Page 125 of Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals 1)

He puts me in his car. Tells me to stay. Locks me in and disappears back into the school.

Maybe he’ll go find Ian.

My mouth still tastes like blood; the coppery taste never quite left.

I focus on my knees. They’re a bit scraped up, but I don’t know when that happened. There’s dirt on my legs. The pantyhose we wear with our skirts, part of our uniform, are ripped on my calf. When I move, dirt falls from my shirt. My eyes keep filling with tears. I make fists out of my hands, my nails pinching my palms.

I blink furiously.

Caleb returns, tossing something into the backseat. He slides into the driver’s seat and looks over at me, then jerks back to the steering wheel. “Just hold on.”

We go to Eli’s house. Maybe it’s because Caleb doesn’t want me to see his parents and Eli’s are away—I don’t ask. I don’t really want to see his parents or go back to that house, either.

He comes around and opens my door, scooping me up. In silence, he carries me into the house and down to the basement. It’s vaguely familiar down here. There’s a couch and a television mounted to the wall, a bed in the far corner.

He sets me on the edge of the bed, kneeling next to me.

“I’m thinking there’s more to this than your arm,” he whispers. “Am I right?”

I nod.

He unbuttons my shirt, slowly pushing it off my shoulders. It falls behind me, and he leans back slightly. He presses his lips together, rage flickering over his face like candlelight.

I follow his gaze down.

My stomach is already a map of bruises. I’m surprised they showed up so fast.

He traces one. “Did he kick you?”

I force myself to nod again.

“I’m going to kill him,” he repeats. His eyes meet mine. “What else?”

I touch my throat.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

He lifts my arm.

Ian’s teeth left a red, angry mark. And right above it, the word I couldn’t bring myself to read: whore.

“I’m sorry,” I say over the lump in my throat. “I’m so s—”

Caleb leans forward and kisses me.

It’s infinitely sweeter than the emotions I know he’s feeling. I can taste his guilt, and I want to cry again.

“Do not apologize.” His voice is low. “You’re staying here tonight.”

My eyes widen. It’s against the rules, I almost say. The lump in my throat blocks all noise, but he reads my mind.

“Fuck the rules, Margo. You’re staying.”

He storms off. The door to the basement slams closed, and then I’m left alone with my silence.

My breath hitches. It hurts to inhale, it hurts to move… I examine my arm.

We need to clean the bite. Get the marker off.