Malum: Part 2 (The Elite King's Club 5)

I roll my eyes. “He’s overrated.”

“I heard that!” Nate snaps from the couch. “And I’ll remind you to check between, and on your thighs before throwing around that word again, Princessa…”

Bailey’s eyes instinctively drop to my legs.

“Bails!”

“Sorry!” She giggles, sipping her drink.

“Go butter the garlic bread or something…”

She doesn’t bother to tell me that you don’t butter garlic bread, she simply slides onto a bar stool and watches me move around the kitchen.

“What else did I miss?”

We fall into easy conversation as the scent of sweet chicken and steak fills the crisp night air. Bailey tells me about some guy Nix and how him and his four friends at school think they fucking run the show. How when everyone found out she was starting Riverside Prep, everyone started adding her on social media and her online popularity has already spiked. She went from being a home-schooled nerd to the most popular girl at an exclusive private academy. I wanted to tell her to be careful, that RPA is not to be taken lightly. That school ruins kids, and almost ruined Madison, but I don’t. Instead, I’ll let her explore it on her own and just be here when she needs me. That I promised her.

Eli and Cash come into the kitchen and take out all the things we need to the table. Nate carries out the hot food and Bailey finishes up with the cutlery and setting the table.

I pull out the seat opposite Bailey. I’m also next to Nate, who is on the other side of the table end to Bishop. It’s funny how they all fall into position. Even when they’re driving.

Bishop heads to a switchboard and flicks on the fairy lights that hang above the long marble table that’s tucked to the side of the kitchen outside, overlooking the rear of the house. Nature surrounds us, the crisp green leaves and heavy cedar wood cycling with the freshly cooked food. The boys all start digging in and my eyes find Bailey’s, who has had a few too many to drink. When I say few, I mean three. Lightweight teens.

Music starts playing softly from little speakers that surround the wrap-around porch. I catch Bishop fiddling with his phone as I cut into my steak, forking pieces of salad.

“So what are we doing tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Nate asks around a grin. “Oh no, we’re playing something tonight…”

“Playing what? And I’m pretty sure I said I wanted normal.” I give a pointed glare at Bailey, who doesn’t know half the shit these boys do.

“She’s got a lot to learn for next year. She’ll be alright.” Nate winks at her and I watch as Bailey blushes, slicing into her steak.

“Bails?”

“Hmm?” she asks, looking up at me.

I toss a bun onto her plate. “You might need some carbs tonight. Reserve all the energy you can.”

We all fall into easy conversation, and I end up snapping a whole bunch of photos of everyone.

Bailey holds up her hands. “Wait! I have a Polaroid!”

“A fucking what what?” Eli asks, his eyes narrowing in on her. She blushes from his attention.

“Leave her alone, baby cakes.” I glare at Eli before going back to Bailey. “Go grab it!”

She escapes into the house and I turn back to Eli. He’s still glaring at me. His pretty features morphing into disgust.

“Did you just call me baby cakes?”

Everyone around the table bursts out laughing, bar Eli.

I giggle, bringing the glass to my mouth as Bailey reappears, a smile on her face and lifting a metallic grey square looking camera that looks like it’s straight out of the 70s.

We snap multiple photos with both the Polaroid and our phones. I lean into Bailey as we grab a few selfies. Then Nate yanks me into his arms and Bailey snaps multiple photos as he’s doing so, even as he bites onto my nose tip.

She shrugs, holding her phone. “Action shots.”

I look up at Nate. He licks his lips.

“We promised…” I whisper.

“I’ve promised a lot of fucking things in my lifetime, baby. And none of them involve staying away from you.”

I push off his chest, (his very naked and hot chest), needing space. And air. Because he does things to me.

“Yes, you did.”

“Then for once, you can call me a fucking liar.”

I’m exhausted. This isn’t love. It’s pure and undiluted possession. He doesn’t need to throw me around to possess me, his soul attached itself to mine a long time ago, and now I can’t breathe with the thought of being too far away from him.

Can you spell vulnerable? Vulnerab—I can’t. Mainly because bourbon, but also because of something else. Something that tugs at my chest every time his eyes meet mine, or anytime that he’s in the same room as me, or any time that he’s angry at me, or sad with me, or happy with me, or playful with me—fuck.