Page 93 of Wild Fury (Fallen Royals 6)

Disgust crosses his expression, and he takes the phone from my hand. Without preamble, he drops it to the floor and crushes it under his heel. The glass splinters. Another stomp, and it pulverizes into dust.

All I can register is shock—and then anger.

“What the fuck was that for?”

I lunge forward like I can fix it, but he holds me back. He gives it another stomp, then tugs me away. My heart pounds. I don’t resist his guidance downstairs, through the deserted lobby and to the car waiting at the curb.

Wilder holds an umbrella over our heads until I’m seated behind the driver, and he circles to the other side. With only a nod from the driver, we’re off.

“Take this,” he says, offering me a bottle of water.

I nod once and uncap it, swallowing a few gulps. The aftertaste hits me and I lower it slowly. “What is this?”

His smile is patronizing. “It’ll help you sleep.”

“I don’t want to sleep.” I lean forward and stick my finger down my throat. It’s automatic—they laced it, and the easiest way to stop that, maybe the only way, is to throw it back up.

He snatches my wrists, tearing my hand away from my mouth. My chest heaves. We glare at each other for what feels like an hour, then my gaze skates away. I blink and shake my head. I can barely see in front of my face, it’s so dark, but I can tell everything’s gone fuzzy.

“It’s fast-acting,” he says, releasing me. “Just breathe.”

“Kidnapping me?” My mouth is full of cotton, the words barely come out.

“You agreed.” He leans back and pulls out his phone again. “And your talking gives me a headache.”

That’s the last thing I hear before my consciousness slips away from me.

26

Theo

The room is still dark when my eyes open. I can’t quite pinpoint what, exactly, woke me up. My apartment is silent. I roll off the couch and to my feet, assessing. I fell asleep on the couch, and my muscles ache—both from the game and the way I slept. The room rotates around me.

My nails bite into my palm, and the prick of sharp pain brings me back to the present. After Lux fled, I righted the coffee table, cleaned the glass and my hand, then paced. I paced until I couldn’t see straight, then I moved on to mental torture.

Math in my head. All I could see were numbers. Chess pieces sliding across the board. I grabbed my lacrosse stick and flipped the ball back and forth, watching it blur at times. And then I fell asleep, because there was nothing else to do.

I sit heavily and close my eyes. Once the movement stops, I begin again. Slower. I cross to the kitchen, illuminated by only the green glowing numbers on the stove, and find the aspirin. Swallowing a few pills, I chase it with water and go to my bedroom. My phone is on the charger next to my bed, and as I watch, it dings with a reminder notification.

Check connection to: Lucille Page

I frown. The message comes from the app I use to track her phone. I click on the app, and there’s a red error mark by her name—the only one on my list. It shows me her last known location, as of an hour ago. It automatically updates every sixty minutes if I’m not actively using it, and whatever made her phone go offline must’ve triggered it.

But… it’s weird that it’s still not coming back.

My first instinct is concern. A niggling worry that digs into my chest and stomach, taking over my rationale. Something could be wrong.

Or… she could just want a break from me.

I put my phone facedown on the nightstand and lie gingerly back on the bed. I force myself to close my eyes, but it’s no use. My thoughts have taken a bleak turn, and the churning in my gut is enough to keep the sleep away.

Less than an hour passes before I give up on the self-control. Lux took my car, so I order another and retrieve my shoes and jacket. Rain patters against the window, and I crack the blinds in time to catch a flash of lightning.

A lovely night.

I swear, if she just turned her phone off…

My cell beeps, the driver arriving, and I lock the door behind me and head downstairs. The ride is relatively quick to LBU West. No one mans the receptionist desk—usually there’s at least a security guard I’d have to sweet-talk, but tonight it’s deserted.

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