Page 7 of Vicious Desire (Fallen Royals 4)

“Someone was behind me,” I tell him, scooting back. “I’m not making it up.”

Dad narrows his eyes. The change from concerned father to prosecutor is scary, but a comfort all the same. He does this for a living—catches bad guys. Talks to victims. Fights for the truth.

“Start from the beginning,” he says.

“I was running the trail that connects to the park. It was a little foggy. I made it around the loop and was coming back… I heard footsteps behind me. They matched mine, but they didn’t overtake me when I fell. And then…” I shudder. “Laughter. Maybe. It could’ve been a trick on my ears, or my imagination—”

“At what point did you hear someone behind you?”

I close my eyes. “Just after the split off for the state park trail.”

“They could’ve come from that trail, then,” he says. “And perhaps passed you when you were on the ground?” He reaches out and swipes at my chin.

Good grief, there’s mud on his thumb.

I pause. “I guess they could’ve…”

He leans forward. ‘The most important thing is that you’re okay. Nothing else hurts?”

“Just my pride.” My face grows hot.

“I ordered pepper spray while you were gone. Go get cleaned up for school, and I have to go to work.” He stands and pats my shoulder.

“What do you think?” I follow him to the door. “Imagination or…?”

“I don’t know.” He meets my gaze. “I’m glad you’re home safe. It just cements in my mind that I do the right thing by waiting for you to get home. God only knows how long it would take—”

I press my lips together.

Dad and I survive on rules.

Rule number three: no bad-talking the other parent or sibling.

We’ve both seen how gossip and venting can grow into something worse. Unless there’s an actual problem that can be solved… don’t talk about it.

He grabs his jacket and briefcase and heads out. I lock the door behind him, leaning my shoulder on it for a second.

The best thing I can do is shake this off and forget about it. I won’t run that path anymore, at least not in the early morning.

My resolve hardens.

In the shower, I find more little injuries: not just my knees were scraped, but there are tiny scratches all down my legs that sting when the water hits them. A bruise blooms on my chin. I rinse away the blood and dirt and tip my head back.

I’m in my room, shoving things into my backpack, and I cannot find my water bottle. It dawns on me: I took it running, but I don’t think I returned home with it.

Damn it.

It probably flew away from me when I fell, and I didn’t spare it a second thought before I bolted home. Why would I?

I shrug it off. I can always buy a new one.

That bottle had stickers on it from NYU and a trip to Chicago. Sentimental value.

Steeling my resolve, I shoulder the bag. I can search the trail after school. It’ll be safe in broad daylight.

Maybe Noah will come with me.

I open the front door, and a lump forms in my throat.

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