Page 12 of Brutal Prince

My backpack is beside the dresser, my two sets of just as ill-fitting clothes as the ones I’m wearing neatly stacked on top.

So I guess I don’t have any privacy anymore, either? I have a feeling tomorrow’s talk is going to involve a set of rules as long as my arm. And a nearly exhaustive list of the penalties I’ll face for breaking any of them.

I head to my backpack, and spend a few seconds rummaging around inside. I’m far from the naive, idealistic innocent I was. My eyes have been opened these past few days. Opening up a hidden pocket inside my backpack for what I consider valuable seemed as good an idea at the time as buying that switchblade.

I’ve lost my knife, but thank God I haven’t lost the flat, velvet-lined box I hid inside my bag.

After a quick glance over my shoulder, I hurry to my door to turn the lock.

Obviously, it doesn’t have one.

So I grab the chair from the dresser and ram it under the handle. Not a sure-fire way to keep someone out if any of the hundred horror movies I’ve watched are anything to go by, but at least I’ll have enough time to stash away my secrets before Marigold can come inside.

I perch on the foot of the bed and rub my thumb over the soft velvet case in my hands. It’s a champagne gold color, and almost too heavy in my palms.

Bringing it up to my nose, I inhale deep.

Before long, it won’t smell like her perfume anymore. But for now it still does, and I can’t get enough of it.

Tears prick my eyes as the comforting smell of vanilla and sandalwood fills my nose. I lever open the lid and stare down at my Mom’s favorite necklace. The heart-shaped sapphire seems to shift and dance as light falls on it. Through it.

I adjust the delicate chain so it hangs just right, a sad smile tugging at my lips. Then I snap the case closed and squeeze shut my eyes, refusing to let a single tear slip out.

It takes a great effort of will to stand and put the case back into my secret hiding place, but I make myself do it.

I was wearing this the night Mom died. I’d stolen it from her cupboard because I wanted to impress my friends.

Now it’s all I have left of her. A constant reminder of her beauty. A never-ending testament to my betrayal.

You know what? Karma’s a fucking bitch.

* * *

Briar

I’m driving too fast,but I can’t make myself slow down. Fuck it, I don’t want to slow down. Baker’s house is five minutes from mine. Three if I floor it.

I slam down on my Mustang’s brakes a few yards before I reach Marcus’s gates. The Baker mansion is on a decent spit of land — several acres in each direction, their backyard disappearing into the tangled mess that goes up the side of the mountain. That’s how we met, back in the day. We ran into each other in the woods, and been mates ever since.

Jumping out of my car, I leg it the rest of the way to Marcus’s gates. I don’t bother with the intercom — I assume his dad’s home, and I definitely don’t want to land myself on that guy’s radar.

Instead, I climb the fence, and haul myself over using the thick branch of an oak tree. His dad’s got cameras all over this place. After that stint of violent robberies last year, everyone in Lavish does, even after police charged a suspect. But Marcus knows where they are.

Which means I know where they are.

I make it to the side of their French Colonial a minute later, and climb up the trellises with ease. I’ve been doing this for years, so most of it’s muscle memory. My actual muscles help, of course. Football’s great for building bulk…and getting a practically absent father to pay attention once in a while when I make the Lavish Times cover story every now and then.

Marcus’s bedroom window is open. I slip inside, whipping away the lace curtain that drapes my face, and stop to give my eyes time to adjust to the dark.

“Where you at?” My voice is deep and low. If his father’s still around, the last thing I want is to let him know I’ve broken in again. If it wasn’t for the fact that our fathers were friends, he’d have given me a beating too.

Still have to figure out why the fuck my father thinks Mr. Brandon Baker is the kind of person he wants to spend his time with. Honestly, I think he just feels sorry for the guy. Fuck knows it’s got nothing to do with Baker’s personality; Marcus’s father has a mean streak the size of the Mississippi River. I think they may have been friends when they were younger, but Dad’s never really spoken to me about it.

Especially after mom’s accident.

“Over here.”

My heart sinks at the sound of Marcus’s thick, rough voice. I hurry over to the bed, perching on the edge and reaching for the shape I can now make out.

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