Page 135 of Cruel Prep (Princes of Ravenlake Academy 1)

I try throwing a knee into his balls, but my aim is off and he takes it in the thigh instead. He grunts in pain, but it’s not enough to stop him.

Especially not when he rears back and slaps me.

The stars in my vision double. I taste blood.

And still, no one is coming to help.

“Don’t make it worse for yourself,” he slurs. “Relax and this could be real nice.”

His hands wrap around my wrists, and his body is plastered to mine so thoroughly that I can’t knee him again.

His body rolls against mine, pressing the hardness at his center against my waistband and hip. I cringe away from him and try to pull myself free, but my arms feel like limp noodles compared to his.

Suddenly, the door next to us opens, and a sharp triangle of light shines out, momentarily blinding me.

We both look towards the door. Levi curses.

“Fuck, sorry,” the intruder says. It’s a Hell Prince I recognize but don’t know well. “I didn’t know anyone was out here.”

He starts to close the door, and I gasp, “Help. Please.”

“So dramatic,” Levi sighs. “We’re fine.”

The Hell Princes aren’t good guys, but they are still human beings. I expect the guy to step in and see if I’m okay, to check and make sure I want to be here.

Instead, he chuckles to himself. “Have fun, you two.”

Then he pulls the door closed, plunging us into darkness once more.

* * *

CALEB

This kid never stood a chance.

He came into this match thinking that being a few pounds heavier and a few inches taller gave him the upper hand.

Big fucking mistake.

It took him a while to realize it, too.

It wasn’t until the third or fourth time I cracked him straight in the jaw that he started to understand he was in very, very deep shit.

I dance around the corner of the ring as he lumbers towards me.

The spotlights are bright. The crowd is roaring. It’s a good night for fighting. A good night for winning.

The big idiot takes a huge, loping swing that misses by a country mile.

I swerve around it, then deliver a crunching uppercut right under his chin.

He hits the deck immediately, square on his ass. The crowd goes apeshit.

“Stay down, moron,” I hiss at him. It’s for his own good. Just stay down there and take your loss. You’ll go home intact. I can’t promise what will happen if you try to keep this going.

But he’s not the type to take friendly advice, it seems.

Growling like a wounded ape, he plants his knuckles on the canvas and gets up slowly. I sigh, wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of one glove, and get ready to do this again.

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