Page 22 of Wild Fury (Fallen Royals 6)

“Why?”

I narrow my eyes. “Because you promised.”

“Ah.” He leans in, swaying dangerously close to my mouth. “What’s a promise worth to you, Lux?”

“Everything,” I say without hesitation. “What’s breaking a promise worth to you?”

He brushes his lips against the corner of my mouth. I can’t call it a kiss—I won’t call it a kiss. And my body screams at me to turn my head just a little, to make it official. I wish it was different between us. I wish we could be normal and kiss and not deal with the consequences.

But sometimes kisses and wishes are just smoke and mirrors. An illusion that was never there in the first place.

“Theo,” I whisper.

He straightens. His thumb sweeps over my lower lip one more time, then he takes a step back. Another. Until he’s back at the window, lowering himself into the same position I found him in.

“Leave, Lux.”

I shouldn’t be shaken, but I am. So I do what he says for once, and get the hell out of there.

Lux

Three and a Half Years Ago — Lux’s Freshman Year of High School

I focus on Theo. He moves with his friends out of the locker room. The rest of the team files out behind them and onto the field. They carry their helmets, dangling from fingertips, in one hand and sticks in the other.

I shouldn’t be here, spying on his practice.

But I can’t help it.

My camera is ready. Just a few clicks, enough to satiate my curiosity, and then I’ll leave. I rode my bike across town for this moment, and I picked my spot wisely. I’m hidden between cars in the parking lot, crouched near the wheel. It’s easy enough to peek out.

This feels an awful lot like spying, but I can’t help it.

I sit and watch their practice. It’s fascinating how they catch and carry the ball, moving down the field together. There are people leaving, passing behind me, but they’re background noise.

Unfortunately, everything falls into the background when Theo is front and center.

“Hey,” someone calls.

I automatically flinch, pivoting on my heels to see who snuck up on me.

My sister’s friend, Skylar. She wears a light-pink cropped top and black bike shorts. Her white shoes are spotless—I have to wonder if she ever steps on the grass. Or dirt. Or anything other than concrete and tile. I eye the gold-and-black pom-poms in her grip, propped on her hip.

I’m not sure what she sees in Amelie. My sister is a walking disaster, worse than me. She’s been going through a rebellious streak—partying, drinking, boys. The trifecta of shit that would’ve got me kicked out of the house. If I lived with them.

If my parents hadn’t already decided I wasn’t worth the effort to raise.

As it is, I’m doing community service on my weekends for spray-painting the backside of a billboard. No jail time, thanks to good ol’ pops. No press, either. No fuss. Just Lucy Page serving her time.

But I wasn’t that much of a wildcard back then. When they pushed me on my grandparents.

Skylar raises her eyebrows, and I realize she must’ve asked me a question. I stare at her blankly, hoping she’ll repeat it, or at least give me a clue where this conversation should be going.

She points to my camera.

“Practicing with different settings,” I manage. I rise and take off the lens, then quickly twist on the caps.

She watches in silence as I return the pieces to their proper places in the case, then stow it in my backpack.

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