Page 96 of Cruel Academy (Princes of Ravenlake Academy 2)

He stands tall, takes a deep breath, and tips his head in greeting. “Caleb.”

I look between them both, the sight of them standing so close both familiar and foreign, and suck in a hissing breath.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

35

Caleb

I look like my dad.

Anyone who knows him and then sees me guesses the connection before they even hear my name. We have the same build, the same coloring.

And the same damn temper.

My mom is the one who often points out our hotheaded similarities. “Just like your dad,” she’ll mumble under her breath whenever I lose my shit.

Before she left us alone, my mom whispered in my ear for me to keep my temper.

But seeing as how I’m already near boiling, I don’t see how that will be possible.

“Does your mom let you speak to her like that?” Dad asks, folding his hands in front of him on the table. A thin attempt at diplomacy.

“Mom is here all the time, so I’m never surprised enough at the sight of her to warrant cursing.”

His jaw flexes. “You wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d answer your phone once in a while.”

“I also wouldn’t have been surprised if you knew how to take a hint.” I arch a brow, driving home my point—that he’s not fucking welcome in this house.

He holds my gaze for a minute before he sighs and slouches down in his chair, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I give up. I’ve tried to reach out to you, to keep some kind of relationship, but you won’t give me a chance.”

“I want a dad, not a pen pal.”

He asked me if I was okay with it when he wanted to leave town. He sat me down at this kitchen table, explained his plans, and asked if I would be okay.

I told him no.

Later, I realized he didn’t want my permission. He wanted my approval. And it turns out, even that wasn’t a dealbreaker. He was fine moving without either.

If he didn’t care what I thought then, why should I care what he thinks now?

“That’s not fair,” he says, jabbing a finger in the air between us. “You are shutting me out. How are we supposed to be close if you don’t call or visit or make any effort?”

“I’m the kid!” I yell, hating how immature it makes me sound. “I’m not supposed to make the effort. You are.”

He throws his arms wide. “And here I am.”

I roll my eyes. “Good on you, Dad. You managed to show upaftermy football game. Well done.”

His hand flexes on the table, itching to curl into a fist. I recognize the desire because it is one I fight constantly. A slow breath blows out of his nose as he tries to stay calm. “Maybe if you’d call me for anything other than money, I’d know when your games are.”

“I haven’t called you for money in over a year,” I growl.

“I know!” he yells. “Which is why we haven’t actually talked in almost a year. And your insulting ‘fine’ texts don’t count. I’m trying, Caleb, but you don’t care about me unless I’m giving you money.”

I snort. “That’s funny because there doesn’t seem to be much money to go around, either. I’ve been taking care of myself for years.”

“That attitude right there is what I’m talking about. You’re ungrateful, Caleb. You refuse to acknowledge or be grateful for any of the things I do for you.”

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