Page 17 of Cruel Academy (Princes of Ravenlake Academy 2)

“If you’d let me get a job, I could afford to pay for some things myself. Like clothes and lunches.”

“We aren’t worried about the money,” she says, cutting me off quickly. “Besides, you should focus on school. We all want things to be different this year. No distractions.”

I’ve been begging my parents all summer to let me get a part-time job. I need one. Badly.

John may have left me alone so far, but he never forgets a debt. Eventually, he’ll come to collect what I owe him.

And when he does, I’m going to be royally fucked.

“Things will be different here, right?” Mom asks softly, her eyes wide and angled down in nervousness.

She is speaking about John, but without saying his name. My parents like to pretend John didn’t exist. Like if they don’t speak of him, maybe he’ll simply go away.

Wishful thinking. I’ve been trying that since the day I ran screaming from John’s abusive clutches.

It hasn’t worked.

9

Haley

I hate being late. And running out the door of my house half-dressed with a Pop-Tart in my hand isn’t doing much to calm me down.

Add to that the fact that I’m headed to my first day of school at Ravenlake Academy, and you’ve got the recipe for a full-blown anxiety attack.

I don’t know where I’m going as I park at the ass end of the senior parking lot and race out of my car into what is hands down the creepiest school building of all time.

Before it was a school for the privileged and wealthy, Ravenlake Prep was a church.

Not just any church. A creepy-ass, Gothic church with tall black steeples that stand tall enough you can see them from almost anywhere in town. I half-expect to see the flaming eyeball from the Lord of the Rings movies glaring at me.

In fact, I’m so busy staring up at the roof that I don’t see anyone in front of me.

At least, not until I crash into them face-first.

Hands grip my bare upper arms to steady me. Strong, male hands.

I look up, prepared to apologize, when I see the literal last person I wanted to see.

Based on the set of his jaw and the flare of his nostrils, it doesn’t seem like I’m exactly brightening Caleb Wilson’s day, either.

“What in the hell are you doing?” he asks.

He’s still holding onto my shoulders. I can’t help but notice his cologne, too. Something cool and murky, if that’s even a thing.

I don’t know. I’m feeling very flustered all of the sudden.

So much for my plan to stay invisible.

In the dark on Saturday night, I wasn’t able to appreciate Caleb’s appearance up close. Whenever I’ve seen him at the fights, he’s sweaty and bloody, his light brown hair plastered to his forehead.

But now, he is coiffed and polished and smells like the rich, arrogant asshole that he is.

“I asked you a question, Cochran,” he rumbles.

Before I can say anything, I hear the faint sound of the bell ringing for homeroom.

A jolt of panic shoots through me. I try to squirm out of his grip. “Going to class. I’m late, so let me go.”

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