Page 5 of Vicious Desire (Fallen Royals 4)

3

Riley

My alarm is an awful, horrible thing. It beeps at me at five o’clock, when the sky is lightening, but the sunrise is still a long way off.

I roll out of bed and stumble around my room, doing my best impression of a morning routine. Brush my teeth, pull my hair back into a ponytail, dress in running gear. I lace my shoes up tightly and slip my water bottle’s elastic around my wrist.

Noah’s door is shut, and my parents’ bedroom door is closed, too. It seems to be the new normal—everyone locks themselves away.

My dad appears in the doorway and follows me downstairs.

“You should carry pepper spray,” he says for the hundredth time. “Just in case.”

“It’s Rose Hill, Dad.” Nothing bad ever happens in Rose Hill, where the median income is over a hundred thousand dollars. I don’t run close enough to Stone Ridge to justify it.

“Think about it.” He kisses my cheek. “I’ll have coffee on when you get back.”

I smile. The first real one of the day. They’re generally reserved for Dad. He’ll leave for work as soon as I get home, and we won’t see him until after dinner… maybe not at all.

His job in the city exploded in the last year. He works longer hours because he’s in high demand, and no one deserves it more than he does.

“How far today?” he asks.

“Five miles on Thursdays.”

He nods. “And another three at practice?”

“I’ll be a marathoner before you know it.”

“Have fun. I’ll pick up Mace or something.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s nice that he cares. It’s the little things.

The air is colder than I expected for mid-September, and the clouds hang low.

I shake off my nerves—they always creep up before a run—and break into a jog. I’ll take the first mile or so slow, then pick up the pace.

Running invigorates me. I can actually breathe at this time of day.

I zip along the familiar streets, navigating cracks in the sidewalk. Our neighborhood has a little park in the center, a grassy lawn and walking paths. It connects to a recently renovated trail through the woods. It loops neatly, but there’s also the option to keep going, all the way along a fast-paced stream to the state park.

I stay away from the state park.

Fog lingers there, obscuring most of the far end and houses beyond.

My breathing becomes shallow, and I subconsciously speed up.

Still, it isn’t enough to deviate from my route.

Goosebumps prick the backs of my arms.

It’s just the fog. I’m imagining the worst—boogeymen jumping out and carting me away, a hungry bear, a serial killer.

The ache in my legs is the first sign that I’ve pushed myself too far—and I’m only at the halfway point. The trail loops around and connects back to where I had passed five minutes ago, and I take a deep breath.

But I don’t slow my pace.

I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s a force urging me along.

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