Page 90 of Cruel Elite (Princes of Ravenlake Academy 3)

Around snack time, I grab her spare car seat from the garage, install it in my car, and load her up.

As we drive, Delanie yells for me to change songs she doesn’t know, but jabbers along to the songs she does, nodding her head and kicking the back of my seat to the rhythm—or, at least, to her best approximation of the rhythm.

Life with Delanie is easy.

There are tantrums, sure, and she is still in diapers because she refuses to even attempt potty training, but her fears and desires are easy to track.

She likes music, playing pretend, and ice cream.

She’s afraid of the robotic vacuum cleaner and slides that are too high at the park.

Her problems are easy to solve, and I like being able to kiss her scraped palm or hand her a gummy bear and make everything in her world bright again.

I wish solving my own problems was so easy.

I get a large cup of frozen yogurt with strawberry slices in it for us to share, and Delanie delights in pretending the strawberries are sharks she has to spear with her spoon—her imagination is a little dark like mine.

All in all, it’s a good day.

Until we get home.

Momma’s car is in the driveway when I pull up.

Before I can even turn the car off, she storms out of the door, frantic.

“Where have you been? Where did you take her? Why didn’t you call me? What happened to her?”

She runs to the backseat and jumps inside like this is a hostage exchange.

“Samantha had a lot of homework, so I told her I could watch Delanie.”

Delanie starts relaying everything we did in the last few hours, though her words get jumbled from her excitement.

Regardless, it’s obvious she is perfectly healthy.

Still, Momma strokes her hands down my little sister’s face and kisses the end of her nose.

I can’t imagine her ever being that way with me. Even when I was small.

It’s almost impossible for me to picture my mom being… a mom.

For as long as I can remember, she has been my harshest critic, my personal trainer, and my dietician.

Never a nurturing figure. Not even once.

“She’s fine,” I say, jealousy biting at my heels. “We got frozen yogurt.”

She turns on me, her nostril flaring as she cradles Delanie close to her chest. My little sister reaches out an arm for me, but Momma tucks it back in, as if she’s protecting Delanie from me.

“Go to your room,” she grits out. “And stay there. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the night.”

* * *

Fine by me. I didn’t have plans anyway.

Sweatpants, a romantic comedy movie, and a king-size chocolate bar I keep perpetually taped under my desk in case of emergencies.

The perfect night.

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