Page 26 of Savage Vicious Heir: Part Two

“It doesn’t matter,” I say under my breath, wishing he’d change the topic of conversation.

“Of course it fucking matters. You’re gone for her, bro. You need to man up and do something about it. You fucked up. Newsflash, we all fucking do that. It’s the grovelling and how you apologise that counts now.”

“It won’t be enough.” I shake my head, not wanting to believe. Not wanting to hope.

“Says who? You?” he scoffs. “Not being funny, mate, but your dark aurora right now isn’t going to let you believe anything positive.”

“My dark aurora?” I repeat. “Fucking hell, you need to spend more time out on the rugby pitch and less time on a yoga mat. It’s aura, smart-arse.”

“Whatever it is. Laugh all you like. I’m right and you fucking know it.”

I fall silent, unable to argue with him.

The Chapel is quiet as we let ourselves inside. “Where are the others?” I ask, marching towards the fridge to grab a fresh bottle of water.

“Fuck knows. I’m going for a shower. You want to hit the books after?” he offers.

Combing my fingers through my sweat-soaked hair, I tug it back until it burns. Pain shoots down my neck, giving me a hit of what I really need.

“Sure,” I finally concede.

It’s the right thing to do.Focus on my future.A future that’s been mapped out for me since I was a twinkle in my father’s cold cruel eyes.

Sure, Saints Cross is a great university. It doesn’t have a choice to be anything but based on the donations it receives from the elite families who expect it to be the best.

I’ll do well there, assuming I survive Scott and the Scions. But do I want it?

I shake my head as I trudge up the stairs.

No, is the simple answer.

I don’t want it.

Being an Heir was one thing. I wanted this. I wanted to step up with my boys and rule All Hallows’ as we saw fit.

But being a Scion is a whole other ballgame.

The expectations, the games, the depravity of searching out the weak and pushing the strong… I don’t have the time or the energy for it.

But just like defying my father with Lauren, refusing Saints Cross would be akin to suicide.

He’d never accept it.

Instead, he’d wear me down, break me in any way he could until I had no choice but to agree. And then, only then, would the real pain start.

Wrapping my hand around the back of my neck, I pull down. I don’t fucking need this shit.

My skin is itching by the time I crash into my room. Shedding my damp clothes as I move, I’m naked before I step into the bathroom and turn the shower on as hot as it’ll go, just as I need it.

But at the last minute, I pause.

It isn’t going to be enough.

I can already feel the burn and it won’t be e-fucking-nough.

Doubling back, I pull my wardrobe open and reach for the box I keep on the top shelf.

Out of sight, out of mind…

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