Page 4 of Brutal Prince

I wash my hands in the bathroom sink and catch sight of myself in the mirror when I’m looking for the towel.

I look every inch the orphan I am. Shadows under my green eyes, my dark hair is mousy and unkempt, skin sallow.

Dinner is served on white china, with silver cutlery. Mashed potatoes, pale pork bangers, and a heap of pale peas.

I guess if anyone could suck the life from a bunch of peas, it would be Marigold.

And yeah, she does check my nails. I keep them short these days, no polish. I mean, what would be the point?

“I trust your trip was a pleasant one?” she asks, startling me out of the trance I put myself in trying to pin down a slippery pea.

“Huh?”

Her eyes narrow. “I do hope you don’t plan on slouching like that at your new school, young lady.”

Yup, there it is.

Guess gran was expecting a younger version of Mom. All radiant debutant and perfectly honed social skills. I used to love playing dress-up with her elegant cocktail dresses and expensive jewelry.

But ever since the home invasion—

“Sorry,” I mutter, resuming my pea-chasing adventures in the land of white china and colorless silverware. “I left my ball gown behind in the blackened shell that used to be my house.”

When I look up — because Marigold’s gone all quiet — I regret the comment. Her face is as bone-white as the china. Even her red lips have paled.

“I’ll see myself out,” I mutter, shoving away my plate and storming from the dining room.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Grandma’s reedy voice calls out behind me.

“Out!”

“You can’t drive on these roads after dark. It’s too dangerous.”

“Then I’ll walk!”

“Don’t go far.”

Thankfully, the front door isn’t locked — guess Lavish is one of those awesomely safe small towns where everyone’s so rich, no one has to steal each other’s stuff — so I head straight out and stand in what’s left of twilight.

There’s a buzz in my ears, and I don’t like it one bit. It’s usually the precursor to a binge. Like the one I was on the night my mother was murdered.

I glance behind me at the slightly dilapidated house and picture the prim and proper woman probably still seated at the dining room table, taking one tiny bite of food before putting her knife and fork down again.

Zipping my hoody up to my throat and whipping the hood over my head, I fast-walk straight for the fringe of pine trees suffocating Marigold’s pathetic house.

How long until that bright new day, Mom? ‘Cos all I’m seeing on the horizon are goddamn thunder clouds.

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