Page 113 of Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals 1)

His hand stays on my chest. His fingers are dangerously close to my throat, splayed over my collarbone, and his thumb brushes my nipple.

I suck in a breath. I’m an idiot. My face gets hot.

“In the car,” he orders. He puts my small makeup case in his jacket pocket and strides away.

I wave goodbye to Robert and Lenora, who has returned home just in time to see us leave.

Robert stops me, handing me a few folded bills. “Have fun.”

“Thank you!” I wasn’t planning on spending more than I could afford—which wouldn’t have been much at all. I tuck the money in my wallet and race after Caleb.

I climb into the car, and we’re on the road in a flash. There’s a mischievous look in his eye that I can’t place. I bite my lip instead of asking about it, and soon enough we’re on the highway.

Up, up, and away.

“Why is makeup so important to you?” he asks. “You don’t think you’re pretty?”

“It’s hard to have self-confidence when everyone is trying to bring you down.” I rub my hands together. Halloween is approaching.

I stop. “Is the masquerade ball on Halloween?”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” I repeat. “Great.”

He shoots me a glance. “What’s wrong with that?”

I refuse to meet his eyes. “Bad things happen on Halloween.” I can’t believe I’ve been back at Emery-Rose for less than two months.

“Like what?”

There are skyscrapers in the distance.

“Getting chased by a foster brother with a machete. He threatened to cut off my hair.” I grimace. “Being locked in a closet for trying to take a piece of candy meant for the other kids.”

He keeps glancing at me.

“Having my costume ripped the morning of Halloween by a foster family’s kid. She didn’t like that I got to be a unicorn.”

“How old were you?” His voice is dark.

“Something happened almost every year.”

“And the last two? With your supposed good family?”

I shrug. “Hanna ate a Snickers, and her throat swelled shut. We spent the night in the ER. And then the next year, our foster mom let us all go, but she took our candy when we came back. Said she didn’t trust us not to eat it all in one night.”

“I thought you liked her.”

“They were strict.” I shrug. “Everyone is strict at first. Except—”

“The Jenkinses,” he guesses. “You like them.”

I hope they keep me.

I almost say it out loud.

But wishes and hopes are dangerous. They inflate us, make us buoyant. And in the end, it just makes a harder fall.