Wicked Dreams (Fallen Royals #1)

1. Margo

Chapter 1

Margo

I mpossible truth #1: My foster parents decided they didn’t want kids anymore.

Maybe I should’ve suspected that. Their jobs were keeping them so busy: they stayed late at work, they left the house early. They were irritated when they were home. I figured the three of us were easy keepers, so to speak. We did our chores and kept quiet.

Impossible truth #2: The social worker found a new home for me.

That’s not the impossible part. The impossible part is that it’s back in my hometown, just three streets over from where I used to live.

Before Mom got addicted to drugs.

And before Dad got arrested.

Impossible truth #3: I’m going back to private school.

Part of me is elated that I’m returning to familiar territory. But the majority of me is terrified. I’m sure things have changed, that the people I went to elementary school with have changed, but it’s going to be… safe.

“Hurry up, now.” My social worker stands on the edge of the new home’s lawn, waiting for me to get out of the car.

I take a deep breath and open the door, hauling my bag with me. I was lucky enough to get a real backpack. Each other move had my stuff in garbage bags. To be fair, I still have one, which I fetch from the trunk. But the important things are protected by heavy-duty canvas and padding.

“Let’s go, Margo.” She taps her watch. “We’ll make sure you feel settled, and then I need to get to an appointment across town.”

Angela McCaw is nice enough. She was assigned to me when I first entered the system, and our meetings have always been brief bordering on rushed. I don’t blame her—it took me a while to understand that most of the social workers in New York are overworked and underpaid.

To know she’s stacked this introduction with other appointments doesn’t surprise me anymore.

I focus on the house, blinking in surprise.

It’s giant. Bigger than my old home used to be, that’s for sure. My eyes bug out when we walk up to the door. Even that seems expensive, the wood dark and frosted glass cut into it in a long, vertical strip next to the handle.

“What are their names?” My voice comes out scratchy.

I spent the night prior crying, and my throat is on fire.

The abrupt relocation… I grew close to my foster siblings while with my previous family. The three of us thought it would be a permanent thing, because that’s what the adults always told us. There was no mention of adoption, of course, but we were guaranteed another four months together. Four months until I turn eighteen, and then I’d be out of the system.

Guaranteed. Joke’s on me—I should’ve known that nothing is guaranteed in this life.

“Robert and Lenora Bryan,” she says. “You’d be their first… no, second foster.”

I hate those pieces of information but at the same time I grasp at them. Sometimes it feels like the more I know, the worse off I am.

I stop even with her and glance her way. “I don’t suppose I should ask what happened to the first.”

She purses her lips and rings the doorbell. “She aged out. That’s all.”

Once you hit eighteen, you’re out. Well, that’s what they say anyway. I think it’s a little more complicated than that. There’s housing available for former foster kids—as if the title ever goes away—that have adult supervision, curfews, job or school check-ins. It sounds more claustrophobic than being turned loose on the streets.

The door swings open, and a petite woman stands in front of us. She has dark-brown hair and bright, ocean-blue eyes. Her lips curve up into a smile, and she steps aside.

“Welcome, Margo! It’s so nice to meet you.” She waves us in.

First impression? She’s… warm . And while it makes me suspicious, I can’t help but smile back.

“Angie.” Lenora greets my social worker with a familiarity I do not possess. “Please come in, both of you.”

We walk into their large foyer. As soon as the door shuts, I have the urge to yank it open and sprint away.

It’s not her. Or the house. Just nerves .

“Robert is upstairs,” Lenora continues. “Margo, do you want to come with me and I can show you your room? We can go grab him together.”

Ms. McCaw follows us up the stairs, clearing her throat every time I pause to study the pictures. Their other foster daughter looks like Lenora. Dark hair with soft bangs, big blue eyes. She’s petite, too, framed between Lenora and a taller man. It’s more of those pieces of information, just taunting me. I can’t help but stop to examine them.

“Margo,” Ms. McCaw whispers.

“Sorry, sorry.” I force myself faster up the steps.

Lenora glances back, and her face falls. “That’s our daughter. She passed away a few years ago.”

Shit.

She shows me where I’ll be staying, and I drop my backpack on the full-sized bed. It’s a nice room, simple enough. I just need to keep reminding myself that I have four months until freedom.

Robert comes out of a room down the hall and grins at us. “Ah, you must be Margo! Lovely. Lenora showed you your room?”

“Yes, sir,” I mumble.

They seem like regular rich people, all sweaters and comfortable pants that look more expensive than my entire wardrobe. Their smiles seem genuine, and I pray that there isn’t any malice lurking under the surface.

We all sit in their living room.

Ms. McCaw clears her throat again. “Margo turns eighteen in four months, at which point she ages out of the system. You have kindly agreed to enroll her at Emery-Rose Elite School?—”

I choke.

“Robert works there,” Lenora says, reaching out and patting my hand. “It’s a good education, and the tuition was free.”

I swallow hard and try to rein in my reaction.

McCaw eyes me. “Well, Margo was originally there on scholarship when she was younger. Is that correct, Margo?”

“The elementary school portion.” I shift in my seat. “They accepted me even though I’ve been in public schools?”

Nine of them, to be exact. Not just high school—middle and elementary, too.

While my last foster family was good to me, and I was there for two years, there was a period of about five years where I bumped around different families and group homes, and the changing location meant changing schools, too. I tried my best to make it seamless, but jumping into new curriculums every year has pushed me a little behind, I’m sure of it.

Seven years since I entered the system, and I’m almost done.

One more school.

My very first school.

“Congratulations, hon,” my social worker coos. “You’re going back to Emery-Rose.”

I should be happy about this. It’s a slice of familiarity, right?

“When do I start?”

“Tomorrow,” Robert says. “They only just returned last week, so it’s perfect timing. You’ll be starting as a senior, although they mentioned you may need some extra credits to graduate with the current seniors. That’s no problem, though. We can get you caught up easily enough.”

I blow out a breath. I wasn’t held back, which means I’m still in the same grade as those elementary kids with whom I started.

How many kids I knew are still there?

Will any remember me?

Those questions—and dozens more—whirl in the back of my mind while Lenora, Robert, and Ms. McCaw continue chatting.

Eventually, Ms. McCaw stands and brushes off her pants. “Margo, call me if you need anything. Same with you, Lenora and Robert.”

She hands them her card, and then she’s out the door.

We’re left in silence that verges on awkward.

“Are you hungry?” Lenora asks. “Tired?”

I nod. “I think I’m going to lie down, if that’s okay?”

“Of course, honey. I’ll knock when it’s time for dinner.”

As far as new homes go, the first day is always the worst. It’s like learning a new dance, and no one really takes the time to teach you the steps. New schools are the same, except… everyone seems to know I’m the foster kid.

Maybe it’s the clothes? Or the attitude? Somehow, they always find out.

It’s going to be worse tomorrow.

It’s a private school, and some might recognize my name.

There had to have been a story when I vanished. My best friend at the time, Savannah, wrote me exactly one letter a week after I moved schools. It lasted two months, and then they stopped.

She asked me if the rumors about my family were true. Said it was all anyone could talk about. The parents, the kids. Was my mom a coke whore and Dad her dealer?

I didn’t even know what a whore was at that age, much less coke whore .

I never answered her letters.

Alone at last, I close my door and flop onto the bed.

Strange to be alone. I used to share a room. Group homes were never quiet.

But here…

There are names I could stalk on social media to prepare myself for tomorrow, but preparation never did me any good.

Instead, my thoughts turn to where my foster sisters, Claire and Hanna, ended up. They were pulled from the home like I was, being split apart without warning.

Hanna, the youngest, went first.

Then Claire.

And me last.

That was the worst. Sitting on the couch with my things stuffed into bags that leaned on my feet, waiting for Ms. McCaw to arrive and take me away.

I fall asleep to that feeling.

When my eyes crack open, it’s dark. I feel for my phone and check the time.

It’s after midnight?

The Bryans didn’t wake me for dinner… Or maybe they tried. I slept hard, the first solid rest I’ve had in days. There were no dreams, no nightmares. Just… sleep.

Giving them the benefit of the doubt, maybe they knocked and I just didn’t wake up for it. It’s better than thinking the alternative…

I stand and crack my back, moving around the room. My clothes are still in bags by the door, the backpack containing my phone charger and toiletries right beside it. Ignoring it for now, I shove aside the curtains and open the window.

A cool breeze drifts in, but it’s not enough. I slide the screen up, leaning halfway out. The house is brick, but there’s nothing to grab on to.

My gaze moves up to the sky, at the smattering of visible stars.

After a long moment, I retreat and close the window, lowering myself to the floor. My phone’s glow illuminates the room, the buzz of a text harsh in the silence. The need to check it—for some sort of connection to anyone —surges up inside me.

I crawl to the bed and grab my cell, scanning the text.

Unknown

Rumors say you’re back in town.

Who is it? The number is entirely blocked—I can’t even see it.

Me

Who is this?

We’ll be watching you, Margo… Rose Hill isn’t how you left it.

I shiver.

What kind of message is that?

They’ll be watching me?

I slam my phone back on the nightstand facedown. It buzzes again, but I ignore it and crawl into bed. I block out the eerie message and the hunger gnawing at my stomach.

In the morning, things will be different.

But sleep takes a while to come back, and I don’t think I’ve slept two minutes before my alarm goes off.

The sun has risen, although only pale-gray light comes in through the open window. I sit up and fight my immediate yawn. My eyes burn, and I look around the room in a new light.

I need to make this my home, however temporary.

Quickly, I dump the bags of clothes out on the bed and fold them into piles. What needs to be hung—not much, since I only own a few graphic tees and pullovers—are shoved into drawers. In the closet hangs my school uniform.

I pause and reach for the black fabric. The shirts are white button-downs, the collars stiff, but the black skirts are made of a thick, soft material. Gold stitching in both the shirts and the skirts tie everything back to the school.

Robert intercepts me on my way to the bathroom. He’s already dressed, slacks and a blue dress shirt. A tie, even, although it’s not knotted yet.

“Good morning, Margo! Did you sleep okay?”

I nod, my cheeks heating.

He doesn’t bring up that I didn’t come down for dinner.

“We’ve got breakfast downstairs. Lenora put some shoes options by the door downstairs.” He smiles encouragingly.

“Thanks.” I hurry into the bathroom and lock the door, leaning against it for a single moment.

I’m going to school.

I’ve been in Rose Hill for less than twenty-four hours and I am now about to start… er, restart… my senior year of high school.

With easy, nimble movements, I brush and braid my dark-brown hair. It’s long and thick, and a lot of times a pain in the ass. Once that’s done, I turn my attention to my face.

Mascara, concealer to hide the dark circles under my eyes, a shade of pink lip stain on my full lips. I practice smiling in the mirror.

It falls short. I can’t keep the tremble out of my hands.

I add a thick swipe of eyeliner. The bolder the better. It feels a bit like a mask, and instead of smiling, I scowl at myself.

Okay.

I get dressed quickly and meet Robert downstairs. He slides a mug of coffee at me, and I smile at him.

“Figured getting up this early is hard enough without caffeine,” he says.

“Thank you.”

He points out the selection of shoes. “She got a few different sizes because we weren’t sure…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Hopefully one of these will do.”

She got me four pairs. Too many. I locate their sizes and try on a pair. It’s a perfect fit, and Robert beams.

“We’ll get your classes squared away first. Hopefully you’ll just miss homeroom, and we’ll get one of the kids to give you a tour.” He ushers me back into the kitchen. “Easy day, right? Not too scary.”

Yeah, right. I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t.

We eat cereal in silence.

In the car, a new backpack is waiting for me on the passenger seat. My face heats as Robert explains there’s a case of pens and pencils as well as a few notebooks in there. A calculator, too, for math. Things from the required items list.

I thank him, but…

It’s a lot.

We listen to Robert’s talk radio on the drive.

The high school is a bigger building down the street from the elementary and middle schools, and it looms like a castle at the end of the road. I don’t remember paying much attention to it as a kid, as the others are not as grandiose.

My stomach is a ball of nerves.

Robert turns into the driveway, which then branches off into different parking lots. A little sign for visitor parking right in front, faculty parking. Student parking.

We cross into the shadows of one of the two towers, and I automatically shiver. He parks in the faculty lot. As soon as the engine is off, he faces me.

“I figure I’ll be giving you rides every morning,” Robert tells me. “And we can meet at the car after. If you want to do any sort of sport or after-school activity, that’s fine. Lenora or I can arrange how we want to handle the pickup. But don’t feel restricted, okay?”

I make a noise of affirmation, and then we’re moving. Getting out of the car without delay. I swing the new bag over my shoulder.

I make the mistake of glancing at my phone as we walk up the wide front steps. There’s the text from last night still sitting on my lock screen, and I don’t even have to open it to read its message.

Unknown

You’ll regret coming back.

I shiver.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes.”

Getting alarming texts from an anonymous person hours after my arrival? That’s a fast way to get kicked out of a good home. When things seem too weird, some foster parents bail.

I don’t blame them. I’d bail, too. In fact, I’d love nothing more than to run home and tuck myself back in bed and throw my phone in the trash.

My original home. The one that no longer exists.

Robert shows me to the office and introduces me to one of the guidance counselors, whose name goes in one ear and out the other.

She waves me into the office with a bright smile. “Margo Wolfe? Come with me.”

I perch on the chair next to her desk, watching her type.

“You have a lot of different schools on your record,” she says in a mild voice. “Why is that?”

“I’m a foster. Some homes didn’t work out.”

“Robert and Lenora are good friends.” She’s still typing, her nails clacking against the keys. “We were a little worried about them taking in a teenager, but…”

My eye twitches.

“You’re going to behave, right?”

I’ve heard her tone before. A smidge condescending masked by fake lightheartedness. I hate it, and yet I sit perfectly still.

I say, “Yes, ma’am.”

She flashes me a smile. “Lovely. Okay, here’s your schedule. I had to put you in a lower math class, but perhaps you can find a tutor.”

That stings. I used to love math, but the idea of it got harder to grasp until one day I just gave up.

“Thank you.”

The bell rings, punctuating my words, and I jump.

“End of homeroom. You’re going to be late to first period if you don’t hurry. Show this to your teachers, it explains that you’re new, et cetera…”

She passes me a pink slip of paper along with the schedule, which is a complex mess of numbers and words. Am I supposed to decipher this on my own? Figure out where to go, how to get there…

My heart beats faster. Why does the idea of being late seem like the absolute worst thing in the world?

“I don’t know where to go,” I blurt out.

She sighs. “Right. Follow me.”

We walk out of her office, and her whole body perks up when her gaze lands on a boy filling out a form. And then I take a good look at him, and something in my chest loosens.

A familiar face.

His gaze snaps to mine, and his name comes out of my memories.

“Caleb Asher,” the guidance counselor says. “This is Margo?—”

“Wolfe,” he finishes. “We’ve met.”

We’ve met . That’s a poor way to cover our history. I can’t tell by his tone if he thinks it’s a good thing or a bad thing. I would say good, but…

He has a vibe about him, and it immediately raises my hackles.

Caleb Asher.

His gaze travels up and down my body, but he switches it to the guidance counselor when he smiles. All charm, I think, especially as his voice drops lower to say, “I’ll take her to class for you, Ms. Ames.”

“Thank you, Caleb.” She pats his shoulder and spins on her heel without another glance toward me.

If only that wasn’t completely normal.

I am in my natural habitat as a complete and utter wallflower.

The clock ticks loudly on the wall, and I face Caleb.

He’s examining me again.

“Well?” The word comes out rougher than I wanted, but I don’t take it back. I lift my chin, silently daring him to say whatever’s on his mind.

The corner of his lip twitches. He suddenly tugs on the papers in my hand, and the slip Ms. Ames gave me comes loose. Not bothering to even read it, he strides out of the room without looking back.

I hurry to follow, practically jogging after his quick steps. When we’re out of sight of the office, he pivots toward me.

His sudden closeness has me taking a step back. My shoulder blades hit the lockers.

“Why did you come back, Margo?”

I frown. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

What’s his problem?

He laughs, leaning down. He doesn’t touch me, though. He seems to keep himself perfectly under control, his gaze hardening by the second.

His expression could stop my heart if he wanted.

“You don’t stand a chance,” he whispers.

I move to edge around him, and his hands slam into the lockers on either side of me. I try not to jump, but I’ve never been one for violence. It doesn’t sit well with me, especially as his smile turns into a sneer.

I’m caged in with nowhere to go.

“Margo Wolfe,” he says in my ear. “Haven’t you heard? I’m the king now.”

He walks away, and I stay frozen against the lockers for a minute. My brain wants to catch up to the present, but all I can picture is the boy I once knew.

This version of him is so far removed, I’m not sure how we got here.

Instead of a charming, sweet friend, I’m left staring at the back of a monster.

One who seems to have scented my blood in the water.