Page 8 of Wicked Games (Fallen Royals 2)

I narrow my eyes. “You’re not going to tell him?”

“Probably not.”

I groan and leave the room. I don’t trust Ian. Not that I particularly trust anyone at the moment, but Ian and Caleb are at the top of the shit list. I was hoping to go to bed early tonight, sleep in, and then figure out how the hell my mother was involved with the Jenkins’s daughter. If she was involved.

If I can find her, then I can prove her innocence—and in turn, my innocence.

The Jenkinses will take me back.

Ian follows me down the hall, back into the kitchen. I open the fridge.

“By all means, make yourself at home,” he says. “There’s enough meal-prepped shit in there to last a month.”

I stiffen. “What?”

“Mother Dearest makes sure I’m taken care of over the winter.” He leans against the island, watching me. “A chef comes in and prepares meals once a month. It’s a big ordeal. Time consuming. The whole house stinks like a restaurant for at least three days after.” He pauses. “Margo?”

I blink and take a quick step back. I froze, I think.

“Mom was a personal chef.” I clear my throat.

“I know.”

I glance at him. “Is that why you said it?”

He scowls. “No. I said it because it’s the truth. Why? Do you need things sugarcoated?”

“No.” I grab an apple out of the bottom drawer and take a bite. “It just took me by surprise.”

“That we have a chef? Completely different from your mom, wasn’t it? I mean, you guys lived in the Asher guest house. I’ve heard the stories. How she catered to Mr. Asher’s every whim—”

I chuck the apple at him.

It hits him in the chest, juice splattering on his shirt. He catches it before it falls, then shakes his head at me.

“Where’s your sense of self-preservation?” My face is getting hot.

“You just need a dose of reality, since Caleb refuses to acknowledge it.” He takes a bite of the apple, winking at me. “So anytime you want to face the truth, let me know.”

He tosses the apple back at me and strolls out of the kitchen.

“Wait,” I blurt out. “My mom…”

He stops in the doorway. “Yes?”

“How much do you know?”

“Definitely not as much as you wish I did.” He laughs. “I’d love to lie and say I could tell you what’s lost in your memory. But even I don’t know exactly what happened in the Asher house.”

My lips part. “How…?”

“Did I know you can’t remember?”

The one thing I respect about Ian is that we can talk about this fucked-up situation without pity or sympathy. He doesn’t show any emotion except faint amusement. Amusement doesn’t bother me. It’s everything else that tends to get…

Suffocating.

“You wouldn’t let Caleb near you with a ten-foot pole if you knew the truth,” he says, not waiting for my answer.

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