Page 8 of Cruel Abandon (Fallen Royals 5)

And I just single-handedly ruined it.

He turns the television back on, and now a screenshot of my post is behind the woman. My name for all to see.

“Howl will survive this,” he says, heading for the door. “But will you?”

Sky

Two years later

I hurry toward one of the campus’s many gates. Even though Ashburn is fenced in, making it a tiny little oasis in the heart of Boston, there are gates for walkers at a few of the sidewalk entrances.

Except, it’s closed. A campus security guard loops a chain around it, whistling under his breath.

“Excuse me,” I call. “I need to get out.”

He pauses and half turns toward me. “All entrances are being sealed except the main one. Everyone has to sign in and out.”

“What?” I hold my book bag close. “Why?”

He stares at me like I’m daft. “The missing girl. We sent out an email about it.”

An email about a missing girl? I squint at him. He can’t be serious.

“From Ashburn?”

His eyebrow jumps, and he focuses back on the gate. He takes a padlock from his belt and secures it, making a show of rattling it, then gestures for me to walk with him. If it wasn’t late, I’d probably think twice about it. Yet there’s a warmth to the air tonight, and that settles my nerves.

My muscles are itching to stretch after the three-hour history class, but the news of a missing girl is jarring.

I follow him to the guard station in silence.

“Where do you live?” he asks.

I frown. One step farther outside my comfort zone.

“Relax. I was just going to offer our shuttle.”

I take the clipboard and scrawl my name and student ID number. The name two rows above mine catches my attention, and I pause for a split second.

Liam Morrison left campus only fifteen minutes before me.

A chill runs through me. I know, from intense stalking—self-preservation, I swear—that he lives off campus. So was he going home? To a bar? As a new twenty-one-year-old, he would be entitled to a drink.

On a Tuesday, Skylar? I don’t think so.

The security guard watches me, waiting for a response.

I never answered his question, and I don’t particularly want to. Moving off campus was a way to escape—my roommate is aware of my peculiarities. Mail is routed to a local post office. She can bring people over, but only with fair warning.

And no one knows I live with her.

“I’m fine,” I say. “My roommate is waiting for me.”

That’s a lie, but the guard just nods. I hurry onto the street and quickly make my way to my apartment building. Whitney, my freshman year roommate, seemed to take pity on me after what happened at Howl. We’ve lived together ever since, even if we aren’t friends.

It’s the ability to coexist peacefully that sealed the deal.

We’re rarely home at the same time. She got a bartending job at Moe’s, one of the bars near campus. It has a reputation for not carding the students, and its five-dollar margarita nights draw large crowds.

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