My house, my sink, I remind myself, my lips curving into a private smile. The last thing Dad needed was the stress of a move, or an overbearing landlord. Harper du Pont is going down, and going down hard. When I come at her, the whole world will know.
“All sorts of things. I mean, there was the usual stuff: politics, religion, whatever. They got into this heated verbal brawl over whether the sweet potato dish I made should have marshmallows on it or not. That’s when I knew things were getting bad.” Zack’s low, rumbling voice seems right at home in the tiny space. Although he looks a bit like a giant in a dwarf’s kitchen, he takes up the space admirably, like he belongs there regardless.
I crack my egg into the bowl and toss the shell in the trash. I’m not going to tell Dad about the house, not just yet. If I do, then I’ll have to explain why Windsor bought me a house without sounding like I’m living some teen version of Fifty Shades of Grey, like oh, Mr. Sexy Man, I love that you own the place I live in. Control me, dominant me. Bleh. I shiver as I think about the prince fucking me in the barn. Ugh. Yeah, no, it’s best if I just don’t tell Dad until he … until he gets healthy again.
“Did they fight about me and you, too?” I ask, and Zack doesn’t answer right away, stirring the dry ingredients together and then reaching up to rub his hand over his forehead, smearing it with a streak of flour.
“They both see me as their legacy, their pawn, some piece to move around a board.” Zack and I combine our bowls, and soon we’ve got a sweet-smelling, sticky dough that Zack puts in the freezer to firm up a bit. When I move over to the sink to wash my hands, he steps up behind me and curves his arms around me, helping me cleanse the dough from under my fingernails. “They want me to marry Kiara Xiao.”
“The girl Tristan—” I start, but that memory is too much right now. I can’t handle it. “No.”
“No,” Zack breathes, turning the sink off and pulling me against him. “She’s not right for me.”
“Yeah, because she’s a spoiled rotten brat who fits in so well with the Harpies I can’t tell her claws apart from the rest of them.” I turn around, so close to Zack that the swell of my breasts brush up against his chest. I bet I look pretty ridiculous in my outfit, but not him. He doesn’t look ridiculous at all, just … gorgeous, like the front cover of some sports magazine. It’s his lower lip that really does it for me, so full and ripe. My thumb comes up of its own accord and traces the shape of it. Zack shudders and sighs under my touch, like I’ve somehow managed to put him in a thrall.
“Well, all of those things, and also … because she isn’t you.” He shrugs his shoulders and steps away from me, like he’s trying to extricate himself from the tension between us. Not sure why. Doesn’t he know I’m going to ask him to stay the night? “You could leave the dough in the fridge overnight, and bake it in the morning so the cookies are fresh.”
“I could do that,” I say with a nod, folding my brown-furred arms over my equally brown-furred chest. “And you could try to sneak out in the morning before Dad knows you’re here?” I look up at Zack’s face and watch as his tight expression loosens up a little.
“You sure you still want me, after Zayd and Windsor?” He pauses, frowning slightly. I didn’t have to tell the guys about me and Windsor because, well, Wind did it for me before I got a chance. And then I jumped in the pool and stayed under just long enough to make them all worry. But just a little. A little angst is fun. Too much gives me a stomachache.
“Why would you think I wouldn’t?” I ask, and Zack shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair.
“I don’t know. I mean, how long do you really want to put up with all of us?” He looks at me like he’s certain I’m not going to pick him, like our time together is short-lived.
“As long as I can?” I respond, and then I reach down and take his hand, pulling him toward the bedroom and closing the door behind us.
I need to clean the kitchen, but that can wait until morning.
Tonight, I’m going to let Zack unzip my reindeer costume and slide it off of me first.
When I wake up later, Charlie is still asleep, Zack is gone, and the kitchen is freaking spotless.
“I don’t see why I have to keep trying,” Creed drawls, gesturing loosely in my direction as he drapes his boneless body over one of the leather chairs in the library. “I was already accepted to the school. What do my grades matter now?”
I cross my arms over my chest and give him my most severe look.
“First off, don’t you have any pride in your academic work? And second, it does matter. The university will look at your grades for the last semester, and your class ranking. Miranda already promised me you’d be going to Bornstead. Don’t disappoint me now, Cabot.”
“Oh, bossy, bossy, bossy,” he drawls, flinging one leg over the arm of the chair and looking out at me from under half-lidded eyes. His gaze sweeps me in my all-black uniform, taking in every curve. When I sit down, on the other chair arm, my skirt rides up and Creed gets a little peek at my garters underneath. “And just as sexy as you are authoritative.” His fingers dance across my upper thigh, snapping one of the straps against my pale flesh. I shiver, but I manage to stay firm.
“You need to study for this math test.”
“I’d rather study you,” Creed purrs, drawing me into his lap. His clean linen and soap smell is intoxicating, and I find my hands playing with the buttons on his shirt, even though I know I should be encouraging him to look at the rubric Miss Danebo handed out.
“Why? What is it you want to know?”
“Why do you like those boy-on-boy comics so much? Do you have fantasies you haven’t told me about?”
“Yes, I’d love to see you topped by Tristan Vanderbilt, but that’s not going to happen. What will happen if you don’t study, is me going to college with your sister, and you going home to sleep a gap year away in the Hamptons.”
“You’d go without me?” he asks, sighing and sliding his fingers down the row of buttons on my top, popping a few of them wide. The lace of my navy, blue bra shows, and I suck in a sharp breath as Creed trails the edge of his fingernail along the scalloped edges. His ice-blue eyes flick up to mine with an exquisite sort of cruelty dancing in them. He knows how badly he’s getting to me, and he loves it. I wiggle on his lap without meaning to, and Creed scowls at me. “And you know from experience exactly what that sort of move does to my dick.”
“So damn crude,” I murmur, forcing myself to stand up and put some space between us. If I don’t, I’m going to end up doing things in the library that most definitely would end up on my permanent record if I were caught. “But I like it,” I toss over my shoulder, sauntering off and enjoying Creed’s groan of frustration as he forces himself up and follows after me.
“Where are you going?” he asks as I head out the library doors, and down the stone hall.
“If you’re not willing to study, I have other things to deal with today.” I reach into my pocket and pull out my modified list. Ileana doesn’t seem to be coming back to Burberry, and not because of the whole, erm, popped boob thing. Pretty sure there’s a rift between her and Becky that’ll never be healed.
Revenge On The Bluebloods of Burberry Prep
A list by Marnye Reed
The Harpies: Harper du Pont, Becky Platter, and Ileana Taittinger
The Company: Abigail Fanning, Valentina Pitt, Mayleen Zhang, Jalen Donner, and Kiara Xiao
The fucked-up foursome—Harper, Becky, Abigail, and Valentina—are proving the most difficult. I mean, just think about Abigail for example: Tristan destroyed her at the casino, I gave her boyfriend proof of her infidelity, and she found out Harper had been screwing Greg behind her back all along. And yet, she’s still standing. It’s not enough, not by a longshot.
Of course, dethroning the girls from their Blueblood status was impressive, but it doesn’t take the cake.
For now, I’ve moved onto easier targets: Mayleen Zhang in particular.
She�
��s always prided herself on her schoolwork, just like me and Tristan. In fact, she often ranks in the top five in the entire academy. And yet, I’ve now got proof that she’s been using what’s called mosaic plagiarism to write a lot of her essays—including one she got an award for last year.
Mosaic plagiarism is when a person uses a general story idea or structure and simply finds synonyms or alternative phrases for the author’s original work while keeping the same meaning and structure of the piece they’re stealing from.
It’s more difficult to prove than direct plagiarism—that is, straight up copying and pasting. But it can be done, and I’m going to do it. Sorry, but there’s one thing about using common themes or tropes in a piece of writing and another altogether to literally pattern a new work off an existing one.
Fucking Mayleen is going down.
“You’re up to something, aren’t you? I can practically smell it.” Creed folds his arms together behind his head, watching me with curiosity and no small amount of glee. He loves the kill, just like all the rest of them do. “May I ask who, exactly, you’re focusing your eye of revenge on today?”
“Mayleen,” I say, knowing her parents are here to walk the campus with Mayleen’s younger sister. Because of the previous issues with bullying here at the academy, they’re strongly considering sending their youngest daughter to Coventry Prep. Principal Collins will be with them, too. This should work out nicely.
“Excellent. Another faceless lackey bites the dust. When do we get the big names though? That’s what I’m looking forward to.”
“I’ve got Harper under control,” I say, realizing how ridiculous that sounds considering her recent attack on my college applications. “Becky … I’m not sure about.”
“I think Zayd is working on Becky. You know, he feels like Windsor let Ileana off the hook too easily. That, and I think he’s jealous of the prince.”
“Zayd is?” I ask, glancing over at Creed. “Zayd, the rock god is jealous?” Creed shrugs his shoulders, and I narrow my eyes. “Just Zayd, huh? Nobody else.”
“No, definitely not,” he replies, raising his eyebrows and then smiling sweetly as we pass by Mrs. Collins. “Good afternoon, Madam Principal.”
“Mr. Cabot,” she replies, looking askance at us with no small amount of suspicion. Can’t say that I blame her, considering Creed’s track record.
The Zhangs are pushing a stroller slowly down the path and discussing the merits of Burberry Prep with the principal. I pretend to drop a pen, duck down, and then stick the packet of papers in the storage area underneath, right next to the diaper bag. Seems a bit anticlimactic now that I’m standing here, but I had to put hours of research into that, lining up the similarities between Mayleen’s essays and all the ones she stole from.
If she hadn’t stolen from one of mine, I might never have known.
I’ve already slipped a manila envelope with the same papers in Mrs. Collins employee mail slot.
There’s nothing Burberry Prep hates more than an academic scandal. Remember what almost happened to me? I’m sure it’ll be taken care of discreetly.
“That was subtle, not like you at all,” Creed says, as I look back over at him.
“I’m saving all the pomp and circumstance for the former queen of the Idols,” I say, exhaling and running my fingers through my hair. It’s grown out so much. I’m trying to decide if I want to cut it all off again, or if it’s truly time to grow it out. I glance over at Creed, and notice that his eyes are sparkling. “That, and I’m just hoping I survive long enough to graduate.”
Creed and I both pause, looking over to find Harper holding her dark court in one of the gazebos. She glances over at us, sitting in the lap of some big guy I don’t recognize. I think he’s a second year. She flips me off, and we continue walking together, curving back around to head toward the chapel doors.
“We’re so close, Marnye,” Creed whispers, but even as I’m excited to finally get out of here, to escape the mean girls, to start a new life at Bornstead U, I’m dreading it, too. Because each day that passes, Charlie gets sicker. Each day that passes, I get closer to making a decision I don’t want to make.
Choose between the filthy rich boys.
I’d rather fight the Harpies for the rest of eternity.
“If you insist on teaching me math, I’ll accept—provided, of course, you sit in my lap while I learn. I study best that way, with a giant boner tucked into my slacks.”
I facepalm and shake my head, but his crudeness is refreshing somehow. It’s better than a bouquet of lies, now isn’t it?
“Come on, perv, and I’ll teach you some formulas.” I take his hand and pull him back into the building before the first few flakes of winter snow start to fall.
It feels good to be at school, studying like crazy and working to keep my grades up, so I can qualify for as many scholarships as possible. That, you know, and also kick Tristan’s ass and take top of the class.
Speaking of Tristan, we’re supposed to be working on an economics project together, but he’s been so damn cranky these past few weeks, I can barely get a word in before he stomps off. It’s frustrating as hell, trying to work with someone who won’t talk to me.
Even more frustrating when I’m trying to date that same, said person.
I’m sitting in The Mess with Zayd, watching surreptitiously as he pens lyrics on a napkin with a bright, red pen, when Isabella Carmichael walks in, dressed in the red skirt and black blazer of a first year. She comes right over to the high table and pauses beside me.
“Do you think we could have a moment?” she asks Zayd, batting her lashes prettily and tucking a few errant strands of brown hair behind one ear. Zayd looks at me for confirmation, raising his pierced brow in question.
“Yeah, of course,” I say, thinking about Dad’s whispered words. “I didn’t know she was mine, or I would’ve … I wouldn’t have let Jennifer keep us apart.” Thinking about what he said, and about that bet Harper threw in my face, I feel sick to my stomach. “Maybe just sit at a different table for a minute?”
“Ah, I see how it is,” Zayd says, standing up and then pausing to turn back and grab my face, leveling me with a punishing kiss that makes me see stars. Isabella scowls at us as she tucks her skirt under her thighs and sits down, waiting until Zayd’s moved several tables away before she turns to me and smiles.
It’s not a very pretty smile, I’ll tell you that for sure.
“How’s your boyfriend doing by the way? Or should I say … boyfriends? I mean I’d heard from the Royals that you were called Working Girl for a reason, but I guess I didn’t want to admit I’d shared the same womb as a whore.”
“First off, your ‘Royals’ are nothing more than displaced despots. Second, slut-shaming doesn’t look good on anyone. Don’t do it. It makes you look like a hypocritical asshole.” I lean in, putting my elbow on the edge of the table. “Third … forget the Infinity Club, Isabella. There’s nothing but trouble for you there.”
“Like you’d know. It’s not as if you are or ever could be a member.”
“Windsor York has asked me to marry him. On more than one occasion. Don’t you think if I were to become a prince’s bride and find myself suddenly swimming in billions that I’d be welcomed with open arms?”
“So why don’t you?” Isabella asks, slamming her palm on the table and making the water glasses quiver. She glares at me with very familiar brown eyes, her mouth twisted into a pout. “Why, when you could be so much more than this, do you insist on slogging through?”
“Marrying a prince will elevate my status in your eyes, but working my ass off to get into my first-choice university means nothing?” I ask, and Isabella scowls at me.
“We might share blood, but you’re not my sister and never will be. Don’t try that kill them with kindness crap with me. It doesn’t work.” She lifts her chin and tosses her hair. “I am nothing like you. I … am a Carmichael.”
“A simple DNA test would prove otherwis
e,” I tell her, and she stands up, nostrils flaring.
“You know, I only came in here because I felt sorry for you.” She tosses her hair in a shiny wave. “My friends and I were getting together for a study thing yesterday, and on our way past the girls’ chapel bathroom, Sharon announced she had to pee. We all took a detour, and well. It’s not looking good for you.”
“Just spit it out,” I murmur, leaning back in my chair and rubbing at my temple. Talking to Isabella makes me feel sick, like looking at a shattered illusion that’s now become distorted in a funhouse mirror.
“Tristan was in there, you know. Him and that Lizzie girl.” My mind flashes back to that moment when I found Tristan and Kiara in that same bathroom, and a wave of nausea sweeps over me. “We walked in and found him fucking your friend. Doesn't that bother you?”
“Get out.” I rise to my feet and look her dead in the eye. “This is my school, my dining hall. Leave.”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but—”
“Out. Now.”
Isabella smirks, and even though I know she’s doing this to bait me … it’s working. She rises to her feet, turns, and sashays her way out of The Mess, leaving bullshit and lies in her wake. Little sister, what the hell am I going to do with you?
Her words stab through me like a knife, and I feel myself bleeding emotions all over the floor.
“Are you okay?” Zayd asks, hopping back up on the dais and leaning down to look into my face.
It takes me several breaths to get control of myself, but I manage it. Just barely, but I do, looking up and into Zayd’s beautiful eyes. Even if Tristan’s chosen Lizzie, I’ll be okay, won’t I? I have Zack and Creed, Windsor and Zayd. It’ll just make my choice twenty-percent easier, right?
So why the fuck does it hurt so much?
“I’m okay,” I tell him, taking his inked fingers and giving them a squeeze. It’s just rumors and gossip, that’s all that it is. Secrets like this are what caused so much damage with the former Bluebloods. Lies and bullshit.
In the Arms of the Elite Page 20
