Page 27 of Brutal Prince

I roll my eyes at him. “I don’t need your help. I have a fucking map.”

“A map?” Briar lets out a low chuckle. “You don’t need a map. You need me.”

He sits forward, lacing his fingers and sliding his elbows over his desk.

“Else how you gonna navigate the valleys and peaks of social class?”

Valleys and peaks? What a douchebag.

“Easy,” I say through a grimace. “If they’re friends with you, then they’re losers and I stay away from them.”

There’s the tiniest tic of a facial muscle near his jaw. He sits back, shaking his head.

“This lack of respect won’t do, my little virgin.” He shows me his teeth, but it’s far from a smile. “It just won’t do at all.”

* * *

I boltout of homeroom as soon as the bell rings. Briar’s still sitting in his chair, looking smug as the Cheshire Cat, by the time I hit the hall and risk a glance back.

Letting out a stale breath, I peek at my schedule.

AP Computer Science.

AP Psychology.

Calculus.

Guess whoever set the schedule must have thought it would be easier to tackle these classes when the brain’s still fresh.

My first class is on the third floor, but first I make a stop at the restroom in a pathetic attempt to get a fucking grip.

As soon as I step inside, my legs lock in astonishment.

Holy crap.

Despite Lavish Prep looking like a prison, everything I’ve seen up to this point has been sheer luxury. Padded school seats, perfectly varnished wooden desks with electrical outlets for laptops or cellphones. I overheard one of my classmates asking for the school’s wi-fi password.

The bathrooms? They look like something out of a five-star hotel. Orchids in planters decorate end tables. The fixtures are all black marble and gold, as if to match the school uniform. Spotlights line the outside of the vanity mirrors, as if to fool the girls standing there that they are in fact supermodels, not kids.

The face above those Hollywood starlet mirrors must belong to someone else though, because I’ve never looked this wretched in my life.

I splash water on my face, and blot it dry with a fluffy hand towel that smells of fabric softener. But even then, the face in the mirror still looks like shit.

So I slap it.

Hard.

The world goes white. I rock on my heels as I wait for my eyes to start focusing again. There’s a big red handprint on my cheek, and as I wait for it to fade, I summon up every shred of dignity I still have and force my spine straight.

Fuck you, Lavish Prep.

Fuck you, Prince Briar.

I survived the death of my mother.

This?

This is a fucking cakewalk.

Bring it on, bitch.

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