Page 18 of Cruel Academy (Princes of Ravenlake Academy 2)

He grips me tighter. “You don’t go to school here.”

“Tell that to my homeroom teacher.” I wade through the inappropriate thoughts in my brain—most of which have to do with the way Caleb’s deft tongue snakes out and licks his lips—and search for my homeroom teacher’s name. “Mr. Perrin, I think? You can explain to him why I’m not in class right now.”

He presses his lips together into a flat line. They’re surprisingly beautiful for a man who spends most of his time punching other people in the mouth. I can see the tendons straining in his neck.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” Caleb says again with a grim tone.

“I know,” I huff, finally tugging one of my shoulders free from his grip, though he keeps his other hand on me. I point to the school building. “I’m supposed to bein there.”

“You go to Public.”

“Used to,” I correct. “Now I’m here.”

It’s so easy for him to hold onto me. Caleb keeps control of my body like it is nothing, like it requires the barest possible effort.

I hate it. I’m so sick of being manhandled.

“You really aren’t joking.”

I gulp and nod. I’m working hard to maintain my sassy, I-don’t-give-a-fuck persona, but being this close to Caleb makes it hard.

Something about him being sends my whole body haywire.

“I never tell a lie,” I say in a lame attempt at a George Washington joke.

To literally no one’s surprise, he doesn’t laugh.

In fact, his face darkens. His brow furrows and a strand of hair falls over his forehead.

Instinctively, he reaches up and pushes it back into place, and I realize with a start that Caleb has painter’s hands. Pianist’s hands. He has the long fingers of an artist.

Meant for creating. Not destroying.

Though, the small white cuts all over his knuckles tell a different story entirely.

I shake my head to clear away the thought, even as I take another deep breath and accidentally inhale his scent.

Before I can even put the plan together in my head, I realize I’m babbling out loud. “Look. We started out on the wrong foot, okay? Let’s just … be friends.”

His eyes widen, and we both seem to realize at the same time that is never going to happen.

“Or, you know, acquaintances,” I amend. “We are two people who know one another from the underground fights and when we run into each other in the hallway, we—”

The hand on my arm tightens, his fingers digging into my flesh. “We don’t speak a word.”

There are other students in the lot, people moving slowly towards the building, not at all worried about being late on the first day of school. Not one of them looks over at the scene Caleb is causing.

Either this behavior is normal enough that they know not to interfere, or Caleb’s reputation scares them all into silence.

Either way, it’s obvious no one is going to step up and defend me.

Once again, I’m on my own.

In what I think is a quick move, I bat an arm at his elbow, trying to break his grip, but his other hand snatches my wrist and pins it to my side easily.

He isn’t even out of breath, whereas my chest is heaving like I’ve just gone for a run.

“What—?”

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