Page 19 of Vicious Desire (Fallen Royals 4)

“I need you to keep an eye on my dad.” It’s repetition from earlier, but it needs to be said. I hold up my hand. “Noah. Riley’s dad. Her mom. Then her.”

He exhales. “You blame them all?”

“Fuck yeah, I do,” I growl. “Any of them could’ve stopped her from handing over that stupid—”

The roof door bangs open, and two women walk out. They stop short when they see us, but Caleb just rolls his eyes.

“Come on,” he says to me.

We slip past them, back downstairs. I check my watch and groan. “I’ve got to go apply for a job now.”

He snorts. “Where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere that’ll piss off Dad.”

He snickers, opening his apartment door. “I’m sure you’ll find something devious.”

I grin. “I thought about the tattoo shop Noah works at, but I don’t think I want to get punched every fucking day.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t have a problem with Noah. Why don’t you just focus on Riley? You can go in circles all day, but none of them made the decision she did.”

I go still and contemplate that.

And when it hits me, I laugh. “You know why?”

His eyebrow rises.

“Because it’s fucking easier to be pissed at Noah and her parents than it is to be mad at her.” Because I loved her. Thought I did, anyway. Our journey was bumpy, but we had finally figured it out—until it blew up in my face.

She ended our relationship, then put a knife through my heart.

Caleb watches me, his eyes cold.

He knows. He made it through the other side.

Is that what I want? To make it through the flames with Riley?

No. I’m pretty sure I just want to chuck her into the fire and watch her burn.

So… that’s what we’ll do.

7

Riley

Dad waits for me at the bottom of the stairs. It’s been a few days since the incident in the woods, and I’ve been taking it easy. Rest days, if anyone asked.

No one did.

I tilt my head, eyeing the gift bag dangling from his fingers. He doesn’t smile, though. His expression is carefully neutral.

Maybe it’s a box of tampons—even though I’m quite capable of buying feminine products on my own—or a bomb.

“Thanks?” I take it and go to the kitchen island. I make quick work of the tissue paper and pull out a can of Mace. It even has a fabric loop handle to help me hold it, if I wanted to run with it in my hand. That feels like overkill, so I clip it to the band of my shorts. And strangely, some of the anxiety in my chest eases.

“It gives off ten one-second bursts,” he says. He shows me how I would use it, flipping the top up with my thumb then pretending to press down. “I hope you’re upwind if you have to use it.”

I nod.

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