Cruel Elite: A Dark High School Bully Romance (Princes of Ravenlake Academy Book 3)

by Nicole Fox

  So I get up. And I move, even though I still feel like I’m drowning.

  The makeshift parking lot isn’t far ahead. My car will be there. I’ll be safe in my car.

  I’m almost there.

  One step at a time.

  One breath at a time.

  Finally, after stumbling my way through the dark woods, I see a glint of moonlight off a car hood up ahead.

  I’ve made it.

  I pull my keys out of my back pocket and begin hitting the unlock button, looking for the flash of my car’s headlights. They light up, illuminating the trees for a moment.

  And something else.

  A shadow perched on my hood.

  I freeze a few feet from my car, halfway between the dirt lot and the mouth of the woods.

  My voice sounds tiny and afraid when it comes out.

  “Noah?”

  4

  Noah

  Texts from Finn and Viktor blow up my phone before I even make it home.

  They’re mad at me for bailing on their last night in town, but I don’t care.

  How could I when I have so many other things on my mind?

  Really, it’s just one other thing: revenge.

  I don’t see any lights on as I gaze through the eight-foot high windows that make up most of the first-floor of my house, so I assume my mom is asleep.

  But as soon as I push open one of the double front doors, I smell the alcohol.

  A trail of wadded-up tissues lead me through the white-tile entryway and into the sunken living room. I can see where my mom haphazardly kicked off her heels in front of the liquor cabinet.

  The doors to the cabinet are hanging open, and the once-plentiful stash of booze is growing barer by the day.

  My dad was the one to keep the liquor cabinet full, bringing home gifts from clients and expensive bottles he would buy in celebration of an anniversary or a new contract.

  I suspect that’s why my mom is resisting going out and buying her own.

  Even after all this time, she’s waiting for him to come back and do it for her.

  I slam the doors shut. The bottles inside rattle ominously.

  The living room is steeped in shadows, the massive sectional little more than a charcoal smudge in my vision.

  Except, as I scan the room, I see something else.

  A misshapen lump that separates itself from the sofa.

  I pull the cord on the standing lamp next to me. Mom bought it at an antique store when I was a kid. Dad hated it—the green fringe hanging down around the shade especially—but Mom insisted.

  Now, it casts a yellowy, aged glow across the room.

  And across her.

  But despite the sudden burst of light, she doesn’t move. For good measure, I clap my hands twice.

  No reaction.

  My mom is still in her sleek black work pants and white button down, but the pant legs are bunched around her knees and the shirt collar is rumpled and smeared with her lipstick. Black mascara smudges dot her cheeks and a ruined tissue is wedged between her face and the arm she is laying on.

  Usually at this time, she’s still coherent enough to be awake and remember my name.

  She must’ve gotten an early start on the drinking tonight.

  I walk over to make sure there isn’t a liquor bottle tucked somewhere that she’ll push onto the floor and shatter in the night.

  All clear in that department. Instead, there’s something worse.

  A picture frame.

  The edges are gilded and fanciful. I recognize it from the mantle over the fire place. That’s where it used to sit—before I took it down and put it in the basement.

  Apparently, she found it.

  I pluck the frame from her hands. Mom’s arms fall limply into place, completely unresponsive.

  I’m eight or nine in the picture, a mess of curly brown hair like a mop on my head and a lopsided grin on my face.

  Penny is wrong about a lot of things, but she’s right about the fact that I don’t smile much.

  Not anymore.

  I have my mom’s angular chin and my dad’s caramel brown hair. In this shot, we look like the happy stock photo family you see inside of picture frames at the store.

  The sky behind us is a bright blue. We are standing on the turned-over earth of what would become our house. Construction was just starting, and Mom and Dad took me to the lot to have a picnic.

  “Our first family meal at our forever home,” Mom said that day. All these years later, I still remember those words.

  God, what I wouldn’t give to jump into that picture.

  To warn those smiling fools what’s coming for them.

  There haven’t been very many family meals lately. These days, Mom is usually too drunk or too depressed to cook, so she swallows a few pills with her drink of choice while I order delivery.

  I eat alone in my room more often than not. If we didn’t have a cleaning lady, the dining table would be buried in a foot of dust by now.

  Mom moves on the couch, pulling me out of my thoughts. For a second, I think she might be waking up.

  Then she hiccups and lets out a small, pitiful whimper before settling back to sleep.

  I sigh and look back down at the picture.

  I should have destroyed it the way I did the others.

  I got tired of Mom moping around the house and bursting into tears whenever she saw a picture of Dad, so I got rid of them all. I shredded and burned his memory from the house, doing what I thought was best for her.

  But when I came to this picture, I couldn’t find it in me to rip up the happy, eight-year-old version of me.

  Right now, though, it’s easy.

  I shatter the glass on the brick interior of the fireplace, letting it scatter across the hearth, and pull the picture free of the frame. I don’t even give it a second look before I rip it up.

  There’s no need to.

  It’s the ghost of a life that no longer exists.

  Mom may fall asleep clutching old memories, but I can’t. They slip between my fingers like wisps of smoke, intangible.

  I slide my mom off the couch, tucking one arm under her knees and the other under her back, and carry her upstairs to her room.

  She murmurs something under her breath as I settle her into her bed, but I don’t bother trying to decode it. It’s just a sleepy, drunken mumble. Meaningless.

  Just like the life we used to have, it’s better off forgotten.

  It’s not lost on me that everything changed when I hunted down Penny in the woods tonight.

  Two years of frigid silence—gone.

  Two years of pretending the past didn’t happen—gone.

  So it’s time to do to Penny what I did to the photograph: rip her to shreds and feed her to the fire.

  5

  Penny

  “Noah, is that you?”

  His name is out of my mouth before I can stop myself.

  I can’t tell if my voice sounds scared or relieved.

  There’s a dark chuckle up ahead, then a deep, unfamiliar voice. “Not quite.”

  A flashlight shines in my face, blinding me. Then, like a scary movie, the person shines the beam directly underneath his chin, illuminating his face.

  It takes a few seconds for my vision to clear, but when it does, I notice the tattoos on the stranger’s neck, his shaved head, and then, the leather jacket.

  The patch affixed to the shoulder is in shadow, but I know the symbol well enough to recognize it. The vibrant red devil with purple hair and a lopsided golden crown.

  I was running through the woods to escape my demons.

  But in doing so, I ran straight into the arms of a Hell Prince.

  I’ve met my fair share of Hell Princes, usually at parties where everyone is too drunk or stoned to care about the mingling of sworn enemies.

  But I’ve never seen this man.

  Because he is a man, not a boy. He looks nothing like the thin, puff-chested boys who swagger around
town in their oversized leathers.

  No, this man fills out his jacket nearly to bursting.

  His arms are wider than my thighs, and the bottom half of his face is covered in a thick beard, in stark contrast with his bald, veiny head.

  I take a step back.

  “No need to be scared,” he croons, his voice deep and smoky. He smiles at me. “I just want to talk.”

  “About what?”

  I don’t have any business with the Hell Princes. The kids at Ravenlake who do talk with them regularly are usually only doing so to score cheap weed. But I don’t smoke at all. Pot makes me hungry, and Momma always knows when I’ve been eating more than she portions out for me.

  “I’m Tank.” He points to a patch of an army tank stitched over his heart. “Bumper’s older brother.”

  A couple months ago, I’d laugh and ask why this dude’s family has such an affinity for vehicular nicknames.

  Bumper. Tank. What’s your dad’s name—Sedan?

  But thanks to the events of last semester, I’ve heard of Bumper.

  He was Haley’s ex-boyfriend, the Hell Prince she dated before her family moved across town.

  Bumper is also the Hell Prince that Caleb and the other Golden Boys beat the shit out of.

  “Your little friends ganged up on him. Beat him up pretty good,” Tank says, as if he can read my thoughts.

  That’s not how I remember the story going, but I don’t want to get into an argument with a man named Tank when I’m alone and much too far from the party to be heard.

  “My friends?” I shake my head. “You’ve got it all wrong. They aren’t my friends.”

  Tank narrows his eyes and slides off the hood of my car, ambling towards me slowly. “That’s not the information I have, angel. According to my source, you are a friend of Noah Boone.”

  “What kind of idiot are you getting your information from? I’m not Noah’s friend.”

  Tank’s smile sharpens. Moonlight glints off his front tooth. “The source is me. I saw you talking to him in the trees earlier.”

  “Oh.”

  “‘Oh,’” he mimics in a high-pitched voice before his eyebrows drop. “I saw the two of you looking much closer than friends, actually.”

  The mention of it brings back the heat and the burning itch beneath my skin that being close to Noah caused.

  He had me pinned to a tree with his hips and his hands.

  In another lifetime, it would have been hot as hell.

  As it is, though, there has been a very big misunderstanding.

  “He was threatening me,” I correct him. “That wasn’t sexual.”

  Tank shrugs and grins wickedly. “I guess I don’t really know the difference.”

  The comment makes my stomach flip.

  I’ve got to get out of here.

  I slide my keys between my fingers, ready to gouge an eye should the need arise, and start to walk past him towards my car, giving him a wide berth.

  “Well, if you want Noah’s friends, there’s a whole group of them at the party. I’m not one of them.”

  For a second, I think he’s going to let me go.

  But just as I move to pass him, Tank sidles in front of me and blocks my way.

  He is massive. So much bigger than I realized before.

  His chest takes up my entire vision, and I stumble backwards with a yelp. He grabs my arms to keep me from falling… and to hold me close.

  “What do you want?” I ask again. My fear and desperation is hard to hide.

  Tank grabs a strand of my hair and tugs on it gently, almost in a soothing way, though my body is on high alert.

  “Calm down, angel. You’re not in danger with me.”

  He lets me go and I back away again, putting a few feet between us.

  “Not yet, anyway,” he adds. He shrugs and smiles casually, clearly comfortable with threatening people.

  “Noah hates me. I don’t know what you want with him or what you think I can do for you, but he doesn’t care about me. You have a better chance of talking to him yourself than I do.”

  Tank crosses his arms, making himself wide. “I’m not as dumb as you think I am, angel.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “Stop looking like one.” Tank winks crudely. A shiver moves down my spine. “I know you and Noah have been friends for a long time. In fact, I know a lot about you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I arch a brow.

  “I know you live in a big white house with lions out front.”

  My entire body freezes. I can’t move or breathe. I just stare at him, eyes wide.

  Based on the smile on Tank’s face, he loves it.

  “I know which car you drive,” he says, turning around to slap the hood of my BMW. “I know when your parents leave for work and what your sister looks like.”

  Delanie’s cherub-like face pops into my head. I clench my fists.

  “Leave my sister out of it.”

  “Don’t worry, angel. Delanie’s fine so long as you make yourself available to me.”

  Hearing her name in his mouth makes me feel sick. “What does that mean?”

  Tank approaches me. Blots out the moonlight.

  He’s huge. Scarred. Intimidating.

  And I’m too stunned to move or fight.

  So I just stand there, praying he’ll disappear. Praying this is all some panic- and alcohol-induced hallucination.

  Tank strokes a finger down my cheek. I try to turn away, but he grabs my chin and tilts my face up. His breath smells like alcohol and smoke.

  “You’ll know soon enough. Expect me to be in touch soon.”

  Just as quickly as he appeared, Tank leaves, and I’m left to stumble to my car, still unsure if what I just experienced actually happened or not.

  6

  Penny

  When I pull into my spot in the circular driveway, I switch the engine off and sprint to the front door.

  Twice tonight, I’ve been surprised by someone with bad intentions.

  I don’t intend to have it happen a third time.

  I hurl myself through the door, slam the bolt into place behind me, and take a few deep breaths with my back pressed against it.

  It takes me a few long minutes to calm down.

  When I do, I notice something.

  The house smells different.

  Momma scoffed when I said that a few months ago, but it does. Growing up, I’d walk through the front door of my house and smell citrus, clean linens, and sugar.

  Now, there’s a hint of spice to it. Something sharper, unfamiliar.

  I open the coat closet to shrug out of my distressed jean jacket and leather mules and see the moving boxes still stacked there.

  How long have they been sitting there unpacked, and I’m still not used to them? They still surprise me every time.

  Probably because, in the same way my mom has convinced herself I’ll one day be the perfect daughter she has always wanted, I refuse to accept reality. Refuse to accept that things are permanently changed.

  That there’s no going back to the old days.

  All the lights are off, but the hallway night lights set into the wall illuminate my path up the stairs and down the hall to my room.

  I have my hand on my door knob, ready to slide inside and call it a night.

  But instead, I turn back down the hall.

  Delanie’s door is cracked open the way it always is. That way, everyone can hear in case she needs anything in the night.

  I can’t stop myself from peeking inside.

  She’s a light sleeper. Always has been. Momma has warned me time and time again not to go into her room, but hearing a man like Tank talk about my baby sister has left me more rattled than I’ve ever been.

  Even more rattled than my conversation with Noah left me.

  I should hate Delanie. In fact, when my mom told me she was pregnant with a baby sister, I did hate her a little bit.

  I hated her mostly because my mom didn’t.
>
  For as long as I could remember, I’d done nothing but bring my mother disappointment.

  But she beamed when she told me she was pregnant with another little girl.

  I hated Delanie for that.

  Plus, I hated her for what she did to my life. For the chaos and destruction and upheaval her arrival brought.

  I hated her so, so much…

  Until I saw her.

  And in that moment, every bit of anger and hatred I felt towards her changed immediately into love and devotion.

  Her room is glowing pink from the unicorn nightlight perched on her dresser. I can see her laying on her back behind the bars of her crib.

  Her pajamas are white, as are the ruffled blankets mussed around her chubby legs, and her caramel brown curls fan out around her face like a halo.

  I’d rather deal with the full brunt of the Golden Boys coming after me than have a single hair on Delanie’s head be moved out of place.

  She was born from one of the worst things that ever happened to me.

  But she is the best thing I’ve ever known. She’s pure. Perfect. Innocent.

  I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her that way.

  7

  Noah

  Penny glows beneath me.

  “What are you waiting for?” Penny purrs, dragging a nail down my bare chest. Her eyes are electric green now, hypnotizing. “Take me.”

  My cock is throbbing between my legs, so hard it’s painful. But I don’t want to end it yet. Not like this.

  Because this shit between me and her? It isn’t love.

  It’s war.

  I grab her wrists and pin them above her head. Her eyes widen in fear.

  She strains against the hold, but her squirming body brushes my cock.

  I hiss, “Don’t you ever try to tell me what to do.”

  “Please.” Her glossy lips pucker around the word, tormenting me the way they always do. “Get inside of me.”

  My self-control is slipping, but I hold on as tightly as I can. “I’m going to have to punish that smart mouth of yours.”

  Penny stills. She lowers her pointed chin, her teeth tugging at her lower lip as she tries to hide her smile.