Page 6 of Wicked Promises (Fallen Royals 3)

“I don’t understand,” I told her, climbing into the car. At ten—almost eleven—I was just a hair shy of sitting in the front seat. Not that I minded in this particular instance. I took as much distance as I could get away with.

She tucked both our bags in the trunk, then slid into the driver’s seat. “You don’t understand what?”

How is Margo going to find me if I leave?

“You’re going to stay with family,” she said in an even tone.

I leaned forward against my seatbelt. “What about you?”

She met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “There are some things I need to take care of, Caleb. Finding someone to get the blood out of the carpet, for one. The sooner we can sell that godforsaken house, the better off we’ll be.”

White-hot fear flashed through me.

“No!” I yelled. “We can’t go!”

She ignored me.

“Mom! You can’t just—we need to stay! Margo—”

“Do not speak her name,” Mom hissed. She slammed on the brakes, jerking the car to the side of the road. She twisted around, pinching my chin. Her long nails dug into my skin. “She’s dead to us.”

“Just like Dad?” I managed.

Mom stared at me for a moment. “Didn’t you ever love him? Do you not get it? He isn’t coming back. This isn’t a dream you can wake up from, Caleb. Things won’t go back to how they were. And I sure as hell will not trap myself in Rose Hill while the rest of the world keeps turning.”

I did love him, but he screamed. Threw things. Instilled terror into us.

Us. Like Margo was sitting beside me.

I understood what Mom was saying. In Rose Hill, only bad things happened. She wanted a new chance at life.

But I didn’t. I wanted things back to normal.

I rubbed the bracelet on my wrist absently. I should’ve removed it and thrown it away, but the hate Mom kept insisting on wasn’t there. It wasn’t Margo’s fault. It was her dad’s fault.

“Silly boy,” Mom said. “You think she didn’t have a hand in this?”

Had I spoken out loud?

She exhaled, disgust crawling across her features.

“You’ll learn. You can’t trust a Wolfe.”

3

Margo

Some people come back from unconsciousness slowly, one sense at a time. Hearing, smell, taste. Drifting out of a slumber-like state peacefully.

Not me.

I rush into awareness like I’m bursting from underwater, gasping for air.

And the next thing to hit me?

Memories.

They burn through my mind, one after another, a flipbook of information.

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