Wicked Royals (Elites of Macedon High 1)

His warm fingers curling gently around my upper arm make me shiver. “Fine.”

An unconvinced hum sends him to the driver’s side of the sports car. The engine starts before his ass can hit the seat and then we’re off, my eyes flitting toward his hand that rests on the gear shift every few seconds. I expect it to fall into my lap or sneak up my thigh, but it never happens—and what’s worse is I want it to happen.

He clears his throat. “You look upset.”

I cough. “I said I’m fine, Soren.”

“You know how I know you’re not?”

This should be good. “How?”

“You get a little line in your forehead right above the bridge of your nose.”

I absently rub the spot he references. “No, I don’t.”

“You do. And then your nostrils sort of flare like you just smelled something really bad, but you’re trying not to show it.”

“That’s not…” I wrinkle my nose and turn to the window, trying to catch my appearance in the crystal clear glass. “You’re lying.”

He chuckles. “No, you’re lying. Tell me what’s wrong. I promise I’ll listen.”

That tone—it reminds me of Thasos, of the den in his grandmother’s cottage. It makes me think he cares.

And that’s far more dangerous than being drunk.

“I can’t tell you,” I admit. “I don’t even know.”

“I can’t help if you don’t know, sugar.”

I shrug. “It doesn’t matter.” To you.

He brushes off my response and asks in a low voice, “Will you come to Thanksgiving at my place?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Gee, Alex, sometimes it’s just nice to get a formal invitation, right?” His hand tightens on the gear shift. “You know, all this confusion is probably from the partying you’ve been doing lately. You should slow down.”

I raise my eyebrows in shock. “Seriously? You’re the one who egged me on.”

“Yeah, well, I can see it’s not helping.”

“That’s not the only thing that’s not helping.”

The car slows at the entrance of the Moretti estate. I’m already home—and I don’t want to be. This place has become such a nightmare that I’m preferring the company of shitty jerks like Soren instead of the safety of my bedroom.

My eyelids flutter as a lump forms in my throat. Will I ever be safe anywhere?

Soren pops the car into park and casually leans against the center console. I feel his proximity, the heat that emanates from his lips and greets my cheek. His hand snakes around the back of my neck and manipulates my head, turning me toward him.

God, it actually feels good to have his attention. I’m just drinking up the ease of the motion, how he instantaneously moved into my space to capture me. Feeling the way his fingers flutter over the skin of my neck and tangle in my hair is so normal, so simple. It’s something I could have every day if I ended up choosing this boy.

I almost give in to it. His touch makes me think of the den where he took his sweet time with my body, exploring my crevices in a way that made me feel human. Even now, with the way he’s caressing my hair to keep me close, it feels more affectionate than controlling. It feels like he wants me.

But I know him. And I know his end game.

I push his face away from mine and hit the button for the door, waiting patiently for it to allow me out of the vehicle. When Soren doesn’t fight for my affection, I feel a small sense of accomplishment—as well as a pang of dread.

Maybe he doesn’t want me as I thought.