Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

We’d all arrived at school an hour early to hold the meeting, so most of us are still rubbing sleep from our eyes. We’ve been down here in the Devil dungeon working out how this prank’s going to go down. It’s a fine line to walk, doing something big enough to capture everyone’s awe, but not so big that it gets us busted. Hijacking halftime during one of the biggest basketball games of the season seems like the best option.

And hey, speaking of flashy…

“Well, I can’t be the shirtless Devil because I have tattoos, so this is my best offer for contribution.”

“Fine,” Emory agrees, shutting his notebook. “At least you can afford to get in trouble if you get busted. If nothing else, it’ll be amusing.”

I mutter, “Ye of little faith,” and with that, we all begin filtering out of the tower, careful to stagger our exits.

“Stop picking at that thing,” Elana chides, batting at my hand. Without realizing it, I’ve picked the scab clean off my knuckle, reopening the wound. “Ew! Gross, you’re bleeding.” I tease her with it, shoving my hand close to her face, making her squeal and bolt to the side.

Georgia sighs. “Boys are so disgusting.”

Disgusting or not, we walk together toward the school. We’re early enough that there’s plenty of time to do something productive before the warning bell, like organizing a locker, or finishing my Lit essay, or grabbing a bite to eat.

Like hunting down Sugar and pulling her into an empty classroom.

Unfortunately, when I find her, that’s not in the cards at all.

Georgia, Elana, and I cut through the crowd. Sugar’s standing in the middle of the hallway with a rapidly growing audience as some jerkoff junior towers over her, face set into a scowl.

“What’s going on?” Elana asks before I can.

Sugar’s eyes flick over in a rapid glance. I don’t imagine the way her aggressive, tight stance loosens upon seeing me. She still looks like she’s about three seconds from kicking this guy in the dick. “This asshole thinks—”

“I know you took it,” he snaps. “I left it on my desk and you sit there next period.”

She snaps back, “I didn’t take your fucking watch.”

“Then let me look in your bag,” he demands, stepping close enough that my whole body ignites in anger. “I know you’re hiding something.”

He’s right. She’s got her hand stuffed into her bag like she’s shielding something, but I know from experience exactly what it is. Getting caught with that knife is going to land her in deep shit.

“If she says she didn’t take it, then she didn’t fucking take it,” I say, voice full of barely-veiled warning. Used to be people were more intimidated by me than charmed. A couple months off fighting must have put a serious damper on my ability to make shit-stains like this back the hell off.

Big mistake.

The guy doesn’t even bat an eyelash, sneering down his nose at her. “God this place used to have standards. Giving scholarships to Northridge kids was one thing, but now they’re letting in Cliff trash? Enough of this.”

I could have let that go—maybe, maybe—but then he reaches out and clamps a hand around her wrist to wrench it from her bag, and oh, fuck no.

The back of his head meets the lockers with a loud clang, but I can barely hear it over the storm in my head. “You don’t fucking touch her,” I roar, seeing red. I’ve got two tight handfuls of his blazer, fists digging hard into his chest, and it’s not that he just called her trash, or even that his fucking hand was on her when even I can’t do that.

It was the sudden look of pure, spine-steeling terror in her eyes that propelled me forward.

No one makes Sugar look like that. Not me, and certainly not this piece of shit.

“No one fucking touches her,” I seethe, knowing the crowd be

hind me is watching, listening. “Anyone lays a single finger on her, and I’m going to light your ass the fuck up. Georgia!”

“I’m on it,” she says, knowing exactly what I’m asking her to do; lead Sugar away. Last thing I need is for her to feel more sketchy about me.

The guy looks pissed, reaching up to roughly flick a bit of spittle from his cheek. But he also doesn’t push back. “She took my—”

“I didn’t take it!” Sugar spits, obviously not down with being led away. “I never saw a watch. There was nothing on my desk when I got in there! If you don’t believe me, then take it up with Dewey. I’m done with you. Let’s go, Sebastian.”

But it’s not that easy. The red-hot, raging feeling that’s curled around my lungs isn’t satisfied, wants to bury my fist into this guy’s face. My hands are screaming, balled so tightly into his jacket that the wound on my knuckles is openly trickling blood. My jaw feels locked, nostrils flared as I decide; let it go or let loose? And fuck, just the thought of letting loose tickles at the back of my brain, and I feel just like Reyn had looked earlier. A junkie jonesing for a fix.