute, half-awake and stumbling to the kitchen for a glass of water.

It’s almost pitch-black in here, except the moonlight filtering through the window at the end of the hall. I lean close to one of the frames on the wall.

Robert, Lenora, Josie. One happy family—on the surface. Of course, this photo was before Josie got addicted to drugs and derailed her entire life.

And yet, they’re not the only ones destroyed by Amberly Wolfe.

I lift it off the wall and unclip the back. I intend to take the picture—there are so many on this wall, it’ll take them weeks to notice it gone—but there’s a folded piece of paper in the back of the frame.

Intriguing.

I lift it off the back of the photo and slide it in my pocket. I keep the photo in place. No need to raise undue suspicion. Carefully, I place it back on the wall and cross back to Margo’s room. I slip out her window, closing it behind me, and climb back down to the ground.

Anticipation licks at my skin.

But no: first, the punishment.

I shouldn’t have come to the Jenkins’s house in the first place.

Scrub out the weakness, son.

So I do. I’ll run until I puke, and then I’ll read the note burning a hole in my pocket. And maybe then, I’ll be able to sleep.

Margo

It’s nice to wake up alone. No one staring at me, or glaring. No pressure to go to school—one, because it’s Sunday, and two, because I’m definitely not going back with the video floating around.

And… I know I can’t stay at Ian’s house forever, but it sure is nice to stretch out and bask in the sunlight coming in through the window. I arch my back and do just that—stretch out. Until my hand hits something—someone.

I yelp, scooting to the edge of the bed and rolling over.

I expect Ian. Honestly, I do. Even with the dresser in front of the door, he seems like the type to figure out a way around it.

Amelie leans against the headboard. “God, you sleep like the dead.”

“What are you doing?” I stand, grabbing the sweatshirt from the floor.

“I came to see if you were okay.” She shrugs.

A thought hits me. “Did you…?”

“Spend the night?” She smooths her hands over her leggings. She has dark-gray argyle socks pulled three-quarters up her calves. A cream sweater and necklace with a heart pendant hanging against her collarbone.

She’s picture-perfect, and it’s barely eight o’clock in the morning.

Okay, I guess I did sleep like the dead.

“Ian and I aren’t really a thing,” she says. “And I wasn’t…” She clears her throat. “Didn’t feel like going home. His bed is a nice place to land.”

I grunt. “Great.”

“Anyway, you should’ve put something heavier in front of the door.”

Her gaze goes to the dresser, which has been forcibly moved to the center of the room.

“The fact that the Fletchers put all their furniture on sliders to protect their precious floors doesn’t help,” she adds.

“That’s…” I roll my eyes. It’s a little nerve-racking to have Amelie in my space. I know it isn’t mine, but… Still. “Are you going to tell the Jenkinses I’m here?”

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