Queen of Hawthorne Prep

How fucking dare she sleep so soundly when my entire world is crashing down around my head?

Traitorous little bitch.

It’s entirely too tempting to close the distance between us and wrap my fingers around her throat, all the while pressing against her fragile flesh until the pulse flutters madly beneath my grip. I want to watch her eyes pop wide as I demand the truth.

How fucking satisfying would that be?

Know what I want even more?

To bring Summer Hawthorne to her knees and make her wish she’d never heard the Rothchild name.

Once upon a time, she accused me of playing games.

Oh, the fucking irony of it all. If her deceit didn’t cut so deep, I would be on the floor rolling around with laughter.

Unable to stare at her prone form a moment longer, I swing away before gathering up my clothing. Once dressed, I slip through the door that leads to her private balcony. As I do, images from earlier rush through my brain, tangling insidiously around me. It takes effort to shake them free before I stalk across the lawn to my property.

The only joy I have right now is in knowing that tonight will be the last sound sleep she has before I make her life a living hell.

Chapter Eight

When the alarm buzzes the next morning, I stretch and grab the phone from the nightstand before turning it off. My lashes flutter open and I blink to awareness, rolling over and reaching for Kingsley. Normally when I wake up, my head is pillowed against the solid wall of his chest and his arms are enveloped around me, anchoring me to his warm body.

In that moment, before reality can press in on us, I revel in the feel of him. The safety I’ve found in his presence. And I thank whatever higher power there is that he crashed so forcefully into my life. Maybe I’m confused about everything else, but never that.

Never my feelings for the dark-haired boy.

It’s all the other bullshit that I’m attempting to unravel in my head.

I reach out, stroking my fingers across the cool sheets. Kingsley is always here when I wake up in the morning. Most of the time, I have to kick his ass out of bed.

My brows draw together as I sit up and glance around the empty room. The door to my private bathroom is wide open. There’s a stillness to the space that tells me he’s not here. Further inspection has me realizing that the clothes he shed in a hurry last night are gone.

That’s odd. Why did he take off without waking me up to say goodbye?

My mind tumbles back to the night before. The last thing I remember is falling asleep in his arms after we had sex.

I grab my phone and fire off a quick text.

Where did u go? Missed waking up with you.

As I collapse against the pillows, I stare at the screen and wait. When a response doesn’t seem forthcoming, I realize that I need to get moving. Even the idea of being late to Ms. Pettijohn’s class is enough to have me breaking out into an itchy case of hives. There’s not much I wouldn’t do to avoid incurring the wrath of the older teacher. She has all the charm of a fire-breathing dragon.

I shoot off one last text so we’re both on the same page.

Pick me up for school?

Then I throw off the covers and head to the shower. Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in my tartan skirt and white button-down shirt. My hair bounces around my shoulders as I head down for breakfast. With a step into the hallway, I glance at the phone in my hand.

There’s still no response.

I don’t get it.

Kingsley always texts back. As I move through the second floor, I press his contact info, deciding to call. Instead of ringing, his phone goes straight to voicemail.

Which is…strange.

Is there a problem?

Something going on I’m unaware of?

Why isn’t he responding?

It’s so unlike him.

Even though it’s stupid and I have zero reason for concern, a little knot of tension blooms in the pit of my belly. Since spending the long weekend at his family’s beach house in Door County, we’ve been inseparable. Kingsley Rothchild has quickly become one of the most important people in my life. The thought of something being wrong has me sick with anxiety.

My feet grind to a halt when I find my brother in the kitchen, wolfing down a fresh stack of pancakes.

“What’s going on? Normally, you’re not even out of bed yet.” I beeline for the cherry wood cabinet and grab a mug before filling it to the brim with piping hot dark brew.

My brother shrugs before shoveling another oversized forkful into his mouth.

“Want some pancakes, sweetie?” Mom gestures to the plate next to the stove. “I made a few extras.”