Page 36 of Wicked Games (Fallen Royals 2)

“Loves you?”

No.

Because she’s worse than Uncle when it comes to twisting the world into her own masterpiece. No one else’s opinions matter.

“What’d she say?”

“She wants you to apply for Harvard,” he says. “Early decision.”

I cough. “Fuck, no.” That would lock me into it if I got in—and there’s a high chance someone would donate in the Asher name, and suddenly I’d be hiking my ass up to Cambridge, Massachusetts.

“Make a list,” he orders, standing. “I want to see where you’re thinking of going.”

I stand, too. I know a dismissal when I hear one.

I don’t wait for him to roll out the red carpet and usher me out. Instead of going back the way I came, I head for the boys’ locker room. There’s a door in the back, much like the girls’ locker room. I unhook the alarm and shove the door open.

So fucking done.

A quick trip later, I’m walking up the path next to my house. I unlock the door to Margo’s old home and turn on a light. We rarely came in here as kids. I think her mom preferred the luxury of the main house—or the solitude after we were gone.

Her parents’ room is a wreck. The door is still closed from the last time we went in there.

This house doesn’t affect me like it does Margo. But then again, these aren’t memories to me. They’re stories Keith Wolfe spun on the stand, begging for a not guilty verdict—until he took the plea deal. It’s easy to distance myself from them, especially with what happened after.

He got what was coming to him.

His lies encompassed all of us. Me, my parents, Margo, her mother.

She doesn’t know—but she might begin to unravel it. She’s digging. Trying to remember.

I open the door to Margo’s old room and cross to her dresser. That day she made me bring her here before the game played out again. I click on the flashlight on my phone, preferring that to the yellow glow of the lamp on her nightstand. The bulb would probably go if I tried it.

I close the door and touch the scratches in the painted wood.

She would’ve been panicked. Trapped.

What would make a ten-year-old that desperate to get out?

Old blood has dried to a dark brown.

I wince.

On the dresser is what I came for: the bracelet Margo refuses to wear. I palm it, holding it tightly for a moment before sliding it into my pocket. Half of me wants to march back to her room and superglue the latch—then she really would be stuck with it.

But… that’s not the right approach.

Patience.

I exhale. She’s serious. She’s furious with me. Or, she could be bluffing. Puffing her anger into something more.

Did I get what I want? Yes. But I also… misstepped.

Fuck.

I did what I wanted to do: I broke her. Getting caught wasn’t part of the plan, and neither was her memory issue.

We belong together. I wasn’t lying, but it isn’t sinking in for her.

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