Trinity’s eyes fixate on it before lifting up to my face.

Her expression is empty and blank, like a shell of a person. Regardless, I can practically smell her disdain.

“Without me, Maxwell Barrasso would’ve rounded up your little baby gang already. You’re lucky you’re still here and not on the chopping block during one of his special auctions.” She turns back toward the front of the room, stylus hovering over the screen of her iPad. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to focus on my schoolwork. Unlike you, I have my sights set on an Ivy League education.”

I just smile at her. And I keep smiling at her until she turns to look at me again. I don’t even have to say a fucking thing to piss her off. Just seeing my rachet ass in her fancy prep school is infuriating enough.

“What?” she snaps, but I just turn slowly toward the front of the room, unsurprised to find that I have absolutely no idea what’s going on in this class. Prescott High is part of the lowest tax bracket in the entire state. How can we be expected to compete? The only way to destroy the wealth gap and bring the best, brightest minds to the forefront of society is to equally fund public schools regardless of tax bracket. But I’m sure Trinity wouldn’t give a shit about any of that.

“I’m just thinking of all the ways to make a person bleed,” I say, and then I park my chin in my hand and pretend like I actually give a fuck what the teacher has to say. The only reason I get through it is because I’m sore between the thighs from Vic’s monster cock. I snap my gum again and Trinity clenches her teeth.

At lunch, I find Victor standing in the cafeteria in his gray jacket and blue tie. He glances my way when I move up to stand beside him, his intimidating bulk an obscene blotch against the genteel aristocracy that slithers through this prep school like a nest of snakes.

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” he asks me as I turn back to look at them, a sea of identical jackets and ties and silver spoons shoved up too-tight assholes.

“Putrescent. Remind me what we’re doing here again.” I make a hissing sound of disgust as Trinity lifts her hand and waves for Victor to join her at a table in the center of the room. They don’t have cafeteria food here, by the way. They eat from a menu. There are waiters.

I remember this book I read once, written by a girl who attended Burberry Preparatory Academy—one of the wealthiest private schools in the country. She talked about this, this … restaurant-esque quality to her school lunches. I was disgusted then. Now, looking at it in person, I kind of want to puke.

I miss Prescott High already.

“God.” I gag on the eleganza of the whole scenario, wishing I were at Wesley’s with a greasy burger and fries with a side of ranch. “How many months until graduation?”

Victor’s mouth twitches, and the only reason I find any reason to be in good spirits at all is that he looks so fucking delicious with that gray jacket tugging at the broad expanse of his shoulders that I could just cry.

“June twelfth is graduation day,” Vic tells me, and I force my brain to shut down so I can’t calculate exactly how many months away that is. My jaw works for a moment before I shake my head.

“I can’t do it,” I say, backing away from the room as Trinity shoots a frown our way that’s so severe it’s likely to leave a permanent mark across the bottom of her pretty face. I guess she was under the impression that Victor would, like, still humor her by eating at her table the way he did at the lodge. Unfortunately for her, the humiliation of having her peers see me all over his dick while he gives her the cold shoulder is part of the fun. They’ll know she’s supposed to be engaged to him, but also that even if he is a poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks, he couldn’t give two fucks less about her. “I don’t want to eat in here. Let’s get chips from the vending machine or something.”

We exit out the cafeteria doors just in time to run into the other boys.

And I must say, I have to take a moment to appreciate the view.

The Havoc Boys are gorgeous when they’re wearing skeleton masks, when they’re naked, when they’re all dressed in black and smoking out by the dumpsters. But this? All of them dressed in ties and jackets that are identical to every other student here yet somehow still expressive of their distinct personalities, that is truly a sight to behold.

My breath catches, and I have to put a hand back on the side of the brick building behind me to keep from swaying at the sight. It’s that intoxicating, to see my boys all gussied up and scowling as they plow through the crowd of obscenely wealthy students like one might saunter through a swarm of mosquitoes.

Hael’s tie is undone and hanging crooked and wrinkled around his neck while Oscar is so perfectly put together that the creases in his slacks look like they could cut. Aaron’s jacket is off, slung over one arm, the top few buttons of his shirt undone. Callum, on the other hand, has paired an Oak Valley Prep hoodie over the top of said jacket, the hood flipped up to hide his blond hair. And Vic? Well, it’s the way he carries that book bag, tossed casually over one shoulder, a pack of cigarettes making a rectangular indent in his pants pocket that really sets the mood.

“I take it you’re not unhappy with us in these uniforms?” Aaron asks, his green-gold eyes sweeping over me appreciatively. When I left the bathroom earlier, tampon in place, and waltzed into the living room, I thought I might melt under the intensity of their collective stares.

There isn’t a letter in that fucking acronym that doesn’t like me wearing a short, pleated skirt and waltzing around in knee-high socks and Mary Janes.

“The uniforms are hot, I won’t lie,” I tell him, enjoying the stares of the Oak Valley students as they meander past us. Pretty sure most of them are making adjustments to their daily routines just so they can sweep past and take a look at us for themselves. There are quite a few faces in the crowd that I recognize from Prescott parties, faces that probably wish I didn’t recognize them since most of my memories are of them fucking, smoking, or drinking. Maybe even worse things. I flip off a random cluster of students and they scurry away like frightened mice.

“The uniforms are fine,” Oscar hisses, his silver eyes sweeping the crowd in a cold, calculating sort of way. He doesn’t even need to flip anyone off to get them to start running. “It’s being stared at like a zoo specimen that I don’t like.”

“They’ll get over the novelty of it soon enough,” Hael adds as he steals that pack of cigarettes from Vic’s pocket and gestures toward an inviting swell of shadow between two buildings. Ah, and here we go, back to smoking in secret like the naughty little Prescott brats that we are. “Trust me. Once the thrill wears off, they’ll start with the mocking and the jeering and then we’ll get to kick some ass and show them what it truly means to be afraid.”

Hael takes off for the shadows and I follow along, Callum falling into place on my right side.

“I thought you should know,” he begins, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks and giving a slight grimace at the very notion of having to wear a uniform. “I have gym with a couple of boys who’ve kept in touch with Donald Asher.”

I stop walking. So does Vic. Actually, when I glance around, I see that all five of the Havoc Boys are staring at me, waiting to see my reaction to the news. It didn’t really occur to me until just now that I’d be attending school where my would-be rapist used to go. I mean, just one look at the boys’ dorm and it’s impossible to forget that horrible sluggish feeling of the roofies or the surprise of seeing that awful text message on his phone. But truthfully, I’d almost forgotten about that douche.