Page 51 of Cruel Prep (Princes of Ravenlake Academy 1)

My dad is trying to kill me.

Not literally. Although that might be preferable.

But death by bench press is pretty fucking miserable, as far as those things go.

“Why did I spend money on this weight room if you aren’t even going to use it?” he growls as I grunt through what feels like my billionth rep. “It doesn’t look like you’re using the weights I paid for at the school, either. This is pathetic.”

My face is beet red, and I can feel my pulse in the top of my head. Any second now, the bar is going to fall and crush me. I’m not even that upset by the thought. At least it would get me out of this shit.

“You should be playing QB, not Cody.”

“Caleb,” I correct through a grunt. “And I’m a wideout, not a quarterback.”

He rolls his eyes like he couldn’t care less. “Whatever. You’re good enough to be the leader out there, but just like everything else, you don’t apply yourself. You don’t push.”

My arms shake as I lift the bar and when my elbows are finally locked, I try to put the bar back on the rack, but my dad pushes it away. “Another one.”

“I can’t.” My teeth are gritted so hard I’m surprised they aren’t dust.

“Bullshit. You can, but you don’t want to. You’re too weak.”

My entire body is trembling. I’m exhausted. Distracted. Practice has been harder than usual because, despite Coach saying we are going to be fine without Nico, he wants us all to step up our game.

But that’s not the real cause.

The real cause has a name.

Lily DeVry.

Her brown eyes are molten caramel, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get them out of my head when I retire to my room every night to pump out my frustration from the day.

My chest and arms are on fire. Shaking, twitching, right on the verge of giving out.

Above me, my dad’s eyes are black and remorseless. He really doesn’t give a fuck if I die under this bar. He’ll sit here and watch the life drain from my body.

Fuck him. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

I squeeze, roar, and push the bar the final distance. It hits the rack with a metallic clang.

I sit upright, chest heaving from the exertion, and fix my father with a cold glare. He shrugs, as if he couldn’t care one way or the other whether I made it out from there alive.

The room is silent for a moment. Only the sound of my labored breathing. My father turns away, studies the light overhead in the ceiling of the state-of-the-art home gym he assembled.

“Where are we at with things?” he asks without turning back to me.

I ignore him.

He doesn’t appreciate that. “I asked you a question, son.”

“Things are fine.”

He turns around, hands clasped behind his back, and shakes his head. “Not what I asked.”

I grit my teeth and meet his gaze. “I’m meeting her tonight. It’s under control.”

“Helping her pack her things, I presume?” He’s got a sarcastic drawl to his voice. One that I don’t appreciate.

I shake my head. “You’re the one who taught me revenge takes time, remember? This is delicate.”

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