Page 104 of Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 5)
“Jesus,” Aaron murmurs as I glance his way, studying the sharp masculinity of a face that was once boyish and sweet and now can only just barely teeter on that edge in the right lighting.
Several things occur to me then.
Aaron’s house is on the very edge of Prescott, straddling the official boundary of the Fuller neighborhood. He could’ve gone to Fuller High if he’d wanted, I bet. And Cal, he was talented enough that he could’ve run away all together, left this nightmare of a city behind. Hael could’ve quit school to work on cars. Oscar is too smart to be stuck in Prescott; he likely could’ve snagged the one and only scholarship spot that Oak Valley opens each year (each year there isn’t a school shooting, that is).
The only person who was truly and utterly stuck in Prescott High was … me.
“Excuse me,” I choke out, snatching the pile of bags and a single shoe box that Oscar has carefully gathered into a neat pile on the coffee table, and taking off for the bedroom nearest the bathroom. I slam the door behind me, putting my back to it and closing my eyes for a moment.
My heart races, and my spirit swells, and there’s nowhere for that energy to go but into my hands and fingers as I throw all the items in my arms onto the king-size bed against the far wall. It’s dressed plainly in white sheets, white pillows, and a matching down comforter. Is it wrong that my first thought is: will we all fit in here on this thing? Because the thought of being separated from any of my boys for any length of time makes me feel almost physically ill.
I shed my clothes as quickly as I can, yanking on a gray pleated skirt and a white button-down, a sky-blue satin tie, and socks that reach my knees. The shoes are last, these shiny black Mary Janes that remind me of the shoes Pamela used to make me and Pen wear on holidays, when we were still rich and she still pretended to give a shit about us, when Dad was alive and the Thing was a future nightmare I couldn’t have possibly fathomed.
As soon as I’m dressed, I tear out of that room like a bat outta hell and run straight into Victor’s strong, wet chest. He’s clearly just gotten out of the shower, beads of moisture clinging to his inked skin as he rests a palm on either side of the hallway, his obsidian gaze boring down into me.
“Bernadette,” he murmurs, and then he’s shoving me back into the room and pinning me against the wall. Victor’s mouth descends on mine, a slice of hot fury that burns me even as it soothes away all of my pain, all of my questioning, any lingering doubts that I might’ve had.
His tongue parts my lips like a spoken order, like he really is a king and I’m a loyal subject desperate to obey. Why I feel like this around him, I’m not sure, but I like it. When I’m with Victor, I don’t have to worry or wonder. He’ll take care of me, of us, of everything. In his arms, that’s where I feel the safest.
“Is there anything you need?” I whisper, trembling as he bands his strong fingers around my upper arms, making dents in the heather gray sleeves of the jacket.
Victor takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and then opens them again, unleashing the hurricane force of his stare on me.
“You.”
The towel around his hips drops to the floor as he steps back to examine me in the uniform, swiping his hand over his face with a curse. His temper is barely restrained right now. I can see the edges of it in the veins in his arms and neck, a muscle working in his jaw as he struggles to keep that beast restrained.
For now.
First chance he gets to launch it at Ophelia, and she isn’t making it out of this city with a pulse.
“The uniform really cinches the deal, doesn’t it?” he whispers, eyes sparkling, and I can’t decide if he asked me to put it on just because he’s a fucking perv who wants to nail me in what’s essentially a Catholic schoolgirl uniform (although Oak Valley Prep has no religious affiliation) or if it’s something else, something more. Proof that he can take care of me. Proof that he can raise us all up. Proof that this will all be worth it in the end. “You look every bit as aristocratic as Trinity Jade. Or Ophelia. More so, actually.”
“Should I add the crown?” I whisper back, feeling that intensity between us stretch and quiver and pull, my obsession feeding into his obsession until we’re just an endless loop of need and want and possession. Victor Channing is mine, and I don’t care about the fake fiancée charade we have to keep up: I’m going to remind every student on this campus at every opportunity I can that I can kiss Vic, fuck Vic, own Vic whenever I goddamn well please.
