Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

Sugar, who loves me, even though she shouldn’t.

The table with the glass and paperweight tumble over when I shove him into it, glass crashing all around us. Doug’s not content to stay down for long, even though I can see him tiring out, that wobble in his knee graduating to a full-fledged quiver when he tries to stand.

I’m younger and faster, and I find my footing first, using it to drive my foot into his face.

His head jerks back—there’s no way that nose isn’t broken—but Doug’s as dumb as a box of rocks. He won’t stop. It just makes me go faster and harder, knowing that he’s almost even competition for someone like me, but he’s content to use all that power against a little fucking girl.

At some point, he gets back up, and that’s fine. I wipe a wrist under my nose, not even tired yet. I can see him huffing for breath, though. He’s too worn to keep up with me—not enough stamina. I can have this motherfucker, lights out, in three more minutes.

I just need a little more time. A few more hits. A couple more kicks to the face. A little bit of time to appreciate that I’ve beat him. To savor the crash.

It takes me too long to realize that he’s beginning to look a lot like my brother.

By the time I do, Sugar is between us. “STOP!” Her eyes are wide and panicked, but if it weren’t for that, it’d just be the red welt on her cheek and the way she’s crying, and I probably wouldn’t be able to.

Marie is in the doorway, clutching her chest, wearing such a picture-perfect mirror of her daughter’s expression that all it’s missing is the welt.

That’s not what stops me, though.

It’s that Sugar is between us again. It’s taken me twice now, but I’m finally learning that she’s going to get hurt here. Holding me back. ‘Handling’ the two of us. Always clawing to control the situation, to remove the conflict. To get just a little fucking peace, Sugar will throw herself in front of my chaos. Every time.

I think that’s the point I really stop fighting.

I stop avoiding what I know needs to be done, because people like me and Sugar can’t afford that.

I lift my hands in the air, backing off. “I’m done.”

Doug spits a mouthful of blood on the floor, face still twisted in fury. “You’re gonna be done, boy. I’m going to fucking finish you.”

Marie steps in then, and at first, I think she’s going to hold him back. Instead, she rubs his back. “I’ll call the cops,” she says to me, face red. “So help me, I will!”

“No,” Sugar bursts, eyes wide and wet. “We’ll go, you don’t need to—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t fucking apologize to them,” I hiss, thrusting a finger at her mother. “You’re just as bad as him.”

“Don’t you talk to my wife,” Doug growls, irate.

I ignore him, shifting all this red-hot chaos onto her. “You knew what he was doing to her, didn’t you? She’s your own fucking daughter! What’s he? Some piece of shit you married?”

“You don’t understand anything,” she cries.

“I understand enough, and if she ever comes back here again, it’ll be to bury your fucking body.” To Sugar, I snarl, “Get your shit, we’re leaving.”

Despite having gotten his ass kicked, Doug looks satisfied in a way that doesn’t quite click until he says, “Don’t you ever come back. You hear me, you little whore? You better pack up everything, because come tomorrow, it’s all going on the lawn.”

Marie flinches at the word ‘whore’, but she says nothing.

Nothing.

I give her a long, scathing look. “I can’t fucking believe some people call my mom a bad parent when pieces of trash like you exist.”

She sets her jaw and looks away, and I see it then—the spark of shame. It’s not big enough for her to stop it. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she’s worse than him.

“We’ll go,” Sugar’s saying. “We’re going.”

Upstairs, I watch, fist flexing as she dumps her things into a plastic storage bin. She’s crying, but every time I try to touch her as she passes, she just flinches away, head shaking.

I never should have started this at all. Letting someone in, someone vulnerable like Sugar? That was the kind of mistake Sebastian Wilcox didn’t make.