Page 10 of Wicked Vile King
Thirty-six hours. Maybe more.
My heart clobbers in my chest as the ringing finally subsides. I release a shaky breath and am dizzy and nauseous all at once.
Was it a dream?
I don't think so.
I wish it was.
His smell poisons the air, shadows of secondhand smoke, patchouli, and something dark and dangerous I can't quite place.
Something that reminds me of death.
I choke on the bile crawling up my throat.
Is this real? Have I died and gone to hell?
I blink again, but nothing happens. I'm still here, dawn stretching its patchwork of diamonds across the floor.
I'm real. This is real. And I have to accept it.
I don't fit into one of Papa's neat, orderly boxes anymore.
Shit.
Aren't you supposed to make friends on your first day at a new school? Or be nervous and excited? Or hope your teachers show you mercy? I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to be greeted by a trickster with the face of an angel but the intentions of the devil. And tricksters aren't supposed to look like he did or ignite firecrackers in my middle or make my skin burn beneath his touch. And they definitely aren't supposed to capture your throat in one large hand, erase the distance between you, and . . .
Oh no.
Oh God.
Thief! Stealer of first kisses!
My tongue darts out across my bottom lip, and my stomach churns again. My hands curl into fists at my side, steadying a shake that's started in my fingers.
Papa would be ashamed.
I am ashamed that I still care what he would think.
Anger stabs through me, white hot and scalding. I don't know if I'm angrier at Papa, myself, or the thief, but I do know I want to find the asshole and slap him again. No, I want to find a sharp object, hunt him down, and stab him. I want to . . .know what it's like when he never lets go.
No, no, NO, Willow Cadelle!
I feel . . . dirty, sullied by him or me or maybe this place. Invisible ants crawl across my skin with the need to wash the thief from my body and erase the imprint of him against me, still there from when he devoured the space between us and rolled his hips.
A shadow moves into the doorjamb, and I cough on the urge to scream. A man I recognize as the one who drove me here cocks his head and surveys me. He's big and burly with a gut that overlaps his belly and a shiny belt buckle that looks as out of place as the thief's smartwatch.
"Come on," he grumbles, grabbing my elbow and steering me in his direction. "This never happened, got it?"
"What?" I say.
He snaps his wide, stubby fingers in front of my face.
"This never happened," he hisses before starting away from me and out into the hall, dragging me with him and sending knives drilling down into my shoulder. "Can't believe the freak didn't clean up this time."
"He . . . he . . . he assaulted me!"
The man jerks around to face me and flattens his meaty hands to either side of my face, squeezing my cheeks like he's trying to pop a watermelon.
