Page 3 of The Pawn

I mean for it to come out acerbic, but I pull back at the last second and it turns into teasing. Tanner chuckles, and an instant later bile rises in the back of my throat. I hate myself for making him laugh. I hate myself even more for how hot my skin is and how fast my heart beats in the presence of just two of the four boys I’ve vowed to destroy.

As the fire burns inside my chest and threatens to turn itself against me, I reach over and squeeze the base of the thumb on my right hand as hard as I dare, until pain flares in the two scars there. The pain centers me, cools me, and reminds me of my purpose.

It’s one thing to get along with them enough to learn their secrets.

It’s another thing entirely to actually enjoy their handsome faces, the musky colognes that swirl around them, the way their non-uniform clothing falls on their impossibly muscular bodies. These boys may look and act like perfect runway models, and they may have impressive bank accounts and promising futures, but I know them for what they truly are.

They’re rabid wolves who’ve been let free of their enclosure, taking their sickness with them to terrorize the innocent.

And, like the snake that left the scar on my hand, I’m waiting for them to make a wrong move so I can take them down.

They may think they’re predators. Truth be told, they’re right; they’ve got the body count to prove it.

But with me here, they’re about to find out what it feels like to be the prey.

“Now that we’re all here, let’s go on the tour. I’ll tell you about the wolves first, since that’s everyone’s favorite part. Like I said, there’s nothing to worry about—the enclosure is perfectly secure, and the wolves are tame.”

Lukas is all affable charm, utterly unaware of the fact that the glass he thinks protect him from predators is nothing but an illusion. He’s being hunted right here, right now, and he won’t see his own downfall coming.

I swear before the semester is over, I’ll bring him down, along with his obnoxious, Kentucky-accented friend.

Even if it means destroying myself in the process.

Chapter 2

“When Matthew Coleridge founded this school in 1823, it was because of his youngest son,” Lukas says, leading us through the visitors center and towards the wide path out front, which is shaded by trees old enough and tall enough that their branches brush together overhead. “You see, the young Bartholomew Coleridge—yes, that was his name, Tanner, stop laughing—felt unchallenged and lonely in his boarding school. The letters he wrote home told his father as much.”

Tipping his head up towards the sky, Lukas looks pensive for a moment, as if he himself is traveling through time into the feet of Bartholomew himself. “He needed a new school. One that would be challenging and interesting. One where he could study ahead. Matthew Coleridge...”

I start to zone out, because I’ve read this story a hundred times by now. Everyone knows that the Coleridge Academy was started to academically challenge high school students on their way to college. It doesn’t allow enrollment prior to the junior year because the founder wanted the students who attend to experience other types of schooling prior to the Coleridge experience.

As wrapped up in his story as he is, Lukas doesn’t notice when my attention drifts to the other Elite. Tanner looks like he couldn’t give a fuck about his best friend’s speech; he’s got an e-cigarette hanging out one side of his mouth and is puffing out mint-scented vape.

Of course, despite the fact that the senator of Kentucky’s eldest child and only son is currently breaking one of the most prominent rules in the rulebook I was sent as a pdf yesterday, no one even looks twice at him. Another tour group passes by us, and Tanner even dares to blow his vape smoke in the faculty member’s general direction without a care in the world.

That’s not the only rule he’s breaking. His unlaced, designer sneakers are a bright red and custom painted with profanity up and down the sides. The short-cropped black hair on his head has a design carved into the back that trails down his neck to merge with a long-term temporary tattoo. His white button-up shirt with the Coleridge insignia embroidered on the pocket has two extra buttons unbuttoned and the cuffs pushed up to his elbows, showing off his well-tanned forearms, and it doesn’t even come close to being tucked into his jeans—jeans that, of course, are three shades too light to be regulation even on a day without classes.

It irks me that boys like Tanner Connally can break literally all the rules and it doesn’t matter one bit. I could make an entire post on the Legacies blog pointing out all the demerit points he should be receiving, all the detentions he should have on his record, and it wouldn’t get more than a few dozen clicks at most. And all those clicks would be from fans of his with Google alerts set for his name.

No, I have to save reviving the blog for something more salacious. Something people will care about, that will get their attention—and hopefully the attention of all the boys’ family members. Senator George Connally of the state of Kentucky may scold his only son for not tucking his shirt in, but it’s not going to get him to fly in from D.C. and punish him.

It also won’t get me what I really want: for Tanner to be socially outcast and exiled, just like my brother was before he took his own life.

I need to see him suffer. I want him on his knees in front of me, begging, pleas dropping from his plush lips.

“Brenna?” I’ve drifted off for long enough that Wally has noticed; he’s frowning in my general direction, a peeved expression crinkling up the corners of his eyes. “I know he’s attractive, Brenna, but you’ve been staring at him for a bit too long.”

I tell myself that the bright sun overhead will explain away the heat that surges to my cheeks. “You think he’s hot? I didn’t think he was your type.”

Wally shrugs uncomfortably. “I just barely came out to myself. I don’t know what my type is.” He may be a down and dirty country boy, but Wally is, it turns out, more into Richard Madden than Sophie Turner. “Just pay attention to the tour. I think that lonely, gorgeous European guy actually cares about this thing, and we’re the only ones even semi-interested.”

He’s right. Mom’s eyes keep wandering off, and Tanner has his eyes on his phone. Lukas is trying his best, coming up with random facts about who the benches are named after and when each of the buildings was built.

Surprisingly, he cares about this. Which means it’s an in. If I pay attention and butter him up a bit, I might be able to learn more about him—enough to destroy him completely.

“What about the ghost of Coleridge?”

Lukas pauses in the middle of a sentence, tugging on the collar of his sweater. “Well, I was going to talk about Ruth MacKenzie, the first female student at the academy...”

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