by Thorne, Leia
Someone had to step up and guide them, build them into warriors to dominate.
“Look at Emry now,” I say to Sawyer. “Do you remember when we found him curled into a ball on the steps of the bleachers?”
Emry’s father owns a lot of dirt—and is an abusive bastard. He thought he was hardening his son into a man with cruel words and a fist to the face. The same way many of our fathers were raised to be strong and dominating, a legacy of pain.
I had a theory, and I resolved to put that theory to the test.
The belief of psychologists the world over is that want, need, desire drives ambition. The more you want a thing, the harder you work to obtain it.
I call bullshit.
For the children of greedy bastards—most of the time—we turn out spoiled. Given everything we desire—video games, big-screen TVs, cars—in order to placate us, make us quiet, unseen and unheard. Then we’re thrust into the adult world at the age of eighteen and forced to become our parents to carry out our birthrights.
Well, what if adolescents were given everything they really want?
The bulk of high school years, most boys spend 80% of their time trying to get laid. No one wants to admit this one truth, but girls want sex, too. So, what if they snapped their fingers and were rewarded with an orgasm right when they desired one?
That’s 80% more time to achieve other endeavors.
“Emry will be valedictorian of our class,” I tell Sawyer. “He was a solid B student, just barely, when you wrapped your soft arms around him that day. Now he maintains the highest IQ at Brighton. He’ll dominate his father’s real estate brokerage firm and turn it into a wealth his piece of shit father never imagined.”
She sighs. “You don’t have to convince me, Gage. I’ve been onboard since day one. But I think you somehow always fail to see the pitfalls of your schemes.”
I turn her way. “And what’s that?”
“Hierarchy,” she says simply.
I smile, shake my head. “I don’t get it.”
“Heavy is the head that wears the crown, and all that shit. A king spends his lifetime defending his crown, trying to keep his power.” She arches an eyebrow. “There is always someone scheming just as hard as you to take control. You reign in high school, but what about the real world?”
I see her point. “I need a proxy.”
She winks. “Instead of handing the keys to a girl you barely know, invest in one of the minions you’ve already trained.”
“Like who? Rush?” I laugh. Rush was a less successful experiment than Emry, but he still turned out better than expected. At least, better than the road he was on.
“Rush is going off the rails,” I say. One of his immediate gratifications that he required has always been drugs. A chemical high. It wasn’t that difficult to control before… “Ever since the event of last year, Rush has been careening toward a serious addiction. If that happens, I’ll have to cut him off from us. You can’t graduate Harvard with honors while supporting a very expensive drug habit.”
“So, work harder on him. Use Remi for that purpose instead.”
God, she’s so smart. And devious. I peek at her from the corner of my eye. “Is this your way of getting out of the bet? Are you suddenly scared you’ll lose after meeting our little Remi?”
She mock laughs. “I’m just being honest. No matter what happens, we’re not endgame, Gage. You know this. So why waste a perfectly good scheme on me?”
I cross my arms. “A guy can have more than one goal,” I say, thinking. “And a scheme can have more than one purpose.”
She shoves off the hood of the car. “Suit yourself.”
“Where are you going?”
“Shopping.” She flips her hair. “I have an innocent mind to corrupt.”
I watch Sawyer grab Palmer, and they load into Emry’s coupe.
She’s not wrong about the watching my back part. I do need to protect myself more from those who would deem to take what I’ve built.
I just hope, for her sake, she’s not among those enemies.
I love Sawyer. She mocks me, claiming I’m incapable of love. But there is more than one way to love, and I love Sawyer in the only way I know how. With a consuming need to devour her.
Which means, I have no qualms in causing her pain should she betray me.
That’s real love, baby. No matter the kind, all love hurts.
Chapter 6
Sawyer
Emry’s Bentley handles the curves and bends in the Valley roads beautifully, making me second-guess my choice to get a new Lexus. I borrowed Emry’s car because mine is still in the shop. My mother promised she’d get me a new GT this year, but so far, I’ve been forced to drive the same car I’ve had since last year while she sports a new Mercedes.
“She’s been extra difficult since the wedding invitations went out,” I say, explaining to Palmer why I still haven’t gotten my upgrade. All I have to do is bat my lashes at Gage, and it would be in my driveway in a heartbeat—but I’ve backed away from the benefits of the society lately, and he’s noticed.
“Why don’t you just use the guilt card to get your car?” Palmer asks from the passenger seat. She’s referring to my mother and Gage’s father and the whole nefarious affair.
I’ve lived next door to Gage since I was six. My parents built a mansion next to their mansion, and became instant friends. Dinners, family vacations, Christmas parties.
Then a couple of years ago, shit hit the proverbial fan when my father discovered that his wife was sleeping with his neighbor and best friend.
It was this whole Crescent Valley scandal. The only saving grace that kept me from Brighton gossip was that Gage declared the incident was a planned merger between our two family companies. Astor and Van Doren. The two most powerful families in CV joining forces.
Which, as it turned out, wasn’t that far off. As soon as my father filed for divorce, my mother took her shares of the firm (fifty-one percent) and signed a deal with Astor Financial & Trust for a new crisis management branch catered to politicians.
And then they announced their engagement.
A sick twinge cramps my stomach.
Gage and I have survived—and even owned—the worst salacious gossip and scandals, but…siblings? Yeah, just another reason why Gage will never get his way. I’m not going to be known as the Van Doren who fucks her brother.
Step-brother feels just as taboo to me, regardless of what Gage says. And honestly, I think that aspect excites his deviant little self even more.
The second our parents say “I do”, our fate is sealed. I will never sleep with Gage Astor.
I lower the volume on the stereo as I watch students file out through the grand arches of the academy. “I’m not wasting the guilt card on a car, Palmer,” I say to her. “I’ll get what I want my way.”
We’re parked at the curb across from the busses. I had Emry get me a copy of Remi’s schedule and her information, such as transportation.
Remi rides the buss.
My lips curl at the disgust of it all. Could Gage have chosen a worse subject to conduct his newest experiment? But when I see her exit the school, my chest prickles with that familiar awareness again. If I squint, I can almost see Lesley.
“There she is,” I say to Palmer. I pull away from the curb and drive up to where Remi is checking her phone.
“Hey, girl. Need a ride?” Palmer says.
Remi’s eyes widen as she looks up at us. “Wow. Is this your car?”
Palmer shrugs. “Emry’s, but it’s ours today.”
Remi glances over her shoulder at the line of busses.
“Oh, my god,” I say, putting the car in Park. “You are not getting on one of those loser rides. Get your ass in here.”
With a resigned nod, she decides she doesn’t want to be the new kid on a bus her second day in, and climbs into the backseat. “Where are we going?”
“Shopping. We postponed just for you. Don’t you feel special?”
“Actually, I do,” she says. “Thank you.”
I pull out of the school parking lot and gun the engine. She should feel special. I have a feeling—as I know Gage—that he’s already put a lot of work into converting our innocent new pet.
Why? I’m still not completely certain. Sure, he gave me a well thought-out reason, but with Gage, he’s all about secrets. He keeps his safe, hidden even from me when he can. There’s no way he truly wants to hand down the crown to his society to Remi—a girl no one knows. A girl with no status, and no real influence.
But, I’ll play along for now. What else do I have to do this year? I’m passing every subject and have already received my acceptance letter to Harvard. I’m bored, and honestly, I miss the excitement of last year…until it went bad. So if I can find one more thing to torture Gage with, so be it. Remi can serve another purpose for me.
I let Palmer control the music selection as I drive us toward Valley Mall. I find a parking spot near one of the side Exit doors, and we hop out of the car.
“So,” Remi says, keeping pace with us, “what kind of party is this? Who’s house?”
We enter through the Exit door, which is always unlocked, so employees can take smoke breaks. The hallway is chilly and my voice echoes as I say, “It’s a kickback at Bryce and Asher Kingsley’s ridiculously lavish mansion. Bryce is on the football team with Rush. Wide receiver, or something.”
Remi nods, like she gets it. She so doesn’t get it. A party is the whole school invited to trash a house and get smashed. A kickback is a select number of the inner circle that chill out together.
The difference is decisive. The fact that we’re inviting her means Bryce and Asher and the rest of the golden boys will flock all over her. Suddenly making her a hot commodity. Her stock will soar, and can only be brought down by one thing: getting nailed by one of them.
So it’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen.
“Let’s hit up Bellany’s,” Palmer says. “There’s this cute little dress that I saw online. They might have it.”
“I doubt it…” I say. “But we can try. Or tell Marni to order it for you.” Crescent Valley is exclusive in its own right, but it’s not a fashion hub. We typically take weekend trips into the city to shop.
As we trek our way to Bellany’s, I notice the stares. The curious glances. Some of the afterschool crowd is already here, along with the public school rejects. A new kid in town always stirs curiosity—but a new girl who infiltrates our crew? That’s a novelty.
Either Remi handles attention well, or she doesn’t yet fathom the degree to which her life is about to change. She doesn’t pay any attention to the looks, which makes me smile. Good girl.
Once inside Bellany’s, Palmer heads to the window display to search for her dress. Remi glances over the mannequins, unsure. The designer fashion labels heft a costly price tag.
“Come on,” I tell her, nodding toward the back. “I don’t shop off the rack.”
Marni spots me, and I can practically hear the curse she probably utters under her breath. But to her credit, she plasters a bright smile on her under-moisturized face.
“What a pleasure to have you back, Ms. Van Doren,” Marni says with forced cheer. “What can I help you find today?”
“For now, we require your largest dressing room,” I instruct her.
“Of course.” Marni’s smile spreads. She works off commission, she should smile at me. I probably pay her rent. “Right this way, ladies.”
The dressing room is half the size of my closet, but it’s spacious enough, with three full-length mirrors and four velvet chairs. The lighting isn’t harsh, like most department stores; it’s soft and makes even Marni, with her cakey makeup, look good.
I lay my handbag on the chaise and unzip my uniform skirt. “Bring me the new Chanel line in my size, Marni. And for Remi…” I size her up quickly. “Slip dresses in size two.”
Marni scurries off, and Remi takes a seat on a chair. “How did you guess my size?” she asks.
“No guessing. I have years of practice watching my mother size up her clients.” I step out of my skirt and select one of the outfits from the back of the door. A cute little triangle top and gray leggings.
Marni is back with five slip dresses and three selections for me. She hangs them on the display bar, then exits. “Just let me know what else you’ll need.”
Palmer enters with her dress. “I found it. Last one in my size. Bitch had it stashed in the back. Even had her name on it for some employee layaway program.” She giggles. “Well, she can just order another one for herself, because I need it now.”
Yes, Palmer gets what she wants now, which wasn’t always the case. She was my pet project. Our second member into the Broken Saints after Emry. I twirl my ring—the same ring Palmer wears on her ring finger—and remember just how wrecked she used to be.
Then I glance at Remi as she plunders through the dresses and frowns in thought. As far as I can tell, Remi isn’t wrecked at all. Unless she suffers from an extreme and debilitating case of shyness, I can’t understand—again—why Gage wants to sink his fangs into her.
That’s the one thing every member of our secret society has in common: damaged beyond repair. Broken. Until we’re made new again by our own design.
“Try on the black chiffon first,” I tell Remi.
“Okay.” She looks through the dresses, confused, and I smile and remove it from the hanger for her.
“This one,” I say.
She nods, then glances around briefly, trying to figure out where the changing room is.
I almost laugh. “You’re in the changing room. Here.” I push off the chaise and walk toward her. “Turn around.” She does so, facing the mirror, and I stand behind her and unzip her skirt. “How tall are you? Five-five?”
“Yeah.” She pushes her long dark hair off her shoulder to cover her back.
She’s a few inches shorter than me, and she has a dancer’s build, although not as slender and sinewy as Palmer.
She removes the rest of her uniform, leaving her pink bra and panties in place. My chest aches at the sight. From this angle, she resembles Lesley so much.
“Off,” I order her. “You can’t wear a slip dress with a bra. That defeats the whole purpose.”
Reluctantly, she unclasps her bra and removes it. As I step back, I take her in, and notice the scattering of white scars crossing the side of her back, hips, and thighs. She goes to cover her body with the dress, and I hold up a hand. “Don’t.”
I can see the fear in her eyes reflecting back at me in the mirror. “I’m sorry…I just…” Remi stammers.
“Sweep your hair aside,” I tell her.
With a nervous tremor, she does so, revealing a tattoo along her back. It’s not gaudy or tasteless; it’s carved into her body with white and light-gray ink and woven perfectly to help conceal the scars across her upper back. Well, well—it seems our little saint has some damage under the surface, after all.
“Don’t be sorry,” I say, taking my seat on the chaise. “Don’t ever be sorry for who you are. You’re beautiful, Remi, and you can’t wear a dress like that if you’re not confident in your own skin. So…” I glance at Palmer. “Show her how it’s done, Palm. Model for us.”
Palmer sheds her uniform on command, no reserve or modesty about her. When I first met Palmer, she was anorexic, could barely hold down a peanut. Now she’s healthy and only wears clothes when forced. She’d walk the Earth nude if society would allow.
Palmer struts back and forth before the row of mirrors like she’s walking a runway. Every inch of her dancer’s body is flawless and waxed. She slips on the dress, feeling the material over her body. “Fits perfectly.”
I look at Remi, eyebrows raised in question: your turn.
Remi lowers her arms, revealing her breasts. Her tits are perky and round, a solid C cup, with pale, medium-sized nipples. Similar to my breasts. Gage is going to enjoy that. Her downstairs isn’t
manicured, but she has a soft pop of dark hair that’s not unkempt. I’ll make an appointment for a wax.
She ambles toward the mirror, eyes avoiding her reflection.
I hop off the chair and move in place behind her. I settle my hands on her hips delicately. “Look up.”
“Sawyer…” She trails off. “I get what you’re trying to do, and I’m not insecure or anything. This is just…” She sighs.
“Awkward?” I provide. “Uncomfortable? Weird?”
She laughs nervously. “Uh, yeah. A little.”
I roam my hands a little higher, feeling her tummy tremble underneath my palms, and her nipples peak. “Women shouldn’t be ashamed of their bodies,” I say. “We should love and adore every inch of ourselves. How do we expect the world to approve of us if we don’t approve first?”
Remi swallows. She looks into the mirror, her gaze flitting between us.
“Roll your shoulders back,” I encourage her. “Spread your feet apart some. Hold your chin higher.”
She follows my instruction, and I can feel her body relaxing against me.
I smooth her dark hair along her back, my fingers tracing the raised scars. “How did this happen?”
“I was in an accident,” is all she says.
“And this?” I touch the cross tattoo delicately.
“After the wreck…instead of countless grafting surgeries to have the scars removed…I got the tattoo to blend them, make them less noticeable.”
“It’s intricate,” I say, studying the cross pattern of the tattoo. There’s more to that story, but I don’t press. Not yet. “It’s a part of you. The scars make you unique. And hell, original is the new fad.” I offer her a sincere smile.
She returns it, her face lighting up.
Then I dip my hand around her waist, grazing her pelvis. “Are you a virgin?”
Her mouth parts. “Yes.”
“I can tell,” I say, as my fingers hover over her hairline. “The way you tuck your hips in.” I press against her, my core starting to throb at the suggestive feel. Her muscles flinch, and a flush reddens her cheeks.
She’s aroused, and embarrassed by that fact—but our bodies do not discriminate against orientation when it comes to stimulation. I slowly trail my hands up her belly, coming to a stop right beneath the swell of her breasts.
