Dirty Little Secret: A Dark High School Bully Romance (Reighton Preparatory Academy Book 3)

by Belladona Cunning

  He only did it because he was tasked with the job of watching over me. There’s no lost love and no heartbreak on his end. He’s not the one that endured nights of lying to themselves that everything was going to be okay; that our love would transcend time and space.

  That stupid false hope that he loved me enough to wait for me until I became eighteen and could run away from wherever Xavier stashed me.

  It’d all been a lie; a beautiful lie that kept me warm and content at night.

  Trevor was my safe place. If anything was ever wrong in my life, all I had to do is think about him and it would all become better. Everything would be put into perspective.

  Swallowing hard, tears dance across my vision when I look at the man standing in front of me. I remember the small boy that used to chase me around the playground, with his gap teeth and curly blond hair hanging in his eyes. No matter how many times he pushed it back, the stands always fell back into his vision.

  “Y-You taught me a lot of things,” I finally muster enough strength to reply.

  But in the next breath, I falter, causing a tear breaking away to trek down my cheek. A hiccupping sob gets stuck in my throat at the way his Adam’s apple bobs with emotion, his eyes shining just as glassy as my own. But, unlike me, those are the only outward signs he allows to break through.

  “Yes.”

  The butler roars from his place on the floor, but neither one of us break eye contact. Not until my voice flits across the air, “You taught me about love.”

  He has the nerve to shift his feet on that one, as if I’m making him nervous. To hell with that. “Ari …”

  That choking sob rips free from my throat the moment I hear that fall from his sweet, traitorous lips. Shaking my head, my grip for the knob resumes. Thrusting open the door, it’s like the floodgates open.

  A torturous scream belts out from between my lips, thinking of all the memories he and I had with each other. Flash and flash of memories flow like an interconnected piece of film, never slowing or stopping.

  He and I sharing our first kiss.

  He and I sneaking away to neck in the abandoned park behind my apartment building.

  Him chasing me and my friend across the school yard, cheesing like he was the luckiest son of a bitch in the world.

  My hands sink into my hair, ripping out strands of hair—as if I can claw into my mind past the skin and bone to remove them manually. I heave for air, gasping and choking at the same time.

  Falling back through the door, my legs become weak and I stumble. That action causes him to move from his spot, presumably to come after me.

  Tearful eyes meet his, seeing them so full of remorse and regret—for the first time—that it causes a tsunami of emotion to force its way from my battered soul.

  My vision starts dotting along the edges, a blackness closing in on me that I’m very familiar with. But before I allow myself to go down this road, if I even had a choice in the matter, I need to get this out. I don’t care what happens to me, nor how these sick sons of a bitches choose to punish me for my indiscretions.

  I need to voice this into existence.

  “You were the only one there for me.”

  I whimper as my knees give out and I plummet to the floor. Trevor scoops me up into his arms, stiffening against me. He’s not even able to look me in the eye while my heart breaks for something that never was. Instead, he stares straight ahead with a shocked expression alighting his features. The kind of expression I’ve never seen before.

  “Ari, please—” I can’t stand hearing the guilt in his tone. If he felt even an ounce of guilt, he wouldn’t have pretended that it was real between us. He would have kept his distance from me, so we didn’t head down the road we did.

  He wouldn’t have lied, then tried to break me.

  I cry out, feeling the first stirrings of succumbing to the lack of oxygen. “It was never us against the world. It was all a lie,” I release, gasping harshly. “The way you consoled me when my mother died. Even the way you held me as I was miscarrying that bastard’s child. Everything!”

  My vision blurs in and out, and I can’t decide if it’s from tears or from my body giving up in this moment. I feel like I’m being shaken, jostled sharply from left to right. Hell, I even feel as if someone’s ripping me out of Trevor’s grasp, their short, blunt nails digging into my skin. But I know that can’t be right. I’m just imagining things. No one is here, except Trevor and what little staff there are circulating through the halls.

  I haven’t seen hide nor hair of anyone, so that must be the only assumption that can be correct. Right?

  Before I can properly compute what’s happening, my body gives up its fight. Black flashes across my vision like I’m in a car speeding down the highway, and before I can stop it, I find myself slipping into a blessed darkness that surrounds me. One that has long since become something akin to an old friend.

  CHAPTER 16

  The moment I come to, I’m surrounded by familiar faces. For a moment, I lose myself and shoot a pleasant smile toward them. But then, it all comes closing in on me again. The yelling match between Trevor and myself. The training I’ve been forced to succumb to since the guys have been gone.

  Blurting out about my miscarriage.

  Horror clouds my eyes for a moment. I vaguely hear someone shouting my name, but otherwise can’t bring myself to snap out of it. I’m stuck in a nightmare of my own making, and I have no idea how to get myself out of it.

  The only thing that gets me to snap out of it is a set of familiar lips landing on mine, shocking me.

  Gasping and pushing, I shove their shoulders. I scoot back on the loveseat they put me on, fiercely rubbing and trembling. “Don’t touch me.”

  Brett doesn’t move from his spot on the edge of the chaise, but his face does soften when he peers down at me. It’s not a look to soothe, let me know he doesn’t judge or care. It’s for pity. And I know he doesn’t mean to, but it makes me feel shameful.

  “Stop looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?” he asks in confusion. “Like I didn’t just hear that my father not only raped you, but he got you pregnant. Am I supposed to allow him to get away with it?” His face hardens for a brief moment. “You are ours. He had no permission to touch you, let alone get you fucking pregnant. I’m going to kill the fucking man where he stands.”

  “Not if I beat you to it first.” My eyes flick up to the manic man pacing from one side of the room to the other, looking as lost as ever.

  “Dorran,” I sigh. “There’s nothing you all can do. If so, it would have already been done.”

  “He fucking raped you!” Chaz thunders, probably having had enough of this conversation. “He took you against your goddamn will and shattered you!”

  Now that, I have something to say about. “So, did you three.”

  Complete silence overtakes us. Then various looks of shame, remorse, and devastation take up residence on their faces as they piece it all together. Maybe they didn’t know, but then again, that’s just creating an excuse for someone.

  No matter what someone is doing, they always know the result of their actions. Just because they were doing it in the name of their family, doesn’t make it any less wrong.

  They still took me, caged me, and had me against my will.

  But they never took me sexually that way, which I hurry to add before anyone can speak. “None of you made me have sex, so that’s a bonus.”

  I try to go for light-heartedness, but I think it falls a little flat when they all shoot bored expressions toward me. Dorran even goes as far as to cross his arms over his chest, appearing unimpressed.

  “Well, it is,” I finish on a grumble, then bring myself to focus on the holy parts of my jeans, picking the frayed edges surrounding them.

  That’s kind of what everyone is doing to me. They pick my most vulnerable spot, then exploit it until they can’t do it anymore. Easy prey that way, so they can get the things they want.


  Before they can reply, there’s a sharp knock on the door. I know who it is before it even opens. It’s like I can feel the sinister air swirling around him from this side of the door, even with it closed between us.

  Goosebumps break out along the tops of my arms when the knock at the door turns into it opening. I fight the impulse to rub them away, knowing who it is coming inside at this moment. There’s something seriously sinister about that man, besides the obvious. And now all three of the guys know what he did to me when I was fifteen.

  No, this goes far deeper than anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s apparent, by the swift upturn of his lips, that he enjoys being top dog. However, there’s an oddness to his actions that I can see, like he’s slower than he was when I was when he branded me and … did those things to me. He’s asserting himself, but at what cost?

  When the door opens to reveal Joaquin, I damn near fist pump at being right. That bastard—he doesn’t seem like the type to allow things to lie low.

  But that’s not what has my blood boiling within the next few moments. That’s not what has fire running through my veins and sincere hatred burning every inch of my body.

  No, it’s the rich bitch standing beside Joaquin, hanging off him like the disgusting creature she is. She never could take a goddamn hint, even when I kicked her ass at RPA.

  “Terrible to see they allow any riffraff into this place,” Patricia sniffs with scrutiny, looking down her nose at me.

  Joaquin lightly tuts her, tapping the back of her hand that’ settled in the crook of his arm. “There, there, precious—I’m sure after our meeting with my son and his friends that all will go back to the way it once was.”

  Not fucking likely. My skin buzzes with anger, and before I can stop myself, I find I’m off the couch and making my way toward the both of them with purpose. Determination lines every step, and I know, without a doubt, that either Patricia or myself will walk away in a body bag. She’s crossed the ling one too many times, and I’ve had it.

  Brett doesn’t want her.

  Chaz doesn’t want her.

  Dorran doesn’t want her.

  It seems the only person that wants her is the pathetic excuse of a father that Brett has.

  “Brat,” it’s then I hear Brett speak, his voice forcing me to look away from his father and come to a stop. When my eyes land on his, I find his gaze has grown cold, hard—almost to the point where his pupil eats the entire iris, making his eyes appear bottomless and black with ferocity. “One of us will come for you when we are able. Go. Now. We have business to handle.”

  I fucking hate this!

  There comes a time where you know you’ll win or lose. This is one of those times. If I stay here, exerting my opinions on their blatant disrespect, and I’ll end up breathing through a straw. Or worse, buried out back.

  We’re no longer in the guys’ territory. We’re now in the devil’s home, and this devil expects obedience.

  Just what is he playing at?

  But if he thinks, for one moment, I’ll lose the part of me that fights back—he’s dead wrong. Fuck him. Fighting is all I know in life. If I didn’t have that, it’d be akin to losing a limb.

  Before dismissing him, I stare daggers toward Brett’s father and say nothing. His eyes widen imperceptibly, like he can’t believe I would try such a thing, before they return to normal. I think I even spy them light up a little with malicious glee.

  Brett’s father is a really, really big problem for me. From the first time I met him, I could tell he’s a person that always gets his way and he doesn’t care about who he has to step on to get it. While the guys are used to it because of their upraising—Brett’s father expects it. It’s one of those instances I just know by looking at a person.

  Without another word, I listen to Brett for the first time ever, and turn away from them. A collection of relieved exhales follow me, and I can’t hide the smirk that tugs at the corner of my lips as they do.

  The guys know how I can be when it comes to backing down from a verbal sparring. I’d much rather have my tongue cut out and tortured before allowing anyone to take away my voice.

  I step out of the den and follow after Dorran. He’s two steps in front of me the entire time, and the only thing I can do to take my mind off the fucking mess in the sitting room is wonder where they’ve been.

  “Where did you all go?”

  His shoulders stiffen, but other than that, he doesn’t make any notion that he heard me. Dorran knows how much I loathe no one listening to me. He’s been on the end of my anger a time or two since I began living with Brett at the dorms.

  “That’s none of your business, Brat.”

  He may think it’s none of my business, but it is. If I have to be in this house, against my wishes, watching shit like Joaquin bring that bitch Patricia in here, then they’re going to explain everywhere they go. I’m a living, breathing person, and I expect—no, I demand—the same courtesy they show to the people they respect.

  Our shoes clunk against the marble flooring as we make our way toward a set of stairs. My gaze sweeps the interior of the foyer, becoming disgusted with the show of wealth lining the walls. Each painting hanging on the wall could feed a family of six for an entire year, that I have no doubt. There are so many of them, too. Each one beautiful in their own right, but seemingly useless in the greater design of things.

  There’s no warmth to his home, instead it looks like nothing more than a museum of expensive trinkets. At least with the things my mother brought home from her trips, they were things that could be used. Boots, clothes, bracelets, necklaces, earrings, socks—pretty much anything a person could need is what she brought home.

  Here, though, they have so much wealth, and can do so much good, but it’s a tragedy they waste it on such frivolous things. Instead of buying a Maserati, they could donate to the poor. Instead of buying that three-piece, tailored-to-fit suit, they could afford to buy a family a home to live in. I know the old saying is, you don’t stay rich by giving away all your money. But there’s a difference in giving it away for a good cause, instead of spending it on something that you’re going to forget about a few weeks from now.

  The Kingston family have no idea how good they have it. Neither do the Ivy or Mikaels’ families. They can do so much good, become a philanthropist in their own rights, and still have so much wealth they won’t know what to do with. All it takes is that one decision; that one chance to change, yet their stuck in the past. And now they brought me into the middle of it.

  “Dorran, don’t you think we’re past all that?” I ask, sidling up to him as we reach the bottom of the stairs. “If I am here under your all’s ownership, then doesn’t that justify that I need to know what’s going on.”

  Huffing, he cuts me a look, but says nothing as he starts ascending the stairs. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. His silence is worth a million.

  “You’re going to have to talk to me some time,” I retort, following him up the stairs.

  I peer down, cringing when I see the delicate artwork that makes up the railing. I’m almost afraid to put my hand on it, having never had the ball to do it before now. Knowing my luck, it’s probably worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, and I’ll scuff it just by putting my hand on it. There are no marks to speak of, and it gleams in the fluorescent light, looking freshly polished. But it probably won’t when I get through with it.

  Everything looks immaculate, even the runner under my boots. It’s soft, plush—looks like it was just installed yesterday, instead of years before. It’s a lush, deep, deep burgundy that matches the stain of red in the swirling marble below. A deep Cherry stain gleams on the railings, as well as all the trim and crown molding.

  This home is regal, elegant—yet, it hides an infectious disease that is Brett’s father.

  Shaking my head, I catapult myself up the stairs behind Dorran. “Will you at least say something?”

  “Shut up,” he remarks, his face twi
sting up into a cruel smile.

  “Very funny.” I roll my eyes. “Seriously, though—where did you all go?”

  As we come to the top of the stairs, where it forks off in two different directions, Dorran comes to a complete stop. I have to stop just as fast, in order to keep from running into him. Before I can ask what’s going on, he jerks around, coming face to face with me.

  “Haven’t you figured it out by now?” he inquires, arching a brow. “You don’t get to ask questions. You don’t get to be anything other than a shadow with no words. Period.”

  “Seems kind of harsh, doesn’t it?”

  “Would you rather die? Be hurt, or worse, raped again?” His body is stiff, as if anything abrupt movement will shatter him into a thousand pieces. I can feel the menace rolling off him in waves, and when he steps toward me, pushing himself into my body, all thoughts cease. “If that’s what you want, then I’m sorry to disappoint, but that’s not going to happen. You are ours, and the next person that touches you inappropriate, besides any of us, I’ll gift you his severed fingers as a present.”

  If I hadn’t seen it with my two eyes, then I wouldn’t have believed it possible. The moment we traveled through the gate, is the moment they turned into completely different people. No longer the kings of campus, but vicious dogs being backed into a corner. They’re all ready to come out with their teeth and nails bared.

  Looking up into his eyes, I regard him. Even with this fake persona, the fear still leaks off him. So much so, it makes me take a step away from him.

  “Why does it have to be that way at all?” It won’t be with me, because I refuse to cower to any man. Specifically, the one that branded me and deserves nothing but Hell’s flames licking at his feet. I don’t care what that bastard did to me.

  I watch, silently, as Dorran takes in the surroundings. His eyes drift from the floor to ceiling mural window located above the stairs, that spans the length of the entry way. I can’t quite depict what’s going on in that scene, but it sort of looks like a devil and angel in mid battle. It’s beautiful, eccentric—it calls to the artist inside me to stretch my muscles and start creating again.