Page 59 of Wicked Promises (Fallen Royals 3)

I set my jaw. “I won’t if they don’t fucking say anything about Margo.”

It’s my first day back. From eavesdropping on Eli’s parents this morning, I know Margo has a full plate herself: going to see Robert and then therapy. She didn’t seem too pleased at the idea of talking to a stranger, and I don’t blame her.

“Get through it and then lacrosse practice—”

“Fuck.” I groan. “Coach is gonna ream me out for getting arrested.”

Eli shrugs. “Probably.”

Coach Marzden wins the jackass of the year competition every time. When we were freshmen, we admired the way he commanded a room.

He was a role model for both of us.

However, it appears that even role models have a temper.

“Riley didn’t come over,” I say. “Last night? Would’ve thought she’d be like glue on Margo’s skin.”

He frowns. “She’s avoiding the house.”

“Why?” That’s not like her. Once Eli got her in his clutches, she seemed into it. But maybe something happened.

“This isn’t a fucking psychobabble session,” Eli snaps.

I don’t comment, and we hurry into the school.

“Smells like snow.” I scan the hallway automatically. No one’s this close to the doors, but it’s habit to search for Margo. Even though I know exactly where I left her.

Or, where she left me.

“That’ll just make for a more miserable lacrosse practice, if you ask me—”

Coach appears at the top of the hallway, glaring at us and silencing Eli.

“Shit,” he mutters. “I’m out. I’m gonna…” He ducks down a random hallway, leaving me to travel toward Coach on my own.

Anger rolls off Coach in waves. He’s practically vibrating with it.

When I reach him, he turns and walks away. I follow him, staying a few steps behind. He’ll probably start the berating before we reach his office, just so some kids can hear that the great and terrible Caleb Asher has finally fallen.

Newsflash, I want to yell at them. It takes a lot more than one stalker to dethrone me.

Yet… I’m definitely losing my grip.

“In,” Coach orders, holding the door open.

I sigh, then go to my usual chair in front of his desk.

“Did I fucking say you could sit?”

I sprawl in it, forcing my body to relax. This isn’t like a meeting with my uncle, where it could end with a glass thrown at my head. Coach may threaten and bluster, but he wouldn’t even go so far as to remove me from the team. He just needs to yell.

It gives him some control he craves.

Then again, I like to fuck with control.

So I stay sprawled and watch him out of the corner of my eye. He circles around his desk and drops into his own chair.

“Really made a goddamn mess of everything,” he says. “Arrested. Arrested. What am I supposed to do with that? Let a felon stay on the team?”

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