Page 32 of Cruel Academy (Princes of Ravenlake Academy 2)

Even by my own mother.

Her hand hangs in the air for a minute. She looks disappointed but lowers her arm and pins on a smile anyway.

“Your dad and I will talk about increasing your allowance. Fifty dollars per month should be more than enough since we are already taking care of gas and clothes. What else could you need?”

Oh, nothing much, just thousands of dollars to pay off my drug dealing biker ex-boyfriend who thinks I owe him a major debt and won’t stop until he gets even.

The thought sears into my brain until I’m sure it’s written on my forehead.

I duck my head and turn towards the door. “Nothing. I don’t need anything. Now, I really gotta go or I’ll be late.”

My mom yells a goodbye as the door slams shut.

I look over towards Finn’s house as I go to my car. I know Caleb doesn’t actually live there, but I’m still disappointed when I don’t see his truck.

He scared me yesterday. I’ll never tell him that, but the second he pulled me back against him, his voice a harsh whisper in my ear, I was transported to another place entirely.

A dingy apartment near the train tracks on the bad side of town.

The floor rumbling.

Train horn blaring.

Trapped in another man’s arms while words crueler than anything Caleb could ever say were being whispered in my ear, over and over again like a mantra.

Until my heart beat the curses.

Pumped through my veins.

Until I believed them. Until I became them. Until they almost broke me.

Outside of John’s closest friends, Caleb is one of the only people who know how bad things got with John.

He saw it firsthand.

Even worse, he tried to help. He was theonlyone who tried to help.

And what did I do?

I punished him for it.

It’s no wonder he hates me.

I’m so lost in my thoughts and guilt that I don’t notice the piece of paper stuck under my windshield wiper until I’m seated in my car.

It can’t be a ticket because I’m parked in my own driveway. Unless this fancy-ass neighborhood takes issue with fifteen-year-old cars with rusted-out underbellies.

I get back out, frowning, and pluck the paper out from under the wiper.

It’s a single piece of printer paper—definitely not a ticket—and there is a message hastily scribbled in permanent marker. The marker is so fresh I can still smell it.

Finally brave enough to come out of your hole? I haven’t forgotten. You owe me, bitch.

Chills race down my spine.

Goose bumps bloom across my arms and legs.

A primal kind of fear curdles my stomach.

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