Page 69 of Wicked Games (Fallen Royals 2)

Savannah reenters the room, attention going to our hands. “Am I interrupting a moment?”

“Only a bit,” I say, releasing my best friend. “But there’s only so much of it we can handle. Right, Ri?”

“Yep.”

“That was my dad on the phone,” she says. “I’m being summoned home for dinner. Apparently, Mom has big news.”

“Ah.” Riley stretches out her legs. “Hope it’s something good.”

“As opposed to, what, cancer?”

Riley’s face goes carefully blank—but I don’t think Savannah notices. She breezes past and picks up her books, shoving them into her bag.

“See you later.”

The front door slams shut. I go to the window, tracking Sav’s movements. When she’s finally gets in her car and pulls away, I turn back toward Riley.

“What was that?” I ask.

Riley shakes her head. “What?”

“She mentioned cancer, and you reacted weird.”

She bites her lip. “Yeah, Mom had it. But she’s fine now. In remission.” She forces a smile. “She has six-month checkups, but for a while it was a big thing.”

I sit next to her. “The school knew?”

“I missed a lot of school my freshmen year. Someone found out and spread it around that Mom was going to die.”

I wince.

“It faded.”

“Still,” I say under my breath.

“It’s time for a subject change,” she says. “Let’s do homework so we can watch a movie and eat popcorn.”

“Deal.”

And that’s just what we do. She stays late, finishing off a carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream with me and Robert. Lenora comes home and joins us, murmuring how glad she was to finally be back.

Riley leaves, and I go back to my room. I expect Caleb to be waiting for me, but the room is empty. My window is shut, the curtains drawn like I had left them.

Unexpected disappointment coasts through me, and then relief a moment later. He’s probably planning something—a way to make me pay for the stunt I pulled.

I get ready for bed, then slide under the covers. My whole body tingles with expectancy. If not tonight, when?

He doesn’t come—and it isn’t the first time I’ve felt let down by him not breaking into my room. Stupid heart. Stupid childhood.

Stupid bracelet, glaring at me from my dresser.

I stand and walk over to it. I lift it, intending to put it in my drawer. Out of sight, out of mind. But once it’s in my hand, I can’t let it go. He really did find someone to do a good job. The threads are protected by the cage. For the first time, I think of the irony.

Did he get it?

That we’ve imprisoned each other in a life sentence of heartache.

I keep the bracelet in my fist as I lie back down, closing my eyes. My heart and my mind are at war—to love him or to hate him. How can I possibly choose which one is right?

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