Page 52 of Vicious Desire (Fallen Royals 4)

He tries to hold me close, and all I can think of is what he told me to do: lean into my anger.

I slap him.

It’s quite a bit louder than I would’ve thought, and his head whips to the side. There’s a quick flash of amusement in his eyes, and then the deviousness takes over. He swipes Skylar’s cup from her hand and winks, then slowly dumps it over my head.

The cold liquid pours over my hair and down my body, and I force myself not to make a noise. I glare daggers at him. On the inside, though, I feel…

That’s it. I feel.

A veil I didn’t know was there sweeps away, leaving me with all my emotions as raw as an exposed nerve.

His smirk is going to be the death of me.

And I’m going to be the death of him.

“You’re just asking to get slapped again,” I manage. My voice trembles—but not with fear, like it sounds. Anger. I carefully brush my wet hair out of my face. My shirt sticks to my skin. The liquid seeps down into my jeans.

“I gave you that one shot,” he says.

I lunge for him again, but he grabs my wrists and twists us, slamming my back into the wall. Someone else in the kitchen yells.

“Eli,” someone calls. “Jesus, man, let her go.”

I raise my eyebrows. Will he? Won’t he?

His grip isn’t even tight. He’s barely holding me, but he’s standing close enough to feel the heat pour off him. Chills sweep up and down my body. I wonder if there’s something else there: a promise yet fulfilled.

In the end, he does release me. One finger at a time unpeels from my skin, leaving me colder than I was before.

Amelie locks onto my wrist and drags me behind her. She shoves through the crowd, for the stairs. I barely register Skylar following behind us.

“He’s an asshole,” Amelie mutters, more to herself than us. “I knew he would try and do this. How selfish can he be?”

I glance at Skylar, who shrugs.

“Why?” I ask Amelie.

“Something fundamentally wrong with his brain, I imagine. He

“Jackie won’t mind,” Amelie says to me once we’re in a bedroom. She crosses to the closet and tosses out clothes. “You’re a similar size.”

“Um…” Jackie is three inches taller than me. She’s thinner than I am, too. I imagine I’ll look like a stuffed sausage in her clothes.

Amelie tosses me something. A black crew neck sweatshirt with Emery-Rose Elite and the logo in silver on the breast. I almost laugh, because it’s something I would’ve liked to wear at the beginning of the night.

“Jeans,” Amelie says, digging into Jackie’s bottom drawer. “Aha. These might fit weird, but I think we can roll the hem up. Your shoes are okay?”

“They avoided the splash.” I take the pants from her. “Thank you.”

I rinse out my hair and change, rolling the bottom of the pants and pushing up the sleeves of the sweatshirt. It’s tight across my chest and baggy everywhere else.

Figures.

I need to get back in shape for running. Over the last year, my body began to change, and my exercise regime didn’t keep up.

My hair still smells sweet, but it isn’t sticky anymore.

Some people pat my back when we get downstairs. They whoop and cheer. I force a smile while simultaneously scanning the rooms for Eli and his friends. There’s no sign of them, and someone mentions Jackie asked them to leave.

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