Wicked Royals (Elites of Macedon High 1)

My lips quiver as I try to speak. There’s no malice in his voice—only fear.

And it confuses me.

My eyes roll back, robbing me of his figure. I actively fight to see his face, reaching desperately to touch his smooth skin, catching his lip ring triumphantly with my palm. I gasp as I lift my head. He’s talking again, peering down at me while he cradles me in his arms.

“…called someone…you’ll be okay…just stay here, baby, please…”

Oh God, he’s so frightened. His eyes are wide, and his lower lip keeps shuddering when he sucks air between his teeth. He’s practically hyperventilating, arms shaking as one hand clutches my cheek and the other persistently wiggles the flesh at the base of my throat. Why does he keep doing that?

Darkness swarms my vision. The next few minutes—hours?—don’t quite make it through the fog of my mind.

And then I’m puking.

So much.

White light invades my vision as a hand rests on my lower back. “That’s it. Good job, sweetheart. Keep going. Now breathe.”

The contents of my stomach burn my mouth. I can taste everything that’s coming back up, and it’s the acridest, most bitter flavor in the world. It reminds me of the time my father added far too much lemon juice to a drink, the pinch of it causing my cheeks to hollow as another wave of nausea rips through my core.

When it’s over, I’m vaguely aware of my surroundings—the sleek white tile, the porcelain hot tub, the marble floor, the plush purple curtains, the vintage pool house decor—and I recline into whatever warm body is behind me. The silver rings guarding the fingers that slither around my core wink, reminding me of a lip ring from a few days ago.

“Tommy.”

A shaky breath of relief. “Yes, baby. I’m right here.”

I blink rapidly, focusing on the tattooed man in front of me. His shaved head sports a few serpents that slither into his forehead, tongues snaking toward his eyebrows. There’s more black ink in his russet-brown skin that I can’t quite discern, and the satisfied smile on his lips feels so misplaced in this scenario.

“That was close,” he says in a thick English accent. He holds up a mitt-sized hand. “Nope, don’t sit up, love. That’s going to cost you.”

“Appreciate it, Quinn,” Tomas says. “She would have…I don’t know if…”

“What else are fixers for?” Quinn keeps his black eyes on me. He nods once. “Just need to get the good stuff into your system.” He gestures to the IV in my wrist. “Fluids, a little Narcan before that, and a special blend of my own making to help with your head tomorrow.”

“What?” I smack my lips, tasting watered-down sugar. “Did you…?”

“Girl, you just about gave me a fucking heart attack,” Tomas whispers in my ear. “You’re lucky Quinn has a twenty-four-hour service line for overdoses.”

I’m such a fucking failure.

My face scrunches up with shame as I bury myself in Tomas’s arms. He seems so willing to hold me right now, to shush me, to soothe me with words that I can’t make out. I don’t bother trying to unravel the events that led to this weird scene with an English guy that seems calmer than Tomas. It’s strange.

But despite the oddness, I feel safe.

Quinn talks me through the next hour while Tomas holds me. They encourage me to eat a sandwich slowly, monitor me as I sip water, and then share a few stories to keep me awake. When Quinn determines I’m ready to go to bed, he removes the IV, recommends a light diet for the next day, and then shakes Tomas’s hand.

Tomas scoops me from the ground, his arm and shoulder steady under my armpits. We trek across the yard to the house, sneak in through the back door, and take the service stairs to my bedroom to avoid running into my mother—or Amos.

My mattress conforms to my body, a soothing break from the brick and tile floor in the pool house. Every muscle in my body screams when I lie on my side, watching lazily as Tomas peels off his hoodie and climbs into bed next to me. He cups my face, thumbs under my eyes.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he whispers, disappointment dripping from the syllables. “Why did you do that?”

Other than the brief flutter of my eyelids, I don’t respond. Why should I respond? It’s not like he’s doing this because he cares.

But I feel so safe.

The tip of his nose grows red as his expression contorts. “Alex, say something.”

“Something.”