The Pawn: A Reverse Harem Bully Revenge Romance (Coleridge Academy Elites Book 1)

by Lucy Auburn

  But without any kind of confirmation from the girl herself—who said in her email that the video is all she has, and the actual night is a blur—the only thing I have is that tattoo. If the administration here won't do anything about what happened to her, and she's too afraid of the consequences to try, I'll have to be the one in the firing line.

  I just have to make sure my post only mentions the truth, and most importantly, that I keep Mariana's name and face out of it, along with my brother's involvement. That kind of video editing isn't the sort of thing I'm well-versed in, so I wind up staying up late into the night, watching video tutorials and trying to figure out how to do this right.

  It's only as I'm drifting off that I realize I've completely forgotten to do any of my homework. Ruefully, I reflect that Holly won't need to turn me into the administration to get me expelled. All she'll have to do is wait for me to fail out on my own.

  Chapter 43

  Six Days Later

  It's so late at night that even the most dedicated students have emptied out of the library, leaving just me alone in its stacks, staring at a button that says "schedule for publishing."

  There's been no sign of Cole since the blog post went live and cross-posted to social media. The scandal with the governor has been all over the news, though. People are speculating that he didn't want anyone to know the kind of friends his only son had. Some conspiracy theorists even claim that Michael Yates Jr. must have been the one who drove the car and killed the girl and the driver, not Cole; otherwise, the governor wouldn't have gone to such lengths to cover it up. The pressure is on for him to resign, pending an investigation into how involved he was with the scandal—and how much of it was just his son and his communications director, who has already been arrested.

  Because of how high profile this exposé was, Legacies is getting more attention than ever. That means eyes on all the other scandals, including Blake's tirade and Tanner putting that boy in the hospital. It also means that when I post information about the ankle tattoo Lukas DuPont shares with Mariana's alleged rapist, there will be thousands of eyes on it within hours.

  Meanwhile, though, the boy I see in English class every day still has the same clear blue eyes. He still treats me courteously and doesn't seem to understand why I've been putting off our next meeting about our project. I think he believes it has something to do with the kiss we shared. Maybe Blake even told him about what happened during the haunted house, though I doubt it.

  I keep looking for the monster in his eyes that drugged and raped a girl, but I just can't seem to find it. That must be my own delusions. The tattoo doesn't lie.

  With a grimace, I set the post to publish in the middle of the night, because maybe it'll be easier to let it go live if I'm not awake when it happens. Then, gut churning, I close my laptop and slip it into my bag, ready to return to my shoebox of a room and crash for the night.

  As I'm walking past the stacks and towards the stairs to the lower level, though, I hear a sound that sends adrenaline rushing through me all at once: a cry of anguished pain. Then a girl's voice, sobbing, saying, "Stop! No, please."

  Instantly, I'm turning on my toes and running in the direction of the cries. They came from the back of the library, near one of the study nooks. I didn't even know anyone was here with me, but whoever they are, I can't leave them high and dry.

  Coming around the corner, I see a tall boy with blonde hair pushing a girl up against the wall. He's holding her wrists tight in one hand, her arms yanked above her head, and his hand is shoved up under her shirt. There's a struggle between them as he pushes his hand further and further up.

  "Hey!" My voice is trembling; I feel like I'm going to puke. "Get off of her."

  The boy looks over at me, menace in his face, moving aside just enough for me to see that the girl he's pushed up against the wall is Georgia Johnson herself. And her attacker is Ferdinand Von Hassell, her new boyfriend. Nausea churns in my gut.

  "Mine your own business," he mutters, not letting her go even though she squirms against his grip. "She's my girl."

  "I heard her so 'no' and 'stop' pretty damn loudly, so I don't care if she's your girl or not."

  "Oh yeah? What're you gonna do, lecture me to death?"

  In response, I pull the only thing I have that I could possibly use to fight him out of my laptop bag. It's a four inch knife Sasha gave me.

  According to her, she'd reached the limit in how many she could store in her locker in the Coleridge Center, and weapons aren't allowed in Rosalind Hall. As she said to me, "I don't think they'll inspect your broom closet for contraband, but if they do, you can just say you got it to stab the rats you share your room with."

  Right now, I'm very grateful she gave it to me as I pull it from its little sheath and wave it around in a vague attempt at intimidation that I hope Hass doesn't scrutinize too closely.

  "Stop assaulting her," I tell him. "Get that hand out of her damn bra, you cretin."

  He scoffs at me, so I advance on him, and with a roll of his eyes he gets the picture. "Whatever." Shoving off from the wall and frowning at Georgia, he says, "You're too much drama. Other girls don't pull this shit."

  Then he bends down to pick a backpack up off the floor, which he must've discarded so he could assault his girlfriend. As he does so, his pants leg inches up, revealing his non-regulation lack of socks to go with his shoes.

  And a distinctly familiar dragon tattoo on his ankle. One that, unlike the tattoo on Lukas's ankle, isn't faded at all—because he hasn't even tried to laser it off. Stunned, I stare at the thing, feeling unsteady on my feet.

  Hass jogs out of the library before I get the chance to question him about it, which is just as well—I have no clue what I would've done with this knife if push came to shove. It's a relief to put it back in its sheath and shove it into my bag.

  "Are you okay?" I watch Georgia rub her wrists, a distinctly unhappy expression on her face. "That was scary."

  "It was scary how you pulled a knife on my boyfriend and basically made him break up with me." To my shock, she advances on me, shoving me so hard that I stumble back two whole steps. "You should've minded your own business, Brenna."

  "He was assaulting you!"

  She sniffs disdainfully, pushing her red hair back over her shoulder, which draws my eyes to the visible edge of a bruise on her neck. "Not that you would understand, since you're obviously inexperienced in this particular arena, but that's just what it's like when a guy is really into you. He can't always keep his hands off you."

  "You're nuts. You told him to stop."

  "And I would've clarified that I wanted him not to stretch out my bra if you'd just let me finish." Her explanation is bizarre and nonsensical; she looked frightened when he was holding her, and didn't even speak up. "Now I'm going to have to make this all up to him because you got in the middle of someone else's sex life."

  I feel stunned. After everything, I really didn't think Georgia would act like this. "You're welcome for the help," I mutter sarcastically. Because I can't stop myself, I add, "Next time your boyfriend hits you, maybe make sure it's not somewhere so obvious. I can see the bruise he left on you from here."

  Panic flits across her face, followed closely by rage. "You're just jealous because you can't catch and keep a man."

  "Oh, bite me, Georgia."

  She snarls in anger, advancing on me, and for a moment I think she really will bite me. Instead, she shoves me again, hard, so hard I fall back onto one of the bookshelves and hit my head.

  At first it doesn't feel so bad, and I surge to my feet, determined to shove her right back.

  Then a dark, dizzying feeling closes over me, and suddenly I'm falling down onto the ground. Blackness closes over my vision.

  The last thing I hear before I'm dragged down into unconsciousness is Georgia's smug voice. "I'm going to get rid of you, once and for all."

  Chapter 44

  I wake up in darkness, being dragged across the ground on my b
ack. There's a foul-tasting fabric gag in my mouth.

  It takes me a while to figure out that the darkness is because someone has thrown a bag over my head. Though I try to squirm, my arms are tied up over my hand, tight grips on my wrists pulling me. There's a jolt as I'm yanked unceremoniously across some kind of bumpy rock or protrusion, and I make a noise around the gag.

  "She's awake." A girl's voice: Georgia, I think, but the sound is muffled. "Just a few more feet."

  The air is cool across my bare legs between my skirt and my knee-high socks. I can feel mud and grass beneath me, and when my captors stop and drop my arms, I roll onto my side and straight into a shallow body of water.

  Feet around me. Fear surges within me; I have no idea why this is happening or what will happen next. Curling inward, I try to protect my soft middle, certain I'm about to be beaten, kicked, maybe even hospitalized or killed.

  There's a thud. Something cold and wet drops on top of me. I shudder, disgusted, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Hands reach down and grab the bag on my head, jerking it off. I open my eyes in the darkness and look up into four faces, all covered in masks, all girls. One of them holds a giant piece of raw meat out in front of her and drops it on me. A smirk plays on what's visible of her mouth.

  "Good luck," she says, in a voice pitched low so I can't identify her.

  Then the girls leave without even touching me. I listen as their feet disappear, followed by the sound of a gate closing.

  At first it doesn't make any sense.

  But as I sit up, wrists tied behind me, my eyes adjust to the darkness and I realize with a jolt of horror what's going on.

  I've been dumped inside the wolf enclosure, gagged and tied, covered in raw meat and left all alone.

  A lamb for the slaughter.

  But it's not my only worry. I can't stop thinking about the tattoo I saw on Ferdinand Von Hassell's ankle. It was just exactly like Lukas's tattoo—except, I now realize, it was on the other foot. The left instead of the right.

  I watched the video Mariana sent me over and over again, but I didn't realize until just now that I'd paid so much attention to the tattoo that I forgot to double check that it was the right ankle.

  Ferdinand Von Hassell is tall, lean, and blond, just like Lukas DuPont. Unlike Lukas, he's got a history of violence—I've seen it for myself—and seems like just exactly the kind of boy to drop a drug in a girl's drink and rape her.

  My head whirls at the sound of a wolf howling in the distance. I shiver. Tamed or not, all wolves have teeth, and I have no idea when they were last fed.

  I have to get out of here, and not just because of the danger. Right now a post is set to publish to Legacies that aims the finger at the wrong boy. If I don't get to my computer in time to stop it, Lukas DuPont will be falsely accused—just like my brother.

  Twisting around, I try to free my wrists from their bonds, but it's impossible with the knot behind my back. So, with a great deal of strain and a lot of effort, I pull them underneath me and scoot my arms forward. It takes all of me to stretch far enough to pull my wrists out in front of my body. By the time I do, my eyes are mostly adjusted to the darkness, and I can see that they tied a simple double knot on the length of cord keeping me bound.

  Meanwhile, the howls are getting closer. My heart slams in my chest; despite myself, despite everything. I'm scared shitless. With my arms in front, I manage to scoop up the raw meat and throw it a distance away from me. Then I push up onto my feet and start walking—only to stumble, head pounding, balance off-kilter.

  Forms move, barely visible to my night-adjusted eyes.

  The wolves are here.

  Their eyes reflect moonlight, glowing in the darkness. Every step they take is that of a predator. Dark as it is, human and vulnerable as I am, I can't tell what expression is on their faces: curiosity, hunger, or the intent to kill.

  Reaching my bound hands up, I yank the gag out of my mouth, dropping what turns out to be a rag wrapped around dirty socks. Disgusting.

  In a low, soothing voice I mutter, "Nice puppies." I back up, eyes flicking to the meat on the ground, then back to the wolves. "Please don't eviscerate me."

  I'm not sure they understand, but they don't make any further moves towards me. Gathering my wits, I walk slowly—and carefully—in the direction of the gate, going as slow as possible, careful not to make a peep. The gate, at least, has a few low lights set into it, as well as a sign that screams KEEP OUT. Hands shaking, eyes on the wolves behind me, I scrape my fingernails at the knot binding my wrists until I feel it loosen. As soon as I can flip a finger inside, I undo the whole thing and grab onto the latch of the gate.

  It doesn't move.

  My heart plummets when I spot the reason why: a lock on the other side of the gate, newly added, one meant to keep people in here—not wolves.

  Those vicious girls were thorough. There's no way Georgia planned this on her own; she doesn't have the wit or skills. Searching through the list of other possibilities, I admit to myself that anyone could've helped her. Other than Piper, she has plenty of friends, many who I don't even know by name. Veronica and Heather certainly hate me plenty enough, just from that one encounter in the bathroom.

  I've been so busy focusing my sights on the boys of Coleridge that I forgot to watch my back for the vicious, clever girls. There's nothing more dangerous in this world than a girl with a grudge.

  Except maybe a fully grown wolf with an empty stomach.

  I hear footsteps behind me. Feel the air around me stir with a new presence. And though it's cold here in Connecticut, early winter starting, a bead of sweat rolls down my spine and nestles in my lower back.

  Heart in my throat, I very carefully turn just my head back to look behind me, eyes fixed on a shape in the dark. Wally was right, I reflect—they're bigger than you expect.

  This close, I can see that the wolf has dark grey fur. The visitor's center names them all, but the only thing I can remember is that the one with dark fur is the mother of the two white wolves and sister of the black one. A bleak thought occurs to me: a mother wolf probably fiercely protects her cubs, just like a mother bear, even after said cubs are fully grown.

  "Hello," I tell her, as a cool nose presses itself against my thigh, sniffing the skin just beneath the edge of my skirt. "I know I smell like meat, but I don't have any on me. I left it back there."

  She looks up at me, eyes wide and curious. I keep my hands behind me, fingers curled around the chain link fence, which is at least ten feet high and topped with barbed wire.

  They just had to put four fully grown predators on the same campus as rich teenage girls and boys.

  I should be worried about passing my finals and going home to my mother's one bedroom apartment for the holidays, not escaping a predator's clutches.

  But the wolf just sniffs me intently, decides I'm boring, turns around and walks away. She finds what her sibling and two sons have found already: the meat I left behind, which appears to be to their liking. Grabbing onto one of the large hunks of what I suspect is roast beef stolen from the dining hall kitchen, she merrily plays a game of tug of war with her offspring until the meat has been sufficiently torn into chunks.

  As the adrenaline in me subsides, and I realize I'm not about to be similarly torn to shreds, I slide down the fence and pull my knees towards me, shivering in the dark.

  Time passes without distinction, and I drift off more than once despite the cold and discomfort. I only know it's morning by the slide of the sun on the horizon, announcing dawn. Minutes pass, and I hear footsteps heading towards the gate, followed by an exclamation.

  The groundskeeper has found me, and he'll want answers, as will the rest of the administration.

  All I have is the note I found inside the gag, which I searched through when watching the wolves nap got boring.

  It reads simply, "You don't belong here. It would be better for everyone if you left Coleridge forever."

  I'm
not sure that I entirely disagree.

  Chapter 45

  By the time I make it back to my room, followed by intense questioning from the administration and campus security, I'm wrung out and feel hopeless inside.

  The post, of course, published while I was in the wolves' enclosure.

  While I can go back and edit it, or delete it entirely, I can't erase it from the internet. I can't take back what I've done, or change anything. It's out there—no matter what.

  I've committed exactly the sin I came here to correct.

  I accused the wrong boy of committing a terrible, unthinkable crime.

  After a small moment of reflection, I pull the post down, replacing it with a simple note of apology and clarification that not all the information published was correct, and a request not to spread it any further.

  But I know it's useless.

  These things, once begun, spiral out of control.

  My only hope is that this time, because Lukas DuPont is what my brother wasn't—a rich, privileged, innocent boy—the world won't crucify him the same way it crucified Silas.

  In the meantime, I have to figure out what to do about the haughtily named Ferdinand Von Hassell, including what I saw him do to Georgia yesterday.

  It's all too much for me to know how to handle. After a moment of reflection, I send an email to the last Legacies admin, who I hope will be able to respond. Then I close the laptop, crawl into bed, and fall asleep dreaming of the distant howls of wolves.

  By the next day, everyone is talking about the blog again—and how fucked up it is that a wrong post came out. The administration informs me that security camera footage of the attack on me was sent to the local police, but no identifying angles were found. I tell them that I heard Georgia's voice, but no one seems to care. I see her in the halls with Hass later, and my skin crawls. Lukas isn't in our shared English class.

  A day after that, when the full retraction of the story goes live—complete with help from the blog's last admin—it doesn't reach as many people as the first, false story did. I made sure not to mention Ferdinand Von Hassell, rich and privileged, in the blog. I only made allusions to the fact that more than one person matching the perpetrator's description has the same ankle tattoo.