Page 25 of Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals 1)

And then he leaves me. Rolls up the window and drives away, not even casting me another glance.

I sink to my knees, my little tears evolving into huge, hiccupping sobs.

From a first kiss to… this.

I regret ever being excited about coming back to Rose Hill. Not with a monster as the school’s leader.

7

No one is home when I get there. They mentioned where they hid the spare key, but it still takes me a minute to find it and get in.

I grab a snack and head to my room, unwilling to hang around the living room and wait for their return. Sleep comes quickly, chased by dreams of my mother and me in a field of flowers.

A storm sweeps in, and we run for shelter.

Suddenly, we’re in Caleb’s kitchen, watching him eat me out. His head is hidden by my uniform skirt, and my body is rigid. I can feel him as I watch the scene.

The me on the table disappears, and Caleb licks his lips. He rises. Glancing behind me, I see my mother has vanished, as well.

“Turned on, Margo?”

He never calls me Margo.

He prowls forward and shoves me backward. “Wake up.”

I wake with a start, flat on my back with my hand down my pajama shorts.

Oh my god.

I slowly retract my hand and roll onto my side. I don’t want to dream about Caleb. I don’t want to think about him or let him have any sway over my body.

This is unacceptable.

Uncomfortable.

I get out of bed and put on a pair of leggings, then go downstairs. Robert and Lenora are watching television, and they both perk up when they see me.

“Feeling better?” Robert asks. “You looked pale in class.”

I nod. “Yeah, I was just a bit dizzy. The nap helped.”

Lenora unfolds herself from the couch, coming over to where I’m hovering by the kitchen island. They have a big open-concept house. The kitchen is separated from the dining room and living room by a large island, and the other spaces are sectioned off by artfully placed furniture. Her style is impressive. She knows how to fill a home without overwhelming it.

“Hungry?”

“Starving,” I say, shifting my weight. She’s been nice—they both have. Yet the dream, plus past experiences with foster families, has me feeling particularly flighty. In the past, if I missed dinner? Too bad. Go hungry.

Lenora gestures for me to follow her, and she starts pulling out containers. “I’ll let you make a plate. Do you mind just putting the stuff away when you’re done?”

“I will.”

She puts a plate on the counter for me.

“Feel free to join us.” She heads back to the couch.

Once my plate is loaded and heated, and everything is back in the fridge, I sink down in the chair adjacent to the couch. I split my attention between the reality show they’re watching and the food. Halfway through, I lift my head. “This food is amazing,” I tell her.

Lenora smiles. “Thank you. Do you cook?”