Page 4 of Wild Fury (Fallen Royals 6)

“I’m stalling,” I tell myself. In the few months I’ve lived with my sister, I’ve picked up her penchant for talking out loud to herself. “Just do it.”

I shine the light on his face and flinch, falling back on my butt. I scramble away from him, exhaling sharply. His eyes are open, staring unseeing up at the sky. I kill the light and glance around, but we’re totally alone. That’s why he drew me back here, after all—for the privacy.

I creep forward again and ignore my hammering heart. A list of what I need to do forms in my mind: check his pulse, see if he’s still alive, call for help. I reach for his wrist. It’s still warm, dry under my fingers, and… no pulse. I shuffle closer and feel for his throat, but there’s nothing. He’s not breathing, either.

Oh my god.

I feel around his head, immediately withdrawing when I touch something wet. I turn my flashlight back on and aim it at my fingers. They’re covered in dark blood.

I shove my phone back into my pocket and gather my skirt in my clean hand. The rational part of my brain switches off, and the survivalist comes alive. I drag my fingers in the fallen leaves under my feet, scrubbing the blood away. And then I rise.

We’re too close to the path.

For the first time, I wonder exactly who he is. He didn’t say. He might not even be a DeSantis.

Hysteria bubbles up my throat, and I choke on a laugh. He could be some random asshole who found himself invited to Amelie and Wilder’s engagement party. He could be no one who’ll be missed.

We can only hope.

I tie off my dress, knotting it at mid-thigh for room to move my legs. I hate long dresses, or any sort of dresses. The only reason I wore this was because Amelie was going to wear it, and then a package from Wilder showed up this morning with a new gown inside. One that was DeSantis-approved.

Already pulling her strings.

Still, at least this has pockets, right?

I scout around, stepping carefully back onto the path to see where it leads. It veers back toward the house rather quickly. The little lights break through the darkness, confirming it.

Beyond the path on the opposite side of the house is nothing but darkness. The trees press in closer, the growth only lightly maintained. And it’s there that this man will go. I lift his arms over his head, adjust my grip on his wrists, and pull with all my strength.

He moves, sliding across the ground, and I almost topple again. I quickly readjust my feet and keep going, until branches reach for my hair and clothes, snatching at me. I don’t stop until we’re both in the thick of it.

When I finally stop, we had to have gone ten feet, maybe less. But it’s enough.

I stand and step over him, fighting my way back through the underbrush. Once I’m out, I suck in a deep breath. My heart races out of control. I’m covered in sweat. And my cheek fucking stings.

But I’m okay.

“Self-defense,” I whisper.

I unknot my dress and smooth my hair. There are some leaves in it that I have to pick out, and I run my hands down my arms for good measure. I can probably slip inside the house and clean myself up before anyone notices.

And that’s exactly what I do.

The party still rages closer to the house. I slip around the edges, keeping one eye on Wilder and Amelie. The DeSantis guards don’t seem to notice me.

It bolsters my fear, even if it should have the opposite effect. What if they’re pretending? If they heard the whole thing—or, worse, they knew what was going to happen and let it?

I tiptoe into the house, up the grand staircase to the bathroom on the second floor. I shut myself in and turn on the light.

My face is pale. There’s a bit of dirt smudged on my neck. Blood is caked under my nails and in the pads of my fingers.

Flashes of memories assault me. A young Lucy Page sitting on her bike, watching a man die in front of me.

Tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I’m good at not crying. I grit my teeth and deal with the burn, and the lump in my throat, but I don’t let it go any further than that.

I shake my head and turn on the hot water. Steam billows out of the faucet, but I barely notice the burn. It isn’t until my hands are completely clean that I shut it off. I rub at my face and neck with a washcloth. There’s a bruise forming on my neck, but I don’t remember him grabbing me there. I undo my hair and shake it out, flipping it forward over my shoulders.

“Lucy?” my sister calls. She knocks on the door. “Are you in here?”

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