Wicked Royals (Elites of Macedon High 1)

His grip tightens as he slams me to his chest, the smell of bourbon mingling with a musky cologne that overwhelms my senses. The glass in his hand clinks to the ground without shattering, rolling away from the scene of the crime.

“Not so fast, sweetheart,” he growls, lips dangerously close to my ear. A shudder ripples through my body that betrays my fear. The last thing I need is for him to scent my terror—but it’s too late. He knows. And the way his cock grows against my thigh makes my stomach roil. “Daddy’s not around to save you anymore.”

My trembling thighs tense as my mouth dries. I swallow and swallow, the fucking desert sprawling down my throat as fear settles in my solar plexus. Guilt, shame, fear—it starts now. And I’ll never be rid of it if I lose my virginity to this sick fuck.

“Hands off, asshole,” I hiss through my clenched jaw. My teeth chatter when I try to say more, when I try to say something to get him away from me.

The sound vibrates my jaw as his sweaty skin presses harder to my petite form. A grubby hand clutches my thigh, strokes the slit of my ass, draws hard circles up my back. His nails graze the exposed skin of my upper back, clawing over the black mesh of the sleeves holding my top. I manage to shimmy my arms between us and push, grunting with the strained effort.

His chuckle is mixed with arousal and power. This bitter rival of my father was circling long before Daddy died. A shark in the midst the whole time. And now I get to deal with the consequences of my father’s absence.

“Open your legs,” he commands, bitterness sliding off each syllable. “It hurts less when you don’t fight, sweetheart.”

“Fuck…off!”

I grip his shirt and land my knee in his crotch, causing him to bow forward with a howl.

“You fucking cunt,” he hisses as he recovers. “You won’t get away with this.”

He slinks off back to the mansion, leaving me in stunned silence. Blood thunders through my ears as I reach out on either side of me, seeking purchase, seeking stability. A gulp of air alerts me to where I am. Another gulp sends me lurching forward. And then I race toward the dense trees on the other side of the maze.

The drunken creep is long gone, but I still feel his burning touch, still scent the bourbon, musk, and tobacco rolling off his skin in waves. How the fuck did I miss his footsteps? Was he not wearing shoes?

I shake my head as tears burn my eyes, breaking through the dense brush and landing on the other side—in direct contact with another body.

A scream that only a horror director would be proud to hear bursts from my lungs. It’s cut off immediately by a strong hand, honey-glazed eyes shimmering with moonlight locking on mine and holding me in place as roughly as his herculean physique. Grunting, I wiggle, trying to slide from his grip, but he’s so much more powerful than me. All that rippling, corded muscle isn’t for show. It’s real.

My back flattens against a tree, the cool trunk contrasting the heat that invades my body. A sheen of sweat layers my chest—the result of fighting off a rapist bastard—and draws his attention, eyes betraying every emotion he feels.

That’s Lev. He speaks with his eyes. That’s how he’s always been.

He’s also a massive prick.

When his gaze greets mine, something flashes in his irises, an unmistakable attraction. But as quickly as it appears, it slips away, replaced with frustration. Fighting off Lev is a bad idea. He’s not some drunk older man I can fend off with a swift kick to the balls. He’ll win every time.

I’m stuck.

Voices rise from the garden. My eyes cut to the right, where I sprinted through the bushes like a wounded gazelle. Without warning, Lev yanks me deep into the forest, clutching me to his side as his hand remains fixed to my mouth. I breathe raggedly through my nostrils, my heart beating so hard that I’m afraid it’ll explode right out of my chest.

As soon as we reach a clearing, he releases me. I wipe my mouth repeatedly, hating how much of his scent transferred to my cupid’s bow, to the space beneath my nose. I don’t need his scent invading me like the grubby hands of that grabby bastard. It’s an awful smell, a hint of earthiness, sandalwood, maybe even sage, that makes me shiver in ways I can’t articulate. That I don’t want to articulate.

“Shut up,” he growls. “Don’t say a word.”

I glare at him. “Like hell.”

He rolls his eyes, all of his expression in his glare rather than his features. Lev has a talent for glaring. It’s the one thing that keeps people away from him—which seems to be what he wants. And as much as he’s a loner, he’s also ruggedly handsome, a brooding intensity in his features that signals a tortured soul.

How badly I want to dig my fingers into that brain and pluck whatever it is that haunts him out for the light of the sun to burn.

And how badly I want him to continue suffering in silence for being such a goddamn prick.

I turn my nose up at him and cross my arms over my chest. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you at the party?” I narrow my eyes at him. “Why are you lurking in the woods like a fucking creep?”

When I tighten my arms over my chest, I’m acutely aware of how his eyes follow the motion, how his pupils dilate as he imbibes my body. I hug my chest, urging my nipples to chill the fuck out. Something about his critical gaze makes me angry.

And it also makes me throb.

“Don’t ever touch me again,” I warn him. “Or else.”