Page 17 of Brutal Prince

My land.

My sense of self.

My heart.

Claim them as yours, son. Claim them and never let anyone else take them from you.

He blames himself for what happened to my mother, Natalie. Not the accident, of course. A patch of black ice and poor driving skills were at fault.

The fact that she was in her car is what he blames himself for. From all the little snippets he’s told me over the years, I’ve pieced together the fact that Dad and Mom had an on-again, off-again relationship for about a decade before she settled down and became my full-time mother. That was several years after I was born, but my father never went into detail about why she wasn’t around all the time. I don’t ever expect him too — he’s a private man by nature, and it’s a miracle I know anything about the shit him and Mom went through.

I shake my head, draining the last of my coffee.

That girl shouldn’t have been where she was last night. Everyone in Lavish knows about the wild animal that roams those woods.

Now she does too.

After breakfast, I try contacting my father again. I don’t ever feel the need to ask his permission for Marcus to stay over, but it’s a chance — an excuse — to speak to him. If he ever answered, of course.

His phone, unsurprisingly, goes to voice mail.

I don’t bother leaving a message. He never listens to them anyway.

I stare out at the woods pressing up against Briar Manor’s ornate fencing. Times like this, it feels like I’m the only person in the world.

A feeling I used to loathe. A feeling I now embrace.

* * *

Indi

The fuck is this?

I stare at the clothes hanging from the door handle of my closet.

“Gran—” I cut off with a grimace. “Marigold?”

My hands fist at my sides as Marigold opens my door.

“What is that?” I point at the clothes.

“That’s your uniform, young lady.”

Cold-hearted bitch — she’s smiling, isn’t she?

“No.”

“What makes you think you have a choice?” The door closes behind me.

A school uniform? What the hell, am I five?

I glare at a black and gold school skirt while it taunts me with its perkiness. I strip down to my underwear and reluctantly step into the skirt. I sneer at my reflection. The thing barely reaches mid-thigh. Did Marigold get my measurements wrong or something?

Next is the white button-up shirt, then the tie. It’s black with a fancy family-shield kind of emblem on the bottom in gold. There’s a black, sleek-looking blazer hanging on the other door handle.

Blegh.

I rake fingers through my hair, consider then dismiss the possibility of trying to run a brush through the tangles, but even the thought feels like too much effort. Instead, I do my best to tame it into a bun.

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