“If you want to survive even a single day on campus,” he continues, leaning in and putting his mouth so close to my ear that his breath stirs my hair, raising goose bumps on my arm. I can’t decide if I like or hate his proximity, his long, lean body brushing up against the front of me, one knee between my legs. My breasts just barely brush his chest, two crisp white shirts teasing one another with each breath we take. “Then you best learn it—and quick.”
Tristan releases me and steps back. The arrogance in his handsome face is staggering, his high cheekbones and full mouth a waste on such a haughty face. He’s too full of himself to be pretty. Liar, my mind whispers, but I brush that aside. The guy practically assaulted me. If he thinks I won’t report his ass, he’s got another thing coming.
“That girl in the closet …” I blurt before I can stop myself. There’s a morbid fascination brewing in me that I know I should tamp down. Play with flame and get burned. That’s a hard fact of life I learned long ago, so what the hell am I doing?
Tristan slides long fingers through his lush, raven-colored hair, looking down at me like I’m gum on the bottom of his shoe. I’m not surprised. By the time lunch rolls around, the whole school will be calling me Charity.
“Want me to tell you how I fucked her?” he asks as heat rushes up the back of my neck and burns my cheeks. “If you last the week,” he continues, reaching up to adjust his black silk tie, “maybe I will.”
He turns then and leaves me standing alone on the walkway. On either side of the awning, rain begins to fall.
That’s not a good omen, not a good omen at all.Without a guide, Burberry Preparatory Academy is like a labyrinth of old stone hallways and spiraling staircases. It’s haunted by a melancholy beauty that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, like I can sense the history crouching inside the building, eras long past watching from shadowed eyes.
“Hey.” A voice sounds from behind me, and I jump, stifling a small scream as I spin and find a girl with bright blond hair and a wide smile. If it weren’t for the genuine warmth in her blue eyes, her beauty would be intimidating, almost cold in its perfection. She bears a striking resemblance to the marble statue in the corner, carved infallibility and plaster pale skin. “Are you lost?”
“Am I that obvious?” I ask, risking a small smile and hoping like hell she’s nothing like Tristan. “I’ve been wandering around for half an hour, but I’m too embarrassed to ask for help.” Embarrassed? More like too anxious. The looks I’ve been receiving from the other students haven’t exactly been welcoming. That, and the staff I’ve seen have all been running around in that panicked first-day-of-school state, prepping lesson plans and greeting students they’ve known since preschool. I’ve never felt like more of an outcast—and trust me, I’ve been a pariah before.
“You’re the Cabot Scholarship Award winner, right?” the girl asks, her voice like bells. Wow. Her voice is as pretty as she is. But also, looks like the whole school already knows my socio-economic status, huh? “Oh, no, no,” she continues, waving her hand in my direction, “it’s not what you’re thinking. I just … my mother is Kathleen Cabot.”
My mouth pops open, and I lean forward, my leather school bag clutched in two hands.
“Your mom is Kathleen?” I ask, feeling this sharp sense of relief wash through me. Kathleen Cabot is a self-made billionaire. Yep, you heard it right: billionaire. She was born in the same neighborhood as me, raised by a single mom in a studio apartment, and ended up becoming a tech mogul. I met her twice: once at the award ceremony, and then later at the celebratory dinner. She’s a freaking saint—and the only reason I’m standing here at Burberry Prep.
“I take it she made an impression?” the girl asks with a wry smile. “Good or bad? She can go either way, depending on the weather, the position of the stars, whether it’s a full moon or not …” A grin takes over my face.
“Good impression, definitely. I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to write the perfect thank you letter.” The girl smiles back at me, holding out a warm, dry palm for me to shake.
“She’ll be happy with anything you send her,” she says as we clasp hands. “Miranda Cabot. And you’re Marnye Reed.” Miranda takes a step back and looks me over. “I hope you’re made of tough stuff,” she says, but not unkindly.
“And why’s that?” I ask as her blue eyes lift to my face and one pale brow goes up.
