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I recoil at his cold skin. There’s no way he can be freezing in the heat of the room. I straighten my back, sobering even more because of the weirdness. Grabbing his arm, I struggle to pull his stiff body over. And not stiff as in muscular. The guy feels solid. Unmovable.

“Leandro?” I ask, kneeling on the bed to better grasp his arm.

The second I turn him over, I gasp as panic erupts in my chest. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. This isn’t Leandro. I remember what he looks like. No matter how drunk or high I was, I’d never forget his handsome face and easy-going smile. How his dark brown eyes captured me in every moment, keeping my attention. This isn’t even a case of alcohol vision. I met him sober and my hazy memory stops after we spent at least an hour gazing into each other’s eyes. But this guy? His lifeless blue gaze stares at nothing. He’s dead.

I scramble to get up, yanking the comforter with me. “What the fuck! Fuck!”

I spin on my bare feet, searching the room for signs of what happened. The desk lies on its side, and one of the framed pictures is shattered. Everything that was in my suitcase now lies scattered around the room. It definitely looks like a fight happened here, but I don’t remember whatever took place. I inspect my hands, catching sight of blood under my fingernails. Fuck. It’s the only word I can really process.

I can’t get caught up in this bullshit.

I rush to the bathroom and look at the messed up wall where the towel rod was supposed to be, I think. I’m not exactly sure. It’s been a month since I’ve stayed in the penthouse. Things could’ve changed.

I wash my hands and stare at my face in the mirror. My blue eyes shine red, completely bloodshot. Combing my hands through my knotted, deep brown hair, I try to separate the tangles. My diamond necklace must’ve broken off at some point, but I still wear my earrings and ring.

I rest my palms against the counter. “What the fuck happened?” I ask myself, hoping that my reflection might come to my rescue and respond.

Gathering my bravado, I tug on my bathrobe and carefully step back into the expansive four-bedroom suite. I make a wide circle, avoiding looking at the bed and the stranger in it, and I peek into each of the rooms and then into the living area.

I spot my phone glowing in the dark, the vibrations turning louder as I stroll closer. Reaching down, I try to grab it off the floor, but I lose my balance and land on my knees. Glass digs into my skin, sending burning pain over my legs. This is too much. My stomach twists again and I dry heave. This is worse than any hangover I’ve ever had, and I know I didn’t drink that much. A couple of shots would’ve made me loosen up. I wouldn’t have been blackout drunk. And the sickness clinging to me? Something else is up.

Drugs. That’s right. I remember Leandro suggesting someone slipped us something at the Looking Glass.

I flutter my eyelashes, clearing my vision the best I can. It’s as if my gaze has been coated with something, and it’s hard for me to see through. It doesn’t help that I just want to go back to sleep. Maybe if I do, I’ll realize that none of this is real. Maybe I’m having one hell of a nightmare.

My phone buzzes again, and I look at the screen.

Unknown: Bitch, I hope you’re okay. I’ve been banned from communication with you until you turn yourself in to the King’s Court. I’m using a stranger’s phone, so don’t reply back. If someone finds out that I broke the rules, they’ll punish me. Love you, bitch. Do the right thing. Christos isn’t worth it.

Of course, my society chapter would bar communication with me. I fucked up. I really fucked up.

It takes everything in me not to call Bianca, but I can’t do that to her. It was my mistake, and she shouldn’t have to pay for it. But I shouldn’t have to pay for it either. It was so fucked up of Christos to put me in this position. The bastard.

I stare at my phone for another couple minutes, trying to think of what to do. Most people would call the police, but what would I say? I just woke up naked next to a dead man? That’ll cause all sorts of suspicion. It’s in our chapter’s bylaws to contact His Majesty first. Unfortunately, that’s my dad. And I’m in a shit ton of trouble.

Fuck my life.

Maybe I can get someone else to take pity on me. Someone who can talk my dad down.

I just hope Talon answers and doesn’t immediately turn me in for punishment. He’s not as hard as my dad, and at least he likes me a little bit. I can’t imagine he’d be on Daddy’s side if he found out why I ran out during a mandatory meeting, breaking protocol and denying participating in what is supposed to be an honor with the White Queen’s Kiss.

I squeeze my eyes shut, listening to the phone ring and ring.

Voicemail.

Goddamn it.

My heart crashes into my stomach with my desperation. I don’t know what I was expecting, calling Talon. Of course, he wouldn’t answer. Why would he? Like Bianca said, I’ve been barred from communication until I face the aftermath of my rash decision.

My phone buzzes in my hand, startling me. I stare at the unfamiliar number. A frown pinches my brow, and I watch my screen flash for almost a minute. I hate not knowing who’s on the other line. I hate talking on the phone altogether and prefer to text message.

I exhale a long breath and accept the call without saying anything.

“Stacia, it’s me.” Talon’s familiar base tone murmurs through the line, sending my heart fluttering. “You’re in a hell of a lot of trouble, wild child. What the fuck was last night about? You know you shouldn’t be calling me—”

A sob escapes my lips, cutting off his words. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, birdie. I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Are you hurt?” Talon asks, his tone changing, growing softer. “Where are you? I’ll come and get you.”


Tags: Ginna Moran Romance