Page 42 of Wild Fury (Fallen Royals 6)

Turns out… quite a bit.

12

Lux

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

I’m angry.

Pissed.

My parents are going to France without me again. They told me to my face this time, and I can only imagine what they were hoping the outcome of that conversation would be. Were they testing to see if I’d snap? I hadn’t lost my shit in a few weeks—I’d been calm, focusing on schoolwork and the school paper—but I wouldn’t want to delude anyone into thinking my tantrums were over.

Not now.

It was a fucking billboard.

And after that, a necklace I stole with the intention of giving it to Amelie.

All I’ve learned is that I’m a shitty vandal and a shittier thief.

My grandparents aren’t home, so no one stops me from grabbing my bike and wheeling it outside. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I know what I want to do.

I want to smash every window in my parents’ house. Rip up their bedding. Go into Manhattan and spray-paint their crimes across the doors of their office building.

But to get into the city from Beacon Hill would take at least an hour, and triple that on a bike. So I settle for expending my energy the old-fashioned way: I get on the bike and pedal as hard as I can. I fly down the road, my hair streaming behind me under my helmet. The air is cool against my skin.

I don’t know how long I ride, but eventually, every muscle screams at me to slow down. We’ve slipped from a bright afternoon into dusk. The sky is darkening quickly, and a streetlight buzzes behind me, flickering on a moment later.

A car turns onto the road ahead, coming toward me, and their headlights flick to the high beam.

I raise my hand to block the bright light.

It happens too fast.

One minute I’m on the edge of the road, and the next my front tire catches on the loose gravel off the pavement. I skid sideways, then pitch. I fly over the handlebars and hit the grass.

Automatically, I tuck and roll, traveling another few feet and land on my back.

I mentally evaluate myself, then I start my beratement. My knee hurts, and so do my elbows. I think, besides those, I’m okay.

A car door slams, and then hands haul me up roughly.

“Get—” I close my mouth when I realize who has ahold of my arms.

Theo.

“Did you do that on purpose?” I ask him.

He shrugs, lifting my arm to peer at my elbow. “Maybe.”

I huff.

“Come on.” He rights my bike—my poor, twisted bike.

Before I can stop him, he wheels it toward his car and manages to finagle it into the backseat. All without breaking a sweat.

I stare at him.

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