Page 38 of Wicked Games (Fallen Royals 2)

I mirror him, rising on my knees. We’re chest to chest.

“Why does everything need to be proven?” I ask. “Why can’t you just accept—”

He kisses me.

I let him—but I don’t kiss him back.

His tongue slides across the seam of my lips, and I just press them tighter together. His hand winds through my hair, holding my head still, and he tries to get a reaction out of me.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat.

I give him nothing.

“You’re killing me,” he whispers.

I meet his stare. We’re still kissing-close. Our noses brush.

You killed me first. “Good.”

He releases me.

“I want you to hurt.” My chest aches, and I’d love nothing more than for him to know what I’m going through. “I want you to feel it.”

“You want an apology?” he asks, shifting to the side and pressing his lips to my cheek. “You want me to say I’m sorry and beg for forgiveness?”

I will not bend.

Maybe he can sense the yes forming on my tongue.

“It won’t happen, love. We’re meant to be broken.” He takes hold of my chin, tipping my head back until I meet his gaze.

I hadn’t realized I looked away.

“You and I can’t do happy or perfect or neat like you think you’re going to get,” he continues. His grip tightens. “Maybe you’ll see that eventually.”

“Get out,” I breathe.

He drops his hand and stands. “Dream of me.”

I shake my head. “I won’t.”

It hurts. I’m pushing him away—and yes, he started it. He drove the first nail into this coffin. But now I’m the one being strong, and he… he won’t beg. I already know.

“We’re inevitable,” he says. “You’ll see.”

He walks out, back into the hallway. I guess that’s how he came in. Foolish of me to think that a locked window would keep the devil out.

He holds something up, but I can’t see it in the darkness. “I know you don’t remember, but if you want to… You know where I’ll be.” He tosses it onto my dresser and leaves.

My breath catches in my chest. I almost expect the stairs to creak, the front door to slam—something to alert the Jenkinses of his presence. But he’s a ghost. Here one minute, gone the next.

I’ll give him one thing: he sparked my curiosity.

But to get up would be to give in, whether he’s here or not. He’d know. And me asking him for help? No.

Never.

I burrow back under my covers and close my eyes.

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