Wicked Royals (Elites of Macedon High 1)

Chapter One

Alex

Senior year should be exciting. It should be thrilling. I should be brimming with confidence, anticipation, and the kind of enthusiasm that leads to a good college, a good future, maybe even a good marriage.

But I don’t feel any of that. I just feel…empty.

Even as I walk beside my best friend Demetra Sideris, even with students bustling around me like minnows, even with the normalcy of the announcements over the PA system—it’s all just static. My brain reels as I reflect on my summer, on the crummy shit I’ve encountered since my father died.

Static, much like a television left on somewhere in another room, is how it is. I can hear it, the weird crackle and ping. I can feel it, the eeriness of company.

Eyes dig into my skin. I scan the area, searching for the source of attention, and locate the four asshats taking a gander in my direction. Smug, sharp, wicked features greet my vision. Not like I haven’t had enough of being ogled, and now I have to deal with the four horsemen of the damn apocalypse ogling me.

Parker Somerville stands tall next to his friends, an alpha asshole with broad shoulders, cut muscles, and athletic prowess. He towers with a judgmental sneer over the sea of students milling near him, bright green eyes like gemstones shining a spotlight in my direction. His dimpled chin makes him more handsome than the rest of the beta minnows that avoid my path—much like they avoid his. Gym shorts and a muscle tank never looked so goddamn good on someone, though I imagine they’re the highest quality fabric, like everything else he owns, people included.

Soren Pershing comes into view next, leaning casually against the gray metal lockers with his bag draped over his shoulder. He’s fit and gorgeous, with short fair hair like wheat, blue eyes like glaciers, and a vicious smirk that could make every pair of panties in the vicinity drop without much prompting. A charmer on the surface yet a trickster at heart, he purses his lips slightly, eyes drilling into me as hard as a desperate cock. Khaki pants host a designer brown belt with a pale blue-collared shirt tucked into the waistband. Forever the clothes-conscious one of the four.

Truly the most fashionable horseman, I think as I pick up my pace. I want to walk past them as quickly as I can.

Next to the two assholes stands Tomas D’Hautpoul, wearing black designer jeans with strategic tears in the knees and a black-collared button-down that sports two glossy leather straps in the shape of an x over his chest. A silver lip ring sits on the left side of his thin lips, along with a silver ring in his right nostril. Black hair dipped in crimson crowds his forehead, lingering in his eyes until he shakes his head, effectively pushing the hair away for a split second to reveal hazel brown eyes. His appearance is tame compared to his wild proclivities. Didn’t he overdose last year?

My breath catches in my throat when I focus on the last of the jerks, the same guy who confuses me every time we meet—Lev Dvornikov. Rippling herculean muscle peeks from beneath a tame gray button-up paired with top-brand blue jeans that are snug near the crotch. Dark brown eyes, almost as black as two voids, focus heatedly on me, emotions warring from his irises. Short spiky hair makes him look as rugged as he talks, specifically when he talks to me.

What the fuck does he think of me? I wish he would pick something. The mixture of disgust and concern is getting on my last nerve.

I clutch Demetra’s elbow to get her to walk a little faster. Soren cuts into our path, the corners of his mouth cutting into his cheeks as his eyes sparkle. But that’s not warmth or happiness. I’m not fooled by his expression in the least.

“Ms. Alex,” he says, voice smooth like honey, but waiting to bite like whiskey. “I’m so sorry to hear about what happened.”

I swallow the words that want to pop out of my mouth. He might take it as an invitation to challenge me, and I don’t want to pay for it later.

After taking a slow breath, I meet his gaze, doing my best to control my expression. “Thanks.”

A tense second passes before he steps aside, allowing me to continue down the hallway with my best friend clutching my hand. I squeeze her fingers so tightly she hisses, “Alex!”

“Sorry,” I grunt as I release her hand. I chafe my shoulders, darting toward a break in the brick structure of the hallway, a small nook that gets us out of the bustling highway of bodies. The door next to me hosts a window that reveals my next class. “Any of those jerks could have gunned my father down.”

“How do you know that?”

I stare at her straight blonde hair, her pastel green blouse, her pleated skirt and white sneakers, her simple features. She’s not challenging me—she’s quite genuinely confused. The poor thing is sheltered to the point of naivete.

Not me. Not a damn Moretti heiress to a massive crime empire.

I sigh as I cross my arms over my chest. “Or it could have been someone from their family. Or someone from their circle. It could have been anyone, Demetra.”

“Maybe the first day of school isn’t the best time to worry about that.”

“Then, when?”

She shrugs her shoulders, offering me an innocent smile that’s supposed to be soothing. I want it to be soothing. I want it to comfort me like my late father would have comforted me.

She takes my hands in hers and gives them a reassuring squeeze. “Everything is going to be okay. You have me right next to you.”

“You’re so sweet.”

I don’t mean to sound sarcastic, but I can’t help it. I don’t want comfort anymore. I want revenge.

It’s all I can think about as I pop open the door to our next class and glare over her shoulder at the four horsemen of the apocalypse who are still watching me.