Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 89074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
I even convinced Noah to give ten percent of our profits from this summer’s car wash to Double Daggers, after one guy pissed another guy off after too many tequila shots and a handful of stimulants.
Any good king needs to possess a few non-negotiable traits:
He should be liked. Beloved, sometimes.
He can handle just about any request.
He can make a good decision.
And he never lets anyone threaten his power.
I still plan on running this shit like a king, this year. I don’t care how cocky that sounds, and it’s why I earned the name Royal, anyway.
“I need about a gallon of this champagne tonight,” I tell Noah.
Already, I can’t stop myself from endlessly glancing over at Hunter.
The way his cheekbones look in the candlelit room.
The thin, black leather bracelets he wears around one wrist, peeking out from under the sleeve of his suit.
The fucking nerve he had to push his cock against my lips the other night, just to display some sort of depraved dominance.
“Wes told me that Hunter always used to get suspended from school for fights,” Noah says.
I nod. “He never got along with Wes. He kept his distance from us unless it was for a fight. Always had knives on him, all that sort of shit.”
“Bet the girls loved that. Bad boy with a pretty face.”
“Hunter had whichever girl he wanted. Never for very long.”
Noah’s looking at Hunter like he’s a choice piece of meat. “He could be good for us. We need someone threatening in Onyx, other than Roman.”
“Can we stop talking about him? It’s bad enough that he’s here.”
“Fine. How did it go, visiting Ethan earlier in the hospital?” Noah asks me.
I stopped by the hospital for an hour today, and I was one of many visitors in Ethan’s room.
“He can’t really talk much, but he’s going to make a full recovery, same as James. Some miracle shit, I’m telling you.”
Noah shakes his head. “It has to be intentional.”
“What do you mean?”
Noah gives me a serious look. “Both James and Ethan were attacked, but both of them will make full recoveries,” he says. “I think that’s on purpose. I think people don’t want them dead—they just want to fucking scare them, and terrify us.”
I chew the inside of my cheek.
Could that be real?
Are the attackers just trying to send a message, or is their intent to kill, and they’re just bad at finishing the job?
I’m not sure which is more believable.
Weston cuts across the room a minute later, heading straight for me and giving me a pained look.
“Kill me,” he mutters as he steps over, pouring himself some champagne.
“Come on. Is your brother dearest really that bad?” Noah asks.
“He’s playing nice now, but I don’t trust it,” Weston says. “Hunter must have decided to transfer to Crimson College months and months ago, because the process isn’t fast. And then he somehow sweet-talks Roman into letting him into Onyx? It’s sus. As fuck.”
“Quit saying sus. The word is ‘suspicious,’ and it works just fine,” Noah tells us. “You know that word has Latin roots, too? Suspiciosus.”
“Is he ever going to stop giving us Latin lessons?” Weston asks me.
“I doubt it.”
Noah grins as he reaches over and flicks me on the front of my shoulder.
“Fuck, I’m still healing there,” I say, smoothing my fingers over the area.
“Oh, God. Sorry. Forgot about the tattoos.”
I only got my new wing tattoos along my collarbone a few days before I returned to campus.
The decision was made on such a whim that sometimes when I look in the mirror I’ve been doing a double take, forgetting that I still have them.
Ink on my skin, forever.
And the memory of a night when the world felt like it was mine.
I got the tattoos to kick off this year. The first school year where I’d be out and proud with a real boyfriend, for the first time.
The wings symbolized freedom.
But now, so far, this school year seems to be cursed.
“The other new kid seems a little lost,” Weston says, nudging me to look to my side.
“He looks like a goddamned model, if you ask me,” Noah comments, his eyes scanning the guy’s body.
Over by the tall bookcases, a freshman recruit named Oliver is standing with a cup of water in his hand, looking very shy.
He’s dressed in a suit with a simple onyx black cape behind it, just like the rest of us, but his eyes glance around the room as he tries to give people halfhearted smiles, while everyone else has broken off into little groups to talk.
Oliver really does look like a model who just stepped off the beach and into our cutthroat college, especially with his sandy-colored hair and its natural sun-kissed highlights.
But his good looks don’t seem to translate into any social confidence.
I let out a sigh and toss back the rest of my champagne. “You guys are going to just stand here and feel sorry for the new guy? He’s one of our brothers, now.”