Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals, #1)(3)

My eye twitches.

“You’re going to behave, right?”

I sit perfectly still. “Yes, ma’am.”

She flashes me a smile. “Lovely. Okay, here’s your schedule. I had to put you in a lower math class, but perhaps you can find a tutor.”

I nod. “Thank you.”

The bell rings, and I jump.

“End of homeroom. You’re going to be late.”

My schedule is a mess of numbers and words. My heart beats faster. “I don’t know where to go.”

She sighs. “Right. Follow me.”

We walk out of her office, and her whole body perks up when her eyes land on a boy filling out a form. And then I take a good look at him, and something in my chest loosens.

A familiar face.

His gaze snaps to mine, and his name comes out of my memories.

“Caleb Asher,” the guidance counselor says. “This is Margo—”

“Wolfe,” he supplies, grinning. “We’ve met.”

We’ve met. That’s a poor way to cover our history.

His gaze travels up and down my body, and his lips curl into a smile. There’s something off about it. “I’ll take her to class for you, Ms. Ames.”

“Thank you, Caleb.”

And then it’s just Caleb and me in the office, the clock ticking loudly on the wall.

“Well?” I ask.

He turns and stalks out the door, taking the pink pass with him. I hurry to follow, practically jogging after his quick steps. When we’re out of sight of the office, he pivots toward me. His sudden closeness has me taking a step back, and I stare up into his eyes. My shoulder blades hit the lockers.

“Why did you come back, Margo?”

I narrow my eyes. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

He laughs, leaning down. He doesn’t touch me, but suddenly I’m ice-cold. His expression could stop my heart if he wanted. “You don’t stand a chance.”

I shake my head, moving to edge around him. His hands slam into the lockers on either side of me, caging me in.

“Margo Wolfe,” he whispers. “Haven’t you heard? I’m the king now.”

He walks away, and I stay frozen against the lockers for a minute. That isn’t the boy I knew. No, he’s been replaced by a monster. And I’m pretty sure he just smelled blood in the water.





2





I open the door. The teacher pauses, glaring at me.

“Sorry.” I pass her the note from the guidance counselor. I found it on the floor after Caleb disappeared.

The teacher, Mrs. Stonewater, scans the note and exhales. “We have a new student. Margo Wolfe.”

There are a few gasps, and the teacher raises her eyes from the note to glare around the room. They lapse back into silence.

“Take a seat,” she says to me.

My gaze catches on Caleb—the bastard left me, and it took me five minutes to figure out where the hell I was going—and the boys around him. There’s an open seat directly in front of Caleb or all the way against the windows. I start to move to the far one, but someone throws their bag on it.

I pause. No more seats.

Slowly, I walk toward Caleb. He raises an eyebrow. I sink down into my seat, my cheeks heating once I register his eyes burning into the back of my head.

When did he get so beautiful? Dark hair and light-gray eyes, muscles packed onto his lean frame. He grew, too. In elementary school, we were the same height. He’s got at least six inches on me now.

And hate.

Where did the hate come from?

“Ms. Wolfe?”

The whole class snickers.

I jerk. “Yes?”

“I was asking if you’d had a chance to read through the syllabus.”

I slink lower. “No, ma’am.”

She frowns, pausing by her desk. “See me after class.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“No, ma’am. Yes, ma’am,” the boy next to me parrots. “Such a fucking saint for a coke-whore’s daughter.”

More laughter.

I sink lower.

Coming back was a mistake. I should’ve insisted on public school. At least that way, the bullies wouldn’t know my history. They would’ve made fun of my secondhand clothes and haircut, but they wouldn’t have picked at my past. My parents.

“You planning on snorting up under the bleachers at lunch?” the boy whispers. “Like mother like daughter?”

I’ve become an insta-pariah.

I try to ignore him, but he kicks the side of my chair. I twist toward him, poised to say something—anything—but the words lodge in my throat. He’s almost as hateful as Caleb was.

I recognize him. Ian Fletcher. One of Caleb’s old buddies from elementary school.

I wonder if they’re still friends.

“Take a picture,” he suggests. “It’ll last longer than your memory.”

Slowly, I turn back around. I focus on the teacher, who starts talking about the Civil War. I open my textbook and try to find where we are, keeping my head down.

Blend in. That’s all I need to do.

And that’s how I manage to stay alive until lunchtime.

I grab the packed lunch Robert had shoved in my hands before we’d left the house, dumping my books in my locker—which, again, took me too long to find. I thought I might be okay since I had been to the elementary school, but this building is a whole different beast.