Ruthless
Black Mountain Academy
Mila Crawford
Aria Cole
Copyright © 2020 by Mila Crawford & Aria Cole
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
For Leslee,
Thank you for always being there.
Contents
Ruthless
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Also by Mila Crawford
About The Authors
Ruthless
(Black Mountain Academy)
Rumors spread like wildfire between the walls of Black Mountain Academy. It’s a world where secrets are draped in trust funds, and lies cloaked in family legacy.
The boys that came out of the academy were notoriously bad news. And boarding school dropout Kyler Sinclair was the worst, a good-for-nothing bully with a broken moral compass. He was beautiful, he was dark, he was ruthless.
Madison Evans prided herself on her immaculate school record. A dedicated bookworm with a love for fiction over reality, she’d always been a do-gooder rather than a good-time girl.
Transferring to Black Mountain from the wrong side of the tracks was torture when you're a born loner. But then bad boy Kyler entered her quiet life.
He’s wrapped in ink and covered in chaos, and she never expected to become the center of his attention... or the target of his scorn.
His vicious insults left fresh wounds—but neither expected the past to catch up with them and change their lives forever.
1
“Angry people are not always wise.”
- Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
Madison
I was seventeen when we moved to Black Mountain, a neighborhood brimming with affluence in such a coveted zip code that the idea of knowing someone without massive wealth was like knowing a Martian.
In this case, me.
I took in my clothes, all purchased on a frugal budget at Target, and then my eyes drifted to the massive stone and brick mansion with the large, rounded wooden door, adorned with a large lion knocker.
This mansion was the size of our entire block back home.
With slow movements, I edged open the door of the car and stood. I stretched my legs, eyes taking in the property and looking for any nearby neighbors. But the main house, two small guesthouses, and acres upon acres of forest dominated my view. The land around us was absolutely breathtaking, a country hamlet in the midst of the city chaos, but the house was the most surprising of all--Gothic spires and cold, hard angles, in complete contrast with the lush green of the trees.
“Debbbbbie! Oh my gosh, you’re finally here! How long has it been? Almost twenty years?” A tall, elegant blonde approached my mother, embracing her warmly.
“Nineteen to be exact. It’s so good to see you, Monica. I’ve missed you,” my mother said, smiling. “This is my daughter, Madison. Maddy, come here and say hello to Mrs. Sinclair.”
I walked around the front of the car, offering my hand to the woman. Her hands were long and elegant; I couldn’t help but wonder if she played the piano.
“Oh, come here,” Monica said after shaking my hand, pulling me to her for a hug. I liked her instinctively; she was warm, and her eyes looked kind.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Sinclair. You have a beautiful home,” I said, both my hands in hers.
“Oh, hon--you’re Debbie’s baby girl, please call me Monica. No need for all that Mrs. Sinclair business.” She smiled at me, and I noticed how her eyes seemed to light up when she did.
She looked genuinely happy to see my mother and me; her kindness made me feel a little better about being there.
“You two must be starving, I have lunch waiting.”
My mother put her arm around me, and as we walked into the house, I looked up to the intricate detail of the widow’s peak, shocked to see a figure in the window peering at us.
A man dressed in what looked like all black clothing.
As soon as my eyes connected with his, he dropped the drapes and disappeared from sight.
Monica ushered us in through the front door, and I was overtaken by the magnitude of the house. It felt like I was just plucked out of an ordinary life and plopped into the house of a celebrity. Luxury dripped from every corner of the opulent home. The floors of the grand entrance were a cream marble, leading all the way to and around a large mahogany staircase in the middle of the space. Solid gold mirrors and trim highlighted the crimson and wood-hued details.
Art covered nearly every wall, and sparkling drops of crystal hung from the grand chandelier.
“Wow, Monica. Your home is breathtaking,” my mother said, her voice laced with awe. I couldn’t help but feel the sting of pain and shame. For as long as I could remember, my mother had worked her fingers to the bone--until she was tired and deflated, with little time or energy left over for chaperoning school dances or volunteering for field trips.
When my father died, life wasn’t easy. Bills piled up, debt suffocated us, and my mother, being the woman she was, refused to let life ruin her. After a few weeks, she was in the workforce, making the most of it for us.
For me.
I never felt slighted or that we wanted for anything, and it was because she wouldn’t allow that to happen. I was her everything, and there wasn’t a day that she didn’t show it.
She even moved us here--to Black Mountain--one of the wealthiest areas in the country, and took a job working for her private-school best friend, so we could afford the tuition for my own private education. She wanted me to have the choice of the best universities, and she knew that would come with a price. My grades qualified me for a small grant to attend the prestigious Black Mountain Academy, but it nowhere near covered the full cost of my schooling. Luckily, I only had one year before I graduated and then I would be off to college, Black Mountain fading in my rear-view mirror.
I knew deep down Mom hadn’t wanted to come back here. She never talked about her time going to college with Monica, it was almost as if her life started after she left here--after she moved to the small town I was born in. She never talked about her past; it was as if life never existed before me.
“This old house is a mausoleum. I absolutely hate it, but it’s been in Edward’s family for generations.” Monica interrupted my train of thought. “If it were up to me, we’d be living somewhere else. This place is completely void of warmth. Every few years I mention listing it, just to see if we’d catch any bites, but he won’t hear of it,” Monica said, her perfectly manicured hand gliding acr
oss an art sculpture on a white marble table. “The kitchen’s this way; the chef has put out a gorgeous spread. I wasn’t sure what you might like to eat, Madison, so it may look like a lot,” she said with a laugh, putting her arm around my mother.
Their heads pressed together like a couple of girls plotting their next adventure. I was surprised how drawn I felt to Monica, but what the house lacked in warmth she made up for tenfold.
I especially loved how relaxed my mother was with her. I’d never seen that young and carefree smile on her face before.
I followed quietly behind the two of them, down the long hall, admiring the various rooms as I went by: a living room, an old-fashioned parlor, and a powder room that was probably larger than our entire old apartment.
When we got to the dining room, a vast spread awaited us. A table covered in sandwiches, delectable fruits, and pastries that looked like they’d fallen out of some Parisian bakery drew me in.
“Please, eat,” Monica said, handing each of us a tiny decorative plate, embossed with the initials of the house. Precious china with gold lacing the edges.
I couldn’t help wondering exactly how rich you had to be to afford gold-embossed plates.
“Thank you so much--this looks amazing,” my mom said, taking a bite of a cucumber and cream cheese sandwich. I picked up a square and nibbled, the taste of decadent cream and puff pastry invading my mouth and creating a delicious symphony.
“This is absolutely divine,” I said in a moan, immediately embarrassed at my sheer pleasure.
“It’s good, isn’t it? We fly those in from this amazing French pastry shop in New York City. They’re vegan.” Monica smiled.
“Wait, this doesn’t have any butter in it?” I asked.
“No butter. They’re Kyler’s favorite. He is anti-any-animal. Just one of his many idiosyncrasies.” She waved her hand in the air.
“How is Kyler doing?” Mom asked, shades of sympathy lacing her warm, dark eyes.
“Kyler is Kyler. He at least does well in his studies,” Monica said, her own eyes shadowed with longing, elegant features now etched with sorrow. “If you see him around the house, just give him a wide berth. I don’t know what to do with that boy. For the last seven years, all he’s been doing is getting into trouble. We’ve tried everything. I think he just likes to torture his father and me. He used to be such a good, sweet boy. I remember when he would curl up beside me in the library and read one of his picture books while I read one of my mystery novels. At least his love of reading hasn’t changed.” Monica took a sip of her coffee. My mother rushed over to her and placed her arms around her shoulders, like she was trying to help unload some of the burden her friend carried.
“Monica, is it okay if Madison visits the library? I think she would really enjoy it up there.” My mother sent me a look. Monica may not have noticed my mother’s motivations, but I knew my mom well enough to know she wanted me out of the room in order to talk to her best friend. Mom didn’t want me to hear that particular conversation. I wondered how close they were back then, and what my mom might say to her now, after so many years apart.
“Oh, yes! Of course, Madison. It’s up the stairs on the left; you can’t miss it. Please feel free to treat it as your own; any book you want--take and read.”
I nodded gratefully, getting up from the table and leaving all those pastries behind me. I paused at the massive staircase and then began climbing it slowly, gliding my hands along the smooth carvings on the wood railing. This house felt more like a museum than a home. I wasn’t sure how anyone could actually live here. At least, that's what I was thinking until I saw the large room stashed wall to wall with books.
The library was a paradise, it smelled of leather and rich, oiled wood. All the walls, covered with bookshelves, thousands of leather bound works, and just whispering the pads of my fingers along the spines made my heart flutter. A desk sat in the corner, and comfortable seating consisting of large chocolate-brown leather chairs, decorated the space. It looked like it belonged in a showroom more than someone’s personal residence. I crossed the formal space, touching each book I passed as if saying hello, until my hand found an old copy of Pride and Prejudice, my all-time favorite. I flipped through the pages and picked a random one. I began to read, and then all of a sudden a deep voice read the words before me.
“There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more I am dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters,” the voice deepened at my ear, “and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.”
I jumped, turning around to face the voice that’d interrupted me. There stood the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. He leaned against one of the bookcases, dressed in black jeans and a t-shirt, his jet-black hair falling in his face, piercing blue eyes mesmerizing. My gaze settled on his full lips, adorned with a silver loop on the right side.
My eyes trailed down his lean yet muscular body, and I couldn’t help but notice his thick arms and neck, covered in tattoos. He didn’t look like he belonged in a house like this, or in a town like this one. He looked like someone who didn’t want anyone to notice them, but I noticed.
I noticed so much that I couldn’t yank my eyes away.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked, his voice deep and demanding. I was stunned.
I stood frozen, not sure what to do.
The way he looked at me was like he was trying to set me on fire. His eyes looked to be filled with hatred and I wasn’t sure why. Those hard eyes traveled down my body and made me feel exposed and vulnerable. His index finger came out and he trailed the top edge of the leather bound book in my hands, his fingers slender just like Monica’s.
I noticed the letters tattooed boldly.
H-A-T-E.
2
“She was more than human to me. She was a Fairy, a Sylph, I don’t know what she was - anything that no one ever saw, and everything that everybody ever wanted. I was swallowed up in an abyss of love in an instant. There was no pausing on the brink; no looking down, or looking back; I was gone, headlong, before I had sense to say a word to her.”
- Charles Dickens, David Copper-field
Kyler
What the fuck is she doing here?
The little mouse stepped back, but she wasn’t going to get away that easily. I liked that she was uncomfortable; it made me want to be the cat.
I caught how she looked at me, it’s how most people saw me. I was a scary looking fucker and I liked it. I didn’t want anyone in my life, it’s why I looked the way I did: one look at me and most people turned away. My appearance made mothers cross the street with their small children, just to avoid breathing the same air as me. I knew the piercings and tattoos made people uneasy, they didn’t know what to make of me.
The only son of Edward Sinclair, looking like a prison inmate.
I smirked at the mouse, arching my eyebrow when she didn’t answer me right away. She took a clumsy step back, losing her balance and falling into a wingback chair, the old copy of Pride and Prejudice falling out of her hand and hitting the floor with a thud. I don’t know why I smirked then, but my lips curled up as I just stood there watching her, leaning back on the bookcase.
She looked up at me, her eyes pretty in a naive way. I didn’t like how the warmth in them made me feel. People with warm eyes always think they can fix shit. They annoy me. They usually have no idea how life works and live in one of those happily-ever-after books. She’d probably go on to have some boring life with a guy who was nice enough, pop out a few kids, and then die—not really doing anything wrong, but not really living. Those eyes made me want to be cruel. I felt a small tinge of guilt but I squashed that shit quickly. Humans are mostly bad; none of them deserves much. The mouse wasn’t any different.
My eyes took in her body; she didn’t look like most girls my age. Most of them were rail thin, so thin t
hat they looked like they barfed more than they put into their mouths. Not this chick though, she had curves. Some would call her fat, but not me. I liked how soft she looked. In another life I might have called her pretty, beautiful even.
This girl didn’t seem to give a fuck about fashion; she looked like she was going to church, wearing her Sunday best. She was probably a naive little thing; she probably spent her whole life never experiencing anything more painful than breaking a fucking nail.
I crossed the distance between us, wanting to invade her space. A sick part of me liked that she had nowhere to go now that she was in a chair. I leaned over and put my arms on either side of her, getting really close to the little mouse. Her warm eyes rounded, her pretty, pink lips forming an O.
“Are you deaf? I asked you a question. What the fuck are you doing here?” I asked, moving my face closer so there wasn’t much space between us. I could see her breathing growing shallower, her pupils dilating as her heavy tits moved in rapid succession.
I wasn’t sure if I was scaring her or turning her on.
“Mrs. Sinclair told me to come up here to find a book,” she said, her voice shaking.
“Did she now?” Monica really needed to understand that people weren’t welcome here. It was the only fucking place in this house I could stand.
Ruthless: Black Mountain Academy Page 1
