Page 106 of Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals 1)

“Thought you could use some help.” Amelie shrugs. “Especially since the expression on your face means you probably don’t know which room she’s in.”

Amelie and I were a brief fling, yet she still seems to reap the rewards of our past. Like knowing I probably wouldn’t hurt her for getting in my way. I could change that.

It’s about damn time Amelie’s felt something toward me besides lust.

Fear would look much better on her face than this hungry, desperate wanting. My skin crawls at the way she’s staring at me.

I grit my teeth. “And you do?”

She smiles at me. “I wouldn’t be useful if I didn’t.”

“And what do you want in exchange?” I only ask because… well, I don’t want to make any more phone calls, and bribing the motel front desk would leave a trace.

I’m not going to like this. Amelie is slipperier than a snake in oil.

She puts her elbow on the center console, moving into my space. “Just give me a… secret.”

I sigh. “What kind of secret?”

“What happened to Margo’s dad? Where’s your mom? Why—”

“Enough,” I snap. I grab her by the throat, shoving her against the passenger window.

She makes a gurgling noise, fingers scrambling on my hand.

“You’re going to cut the fucking shit, Amelie, and then you’re going to leave.” I lean in, trying to curb the urge to squeeze until she turns purple. “And if you don’t, I’ll tell everyone your dirty little secret.”

Her eyes widen.

The fear I’ve been craving flashes across her face.

Honestly… it doesn’t do as much as I thought it would. Margo’s ruined me.

“Okay,” Amelie wheezes. “Room thirty-one.”

“That was easy.” I release her, then lean around her and open the door.

She falls out of my car, landing on her back with her feet in the air.

I snicker. “Run along, Page.”

She climbs to her feet and purses her lips. Without a word, she storms off.

Slowly, I get out of the car and find room thirty-one. It’s on the second floor. The lights are off.

I bang on the door anyway. It’s late. Maybe she’s sleeping.

“Caleb?”

I turn. Amberly Wolfe stands at the top of the stairs. Her hair is in a high bun, and there’s dirt smudged on her forehead. She wears an absurd amount of layers, so she looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

“Thought that was you.” She comes closer, shuffling her feet.

I step back and let her unlock the door.

Her fingers tremble on the painted wood. She’s frailer than I would’ve thought. Her eyes are sunken. Her cheeks are sucked in.

We enter the room and she unwinds her scarf.