Page 72 of Born Wicked

And Archer King’s prophesy is fulfilled once again.

We are correcting the end to one of the world’s most famous tragedies.

Romeo and Juliet.

I should have immediately realized what he was talking about.

But I just gasp, feeling my soul being filled, my body consumed in this moment I never saw coming.

Insane passion. That’s what fuels people like Roman and me. Anger. Resentment. Drive. Protection. Hurt. We feel our emotions strong and fierce.

It all collides here on this table.

“Juliet,” Roman breathes as his lips trail from my mouth, down my jaw, kissing along the side of my neck. His hand slides to my thigh, exploring the rumpled fabric that is working its way higher. My fingers find their way into his wild, black hair. My eyes roll into the back of my head, my mouth falling open, as he presses hot kisses across the front of my throat, rising up the other side of my neck.

I pull his mouth back to mine, and he readily accepts my command.

Roman tastes like starlight and cold nights wrapped in a blanket. He feels like horseback rides in the moonlight. And the feeling he is awakening in me is that of a night goddess.

He breathes out, and I drink every bit of him in.

His tongue searches out mine, and I let him in, feeling desperate. His weight presses into me, and it’s the most delicious thing I’ve been waiting all my life for.

But I startle when something vibrates against my leg. With an annoyed sigh, Roman reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

“It’s Elena,” he reports.

“Oh,” I say stupidly. My brain is reeling, tripping over the insane twist this night has taken.

“What?” he growls into the phone, though he doesn’t shift off of me.

“There are some people here,” I hear her on the phone. “They have your picture, your booking photo. They’re asking to speak to you.”

“Any idea who they are?” Roman asks. His brows furrow in concern as he looks down at me. I wonder if he’s thinking about the man he just killed, the one who said there was someone—Orlando—who wanted to talk to him.

“They’re not saying, but Roman, I have a bad feeling about this.” And Elena legitimately sounds nervous. And I’m not sure I’ve ever heard her sound nervous. “You need to get back to the Nocturne. Now.”

“I’m on my way,” he says and ends the call. “Come on.”

And my heart jumps all the harder when Roman pulls me up from the table and keeps a grip on my hand. And together, we take off in the dark, aimed back for the Nocturne.

Something about this feels sinister. Strangers looking for Roman. Using his booking photo for reference? Why does anyone even have access to that? Is it a police officer?

Finally, we round the last corner, and through the dark, I see the doors to the Nocturne are wide open. At the top of the stairs, I see Elena, Mason, and Sigrid. And standing at the bottom of the stairs, I see a group of eight strangers.

Roman and I both slow as we cross the street. My adrenaline kicks in, perhaps a fight or flight response. After the night I’ve had, I would definitely default to fight.

We cautiously walk down the sidewalk, and as if in unison, the new arrivals turn toward us.

Somehow, it’s not a question who is in charge. The man standing in the center radiates control. Power. Even though he looks younger than most of the others.

As I get closer, his features begin to come into focus.

The lean build.

Black, wild hair.

Sharp facial features.