Page 56 of Cruel Prep (Princes of Ravenlake Academy 1)

I turn and step between Rufus and Lily. “You weren’t going to win the auction, anyway.”

Rufus ignores us both and pushes a hand into my chest. “Stand back and let the bidding continue.”

I do not have time for this shit. The voices in my own head are already roaring. The last thing I need is one more voice telling me what to do and muddying my thoughts.

My closed fist connects with his cheekbone before he can defend himself. I use his shock to my advantage and uppercut with my other hand.

Blood pours from his mouth and nose, but he recovers quickly and rears his arm back, ready to fight. Just before he can start swinging, however, Caleb pushes me aside and jumps into the action.

He should be pissed at me for ruining auction night for him, but this fight probably makes up for it. Nothing makes Caleb happier than getting to pummel someone into a pulp.

Three hits later, Rufus is on the ground.

After four, he is out cold.

When I offer my hand again, Lily accepts it readily.

Everyone watches us leave, but no one says anything else.

Neither do we. Not for the entire drive home. The time for words is behind us.

It’s time to claim what I’ve been waiting far too long to make mine.

24

Finn

“Where’s your dad?”

It’s the first time either of us have spoken in nearing fifteen minutes, and it forces me to confront the reality of what I’m doing.

Bringing Lily back to my house. To my room.

To fuck her.

What in the hell am I doing?

“Not here,” I assure her. And myself. “He has a standing date with a fuck buddy every Saturday.”

The woman is a doctor or something. Too busy to date but horny enough to mess around with my dad once a week. It’s a good arrangement. At one time, I admired it, wondering if I’d settle into something similar in the future.

Now, I wonder if one night a week could ever be enough.

I have my answer now: fuck no.

At least, not if the woman is Lily.

The house is silent and tidy—much different than the last time Lily was here for the party—and she stops to admire some of the décor. I can tell she is stalling, nervous to go up to my room.

“Do you want a drink?” I point to the liquor cabinet, and she nods.

I don’t make drinks. I take shots, and I drink to get drunk. So I pour a few fingers of whiskey in a glass, take a long drink, and then hand it to her. She winces as the liquid burns down her throat but doesn’t complain.

“Who is this?”

I follow her finger to the picture hidden in the corner of a built-in bookshelf. It is small and in a simple wooden frame.

But it’s nothing more than proof my father can point to when I try to tell him he has forgotten about the rest of our family.

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