Page 11 of Wild Fury (Fallen Royals 6)

She hesitates. “I shouldn’t ask… I wouldn’t have ever thought you were capable of something like this. We never had this conversation. Understand?”

What else can I do but nod? If there’s a way she can help me?

I guess I just assumed the best-case scenario would be… no one would find him. Foolish, naive Lucy.

“Why did you burn him?” Mom asks.

I freeze. “What?”

Burned?

“Was it someone you knew? One of Wilder’s cousins, maybe? I can understand if you’re trying to protect yourself. If they immediately recognized him, perhaps they could tie you to him at the party?”

“Mom, I didn’t—”

She shakes her head, almost like she’d rather get rid of this conversation. Erase it entirely. “Does anyone else know?”

I swallow. My mouth is dry, and my throat scratches. I’ve lost my footing before the day has even begun.

“Lucille,” Mom says.

She doesn’t wait for my reply—she lunges forward and grabs my phone from my nightstand. Betrayal is slow to filter through the fog in my brain. She unlocks my phone easily, swiping from my messages—empty—to my call log.

“Theo,” she says. “Did you tell him?”

I lift my chin and don’t say anything.

She grits her teeth and shuts down my phone, stashing it in her pocket. “Get dressed and do not leave your room until I call for you. Am I clear?”

“Mom, you can’t—” I step forward, as if to stop her. Or… something. Take her hand. Try and hug her. I don’t know.

But she flinches back, just a little, and it stops me cold.

She leaves, and her absence doesn’t do much to thaw the ice inside my chest. I stomp to my dress and tear it off its hook, throwing it in the tub. I turn the water on and watch it slowly soak. I scrub the bottom of it furiously, dousing soap on my hands and pulling at the delicate material.

Eventually, I sit back on my heels and turn off the water. I rise and meet my own eyes in the mirror. My hair covers the bruise, much the same way girls on TV shows use their hair to hide hickeys. But, unfortunately for me, I’m not in a television show.

I tie back my hair and get to work with my makeup to cover it, get dressed, and then braid my hair to fall over my shoulder. I don’t feel strong, or angry, or dark.

Just guilty.

And it’s that emotion that stews in my brain for an eternity, until someone opens my door. I’ve been sitting on the floor, playing with the end of my hair, but I drop it and rise.

Dad eyes me.

“Did Mom—?”

“Yes,” he says. “Amelie doesn’t know. She cannot know about this. It would ruin everything we’ve worked for.”

I wince. “I’m sorry—”

“Come downstairs,” he says.

Shit.

I follow him. It’s better to move quickly when my parents are angry. They’re prone to bursts of violence when they don’t get their way. And me killing someone threatens everything about their lifestyle.

I chewed that over in my room, too. What would happen to us if the DeSantises found out I killed one of them? They’re Mafia. I’d probably be murdered on the spot by Aiden DeSantis. He’s a hitman, or so I hear. Wilder wouldn’t get his hands dirty. And I can’t say I know enough about the third brother, Luca, to imagine what he would do.

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