Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 89074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“If Hunter has anything to do with this attack, I’m going to end him,” I say.
“It’s not him,” Weston interjects.
He’s still looking out the window, but there’s a finality to his voice.
“How do you know that?”
Weston’s tone is brittle. “Because my father just texted me, five minutes ago. Hunter’s at his house for dinner. He isn’t on campus yet.”
A hot pool of shame eats away at every nerve in my body.
“Whatever,” I mutter.
Weston finally looks up at me, holding his chin high. “You talk about my brother so much I swear you want to fuck him, Rayne.”
“Stop.”
“He’s on a loop in your head. Rent free. Call me when I have my best friend back, ok?”
Wes heads upstairs and slams his bedroom door shut, the sound reverberating through the whole house.
2
Hunter
Crimson College has one thing that I need.
One.
And I’m on my way there now.
The only place I can channel the bitter rage inside me like it’s lightning finding a conduit.
I slide my fingers over the outline of the knife in my front pocket as I make my way across the perfect green grass of the campus.
This is their little kingdom.
My brother and his perfect golden-boy best friend are here, somewhere. And it’s already making my fingers twitch over my knife.
Thinking of my brother’s face has always made me want to push a pillow over it until he suffocates.
He’d say the same about me.
Weston and I have never gotten along, and none of that is going to change now.
I escaped to London for the past two years, far away from my brother.
But that time overseas came to a bitter, ugly end, now didn’t it?
I bite down on the inside of my cheek.
When I taste blood I know I’m finally biting hard enough.
Maybe Crimson College can have one other thing to offer me.
Something to keep me from burning the place to ash.
It’s been a few weeks since someone last touched my cock.
I’m starting to feel neglected.
I’ll find a pretty girl to fuck by tonight, someone who likes to fight back when I toy with her. A woman who likes it when I make her beg for more, but who won’t give it to me easy.
Someone with enough fire to match mine.
My chest tightens as I gaze over the Crimson College quad. It’s all tall oak trees, stone buildings, and wrought iron fences covered in green moss and ivy.
What a fucking joke.
The type of prestige and wealth I’ve been surrounded by for my whole life.
And a new secret society that Weston and his infuriating bestie are part of.
Well, I’m part of it too, now.
Hope you’re fucking ready.
I keep my eyes focused on the giant building ahead.
The one thing that I truly need in life other than sex.
This place apparently has an excellent gym building, with rooms for dozens and dozens of different classes, rooms filled with rowing equipment, yoga studios, and multiple weightlifting rooms.
And the most important.
A fencing gym.
Somewhere I’m allowed to try to hurt someone.
Where it’s encouraged.
Where violence is nice, safe, and structured for people who can’t handle it when it’s messy, ugly, and raw.
I push open the double doors of the physical fitness building and walk inside. The smell of fresh rubber fills the air, the universal scent of athletics. The main hallway in the gym is crowded with students.
As I walk past the rows of lockers and look into the rooms, I see students swimming in a big indoor lap pool, working out on rowing machines, and a group playing volleyball.
When I get to the fencing gym, it’s the first time I feel like I’m home since stepping foot on this campus.
The gym is small but beautiful, with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side that look out over grassy hills full of pine and oak trees.
Inside, there are mats on the floor and a wall full of swords.
Metal.
Weapons.
These are a few of my favorite things...
The fencing instructor is already waiting for me. He looks up, giving me a nod from the corner of the room.
“You must be Hunter Knox,” he says.
“And you’re David Hemson,” I say, shaking his hand.
He’s in his fifties, probably, with grey hair. When I transferred to this college, the fencing instructor was the first person I looked up.
Another student joins us soon after. Her shiny black hair is tied up in a high ponytail, and she’s probably only about five foot three, which can make for a very agile sparring partner.
“This is Briar Zhang, one of our new junior fencers,” Coach Hemson says. “You’re both transfers. If you’d like to try out for our competitive team, I’ll spar with you, and then Briar will.”
“Pleasure,” Briar says, pulling off a glove and reaching out to shake my hand.
Her eyes travel up and down my body in a way I’m used to seeing.
People always like how I look.
It’s just my personality they can’t handle.