Page 95 of Cruel Academy (Princes of Ravenlake Academy 2)

Except, I can’t help but wonder if Haley is going to try to text me.

J.C. has been making cracks about me being whipped. Joking is as natural as breathing for him. But he’s not totally wrong.

I’m not whipped.

But I’m definitely… something.

I haven’t been with anyone else in weeks. Haven’t even wanted to be with anyone else. I’ve spent my free time with Haley, training and fucking and … talking.

Talking?

When is the last time I talked with a girl? Never. Not because I’m some asshole who thinks women don’t have anything interesting to say. But because talking to a woman implies you want something more than a good fuck out of them.

Before Haley, that had never been true.

Now, I don’t know what the fuck I want.

I want to keep her safe. That has become one of the most important things to me.

Seeing how scared she was of even the memory of Bumper is part of the reason I couldn’t keep hating her.

It’s a lesson I’ve learned over and over while fighting. When someone is weak and helpless, you can be annoyed by them, and you can feel bad for them, but you can’t hate them.

Unfortunately, Haley is no longer weak or helpless.

So I’m officially in uncharted waters.

After the game, Noah and J.C. and the guys want to go get drunk to celebrate, but I’m not in the mood. Haley never showed at the game. It’s got me pissed off.

I’d like to spend some time with my mom anyway. She has been coming and going so much, taking on extra shifts at work and the bar to cover some of the unexpected costs we’ve incurred, so I haven’t seen her much.

“If you’re going to see your girlfriend instead of hang with us, I swear—” J.C. says, grinning and rolling his eyes.

“Not my girlfriend.” I raise my brows in an unspoken threat when he opens his mouth to argue.

J.C. shakes his head and holds up his hands in surrender.

I nod bye to everyone and hop in my truck. Briefly, I consider turning on my phone to see if Haley sent some excuse.

But if she did, it will still be there in the morning. I’ll respond then. Let her think I didn’t care enough to check.

On some level, I know thinking through all of this is its own kind of desperation—even if no one is witness to it.

But I shove the thought away and head home.

I’m so lost in my head that I don’t pay attention to the car parked along the curb in front of my house.

I don’t even register that, instead of the usual silence I’m met with when I walk through the door, I hear voices.

The same voices I grew up hearing all my life, laughing and fighting and bantering.

I follow the voices to the kitchen, stopping just outside the door when the realization washes over me.

The voices stop. And when I round the corner, two sets of eyes land on me.

Mom is leaning against the dishwasher, arms crossed, and an apologetic crease between her brows.

Across from her is my dad.

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