Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals, #1)(61)

We enter the room and she unwinds her scarf.

I bite the inside of my cheek. There’s a ring of bruises around her neck.

Handprints.

It strikes me that I should feel concern—or at the very least, an ounce of sympathy. I don’t. Disgust travels up my throat.

Even through the addiction, the similarities between her and Margo are obvious. They have the same hair, the same smile. Same face shape, even though Margo’s still has traces of her childhood in her cheeks and her mother’s is extreme in the opposite direction.

“What brings you here?” She goes to the mini-fridge, kneeling and pulling out a bottle. She offers me one. “Come to steer me right, son?”

“Don’t call me that,” I snap. I shake my head.

She giggles. She removes her jacket, revealing a sweater that she probably got from a thrift store. It’s two sizes too big and hangs on her frame. She starts taking off the sweater, too, still giggling under her breath.

“You’re high.” I should’ve known. Should’ve anticipated it.

She takes a seat on one of the two beds, now only in her leggings and long-sleeved shirt. She twists the bottle in her hand.

Slowly, I mirror her movements. After sitting for a few seconds, I cross to the fridge and help myself to a beer. May as well, trying to reason with Margo’s mother.

“Why are you back?”

She grins. “I asked you that.”

I shrug. “I came to ask you why you’re back. Are you going to answer?”

She’s irritating. Infuriating. The woman who used to be my family’s chef has disintegrated into this.

“You look so much like your father,” she says. “I miss him.”

“What about your own husband? Rotting away—”

“Don’t, Caleb.” She shakes her head, folding forward. “Don’t bring up the past.”

She rocks back and forth for a moment, winding her scarf around her hands. Finally, she sets it down and straightens. Her cheeks are wet. She switches beds, sitting right next to me.

I hold perfectly still as she stares into my face.

There’s kindness buried in my bones.

But… not for her.

She wipes the tears on her cheek with the back of her hand, running her arm under her nose. It’s hard to be around her and not feel anger.

Hate.

“I just want things to go back to normal.” She latches on to my arm and lets out a sob. “Why did you come here?”

“To tell you that you need to leave Rose Hill. Tonight.”

“My money is gone. I have nowhere to go—”

“I don’t fucking care, Amberly.”

She flinches.

“You promised you wouldn’t come back. That you wouldn’t…”

“Interfere,” she mumbles. “But—”

I shove her off me. She tumbles to the floor, landing in a curled position.

“There’s no fucking but!” I roar. “You’re endangering everything by being here.”

I dig my toe into her ribs, flipping her flat on her back.

She stares up at me. Her mouth opens and closes. She’s in shock—or succumbing to the coke she probably shot into her veins. The tears spill out again, flooding down her temples and into her hair.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I just…”

I shove her sweater sleeve up, just to prove to myself that she’s still the drug addict I remember. The track marks are dark, angry red. Infected, probably from dirty needles.

My skin crawls.

The kids at school call Margo a coke-whore’s daughter. And they’re right: Amberly Wolfe has taken another lover. And there’s nothing more alluring to her than her drug of choice.

“Here’s what’s going to happen.” I pull out my wallet, dropping money onto her chest. “You’re going to go anywhere but here. Upstate. Down south. Who the fuck cares. And if I hear that you step back in Rose Hill, you’re done. I’ll kill you myself.”

She shudders.

“Leave tonight, Amberly.”

She grabs my boot as I walk past her. “Please. I got a call—”

I shake her loose, my lip curling. I pause with my hand on the knob and drain my beer, dropping the empty bottle on the floor. It tastes like piss water.

Figures.

I slam the door behind me, hoping that Amberly got my message.

But… part of me hopes she’s stubborn like her daughter. I would love to teach her a lesson. It’s one both Wolfe women need to learn.





26





Intervention time.

Or… something like that. Maybe it isn’t an intervention, but the way Lenora and Robert are staring at me, it sure feels like something momentous—and catastrophic—is going to happen.

The only sound is the clock ticking on the wall behind Robert’s head.

We chose to sit at the dining room table, Robert at the head and Lenora and me on either side of him. And they’re just… waiting for something.

Finally, Robert clears his throat. “How are you doing, honey?”

“Doing? Like…”

“In general,” Lenora supplies. “Or specifically, if you want.”