Page 1 of Vicious Desire (Fallen Royals 4)

Prologue

Riley

My gram used to say a million things had to line up just right for magic to happen. So many decisions, steps, stars aligning. All to bring us a moment.

A split second alters your life forever.

I always imagined she was talking about good magic. The kind that changes us for the better. One sudden crack of lightning, and suddenly we’re on a new path.

I was so, so wrong.

The magic I got was rotten, thick and cloying. It buried itself in my bones and made sure I never forgot about the moment.

The split second.

I spent all my wishes on something that blew up in my face.

On a boy with an alluring smile and dark eyes.

No.

Eli Black is the sort of person I never should’ve looked twice at—and he never should’ve noticed me.

But he did.

And oh, how I wish he didn’t.

1

Riley

I drop my keys on their hook, fixated on the postcard.

Who sends freaking postcards?

My best friend, that’s who.

Wish you were here! she wrote. The picture is of the Empire State Building, like I’d never been to New York City before. Like I couldn’t jump in my car and be at her apartment in an hour and a half. It’s kind of cute, actually. It puts the city in a different perspective.

It’s been three weeks since Margo left, and her departure has created a crater-sized hole in my chest. I didn’t realize how badly I needed a best friend until Margo infiltrated my life at the beginning of last year. School started a week ago, but no new friends have magically crawled out of the woodwork. In layman’s terms?

I’m totally moping.

I can’t blame Margo. I was used to being alone, so much so that loneliness was like a second skin. I was comfortable in it. Slept in it, breathed through it. Loneliness was my armor. Being around Margo, having a true friend… I shed that skin for friendship.

We’re still friends, but I’m alone again.

“Ri?” my brother yells. “Is that you?”

I kick off my shoes and force myself to set the postcard down. Even the loops of her name create an ache in my chest. I take a deep breath and inhale an odd scent. “Yep. Are you… cooking?”

“Stir-fry,” he calls.

The smell is worse in the kitchen.

Noah stands at the stove, rattling a pan back and forth over the flame.

“Why?” I ask. That’s all I can manage.

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