Wicked Royals (Elites of Macedon High 1)

He frowns. “I need you to promise never to do this again.”

“I’m too broken to care.”

“You’re not broken, baby.”

Rage billows in my stomach. “How the fuck can you say that?”

“Because I know you.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me.” I shove his hands from my face and resist his attempts to hold me. My body is desperate for his touch, for comfort to surround us, but I deny it. I push him away. “You shouldn’t have looked for me.”

He glowers. “I don’t understand why you’re so fucking unhappy, Alex. You could have such a good life with me.”

“I don’t understand why you want me at all.”

He tries to grab my wrists, but I’m surprisingly strong for a petite girl who just tore her stomach to shreds with little blue pills. I pound my fists into his chest, choked sobs stinging my throat as my nose burns up and my eyes sting with tears.

Fuck, here it comes. I can’t stop it. It’s too much.

Tomas flexes his shoulders and tenses his jaw, angling his face away from the blows landing on his chest. But he takes every single smack, enduring the fit without any complaints. They’re weak punches at best, the kind that won’t cause any damage.

Not physically, anyway.

Silent tears streak my cheeks as I try to hit him again. My fist hits the mattress and I curl forward, biting back the wail that threatens to surface. He circles his arms around me and tightens his grip, squeezing the life out of me.

“Go away,” I groan into his shirt. “Leave…”

“I’m not leaving until you promise me you won’t do that again.”

A few sniffles rattle my chest as I sag in his arms. I’m crumbling beyond recognition. I’m trying to make a grand fucking exit so I don’t have to suffer anymore, and this asshole—this piece of shit—wants me to stick around.

And for what? So he can keep torturing me with random acts of kindness?

My face hardens as I resolve myself to my fate. If I can’t leave on my own terms, then I’ll do everything I can to regain control.

Back to square one.

“Fine,” I whisper. “I promise.”

“You have to fucking mean it.”

I frown. “That’s not what you said.”

He takes my chin and forces me to look at him, hazel brown exploding with agitation and fear. “Say it, Alexandra.”

I search his eyes for meaning. When his touch grows tender, I sigh and whisper with conviction, “I promise.”

“Good girl.”

After a kiss on my forehead and a reluctant collection of his hoodie, he pads over to the veranda door, lingering for a second to look back at me. What is it about that look that frightens me? And what is it about his presence that makes me feel safe?

And more importantly, why the fuck does it even matter?