Page 2 of Wild Fury (Fallen Royals 6)

I curl my fingers around it and sniff.

“Tequila,” I guess.

He inclines his chin.

I lower the drink without tasting it. I told him I didn’t want a drink. It’s like men are incapable of listening sometimes.

“So, was I?” I ask.

His face remains blank.

See? Didn’t listen. “Raised by wolves.”

“Ah.”

He takes off again, and this time I follow without a prompt. I hate myself for it, for needing to know what’s going on in his mind. He’s marrying my sister, for God’s sake. I should make an effort instead of scowling at them all from across the dinner table—or lawn, as the case may be.

“No, Lucy Page, I don’t think you have that kind of killer instinct.” He offers a brilliant smile. Maybe he thinks I should be grateful to have escaped that instinct which must plague his whole family. He certainly seems happy with himself.

And I don’t know why I’m so disappointed by that. I do have a killer instinct. It floats under my skin sometimes, hot enough when it rises that I wonder if my skin might not just melt off. Other times it’s dormant, leaving me… me.

I take a step back. “Well, it’s been lovely talking to you, Wilder, but I think I should head back to my parents.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer.

Whatever.

I don’t need his fucking permission to end a conversation. So I take the free tequila and return to the shadows. There are fabulously dressed people on the dance floor now, the music way too upbeat for my taste.

Everyone is happy. Laughing and smiling and getting drunk on the DeSantis dime. Although, I suppose it might’ve been my parents who supplied the free liquor to the party. Up until Wilder pushed the glass in my hand, I hadn’t been able to get a bartender to serve me.

I look young, which doesn’t help when I am young. Seventeen going on eighteen. Amelie is almost nineteen. Almost married. My birthday is right around the corner, but I don’t expect them to make a fuss. Sometimes my parents like to forget they birthed me.

They certainly got rid of me as fast as they could.

I shiver and find Amelie in the crowd. Wilder is beside her now, close enough that their shoulders brush. Luca and Aiden, Wilder’s brothers, must be around here, too. There are a lot of DeSantis men who seem more alert than regular partygoers, and the more I try to pick them out, the more my stomach flips.

The urge to capture this fills me, and I pull out my phone. I swipe it over to video mode and hit the start button. This could be a great little moment to replay for the wedding, right? Like, Hey, look how much fun we were having eight months ago!

Ha.

I zoom in on each of the DeSantis men, getting close up on their attentive faces. They don’t seem armed, but appearances can be deceiving.

“What are you doing?”

I stuff my phone in my pocket and turn to the voice. One of Wilder’s cousins, I think.

“Sorry, what?” I ask.

“What were you doing on your phone?”

I narrow my eyes. “Creating a souvenir. What are you doing?”

He glances around. He’s cute. Maybe a few years older than me. Definitely taller and stronger, which should be something I’d find attractive, right? But it doesn’t do much for me.

“The photographer wanted to get a few shots of the wedding party,” he says. “Something about the lights coming through the trees. I was sent to find you.”

I stare at him for a beat, then turn back to the dance floor. Amelie is gone—perhaps whisked out beyond the stretch of lights with Wilder and our parents, as this guy is implying.

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