In the Arms of the Elite (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep, #4)

by C.M. Stunich

Only to run into the rest of the Bluebloods. And when I say Bluebloods, I mean the original Bluebloods, the ones from my list. “Marnye,” Tristan says, turning around to look at me. He smiles, and my heart turns to ice and shatters in my chest. I refuse to believe it. I refuse. He looks me dead in the eye and says just one word. “Run.” I don’t hesitate for even half a second before I do. You think you know how this story ends. You don't.

Then again, I hate secrets. They're like splinters. If you just pull them out right away, the pain is minimal. Leave them buried and they get infected. Leave them long enough and you have to cut the skin to stop the pain. No thank you.

“I've already said my piece: the girl is a snake in the grass. Get a fucking lawnmower, Marnye.” Miranda

“She knows you're in love with Tristan—” “I never said love,” I choke out, but Miranda ignores me. “She knows you're head over heels for that asshole, and yet here she comes with a love confession several years too late? If you want my opinion, she's a vulture picking at the carrion of a relationship long past its expiration date. Bet she's a spy for the Harpies.”

“If she really does love him, it's better she says it now. I mean, if he wants to be with her then …” My voice trails off, and my stomach twists into the shape of an infinity symbol. Obviously, I can't see it, but that's what it feels like. Ugh. “He does not want to be with her,” Miranda says, lifting up the two dresses and then holding one over me, and then the other. She switches back and forth a few times, and then shakes her head, returning both to the closet. “He's seriously obsessed with you. They all are. Still, I'm #TeamCreed, sooo …”

“I am nobody's pet,” I tell her, my voice stern. I know when she looks at me, she can see it, too. And it's not because Miranda put cute, loose curls in my rose-gold hair. It's not the designer dress. It's not even the expensive necklace hanging between my breasts. It's all coming from the inside. “And I am a Blueblood. We don't tolerate bullying at Burberry Prep, not anymore. I won't put up with it.” Isabella opens her mouth, closes it, huffs. Her brown eyes, as familiar as the ones in my reflection, close. When she opens them back up, they're burning with fire and humiliation. And then … she goes and does it, tosses her hair. She executes the move flawlessly. Damn it.

then tuck my fingers into the pockets of the sexy, little cocktail dress. Wow. I would never have expected Tristan Vanderbilt to pick out a dress with pockets on it, especially not the Tristan from two years ago.

“This better be good,” I grumble, rubbing at my sleep-crusted eyes and throwing the front door open. My eyes widen, and a small squeak escapes my lips. Fuck. This'll teach me to check the peephole for, like, murderers and stuff. That is, murderers and tatted rock star boys. “Whoa there, Working Girl, are you rocking duckie pj's?” Zayd asks, throwing out this devilish little grin as he pinches the shoulder of my pajamas and then leans in for a kiss.

“What on earth are you wearing?” a lazy voice drawls from somewhere behind Zayd. My eyes snap open, and I'm pushing back against Zayd's chest as he howls with laughter and releases me. My footie pajamas slip on the hardwood floor, and if Zayd didn't step forward to catch me again, I would've fallen right on my ass. Creed moves into the shadows of the house, giving me that devil-may-care smile of his as he walks over and sits down on the sofa, right on top of his sister. She barely stirs as he reaches out and pokes a finger in the center of her forehead. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” he purrs,

“Did you two stay up late partying last night? That's awfully naughty of you, Marnye.” “I, we …” I start, but then I catch sight of Zack moving down the steps of the giant silver and black bus that's parked in front of my house. I'd be in awe of the size of the thing—it takes up the length of our yard plus the driveway and then some—if I weren't so focused on the boy with the broad shoulders and the rounded biceps. Do not drool, Marnye, not cool.

“What happened to Tristan and Windsor?” “Oh, they're here alright,” Zayd says, making sure I'm settled on my feet before he lets go, his eyes scanning my pajama-clad form with interest. Heat suffuses my cheeks, and I start to back up, intending to escape to my bedroom before Tristan or Windsor come in and see me dressed like this. I'm embarrassed enough as it is, but somehow the thought of those two seeing me wearing fuzzy baby duck pj’s … “Oh no, you don't.” Zayd grabs me by the wrist and pulls me forward, keeping me from the safety of my closed bedroom door, and a pair of tight jeans and a cute top.

he has this swagger to his walk that makes me smile … That is, before the two boys step out of the sunshine and into the darkness of the house. That's when their gazes both go straight to my outfit, and my face flames up like an inferno. Something strange passes over Tristan's gaze, an almost unbelievable warmth, maybe even a strange sort of tenderness, but then it's gone, and he's cocking a perfectly sculpted dark brow at me. “You look ridiculous. Where on earth did you find a pair of pajamas so hideous?”

There's a fierce, quiet possession in that kiss that steals my breath away. It also feels like maybe … Windsor isn't the impermeable, unshakable force he pretends to be. It feels like he needs me in that moment, and I like it. I want to be there for him the way he was for me from the first second we met. “The pajamas are quite nice, love. Very sexy.”

Do you have a bathroom I could use?” I give him the nicest, prettiest smile I can muster. “No, we're peasants, so all we have is an outhouse.” Pretty sure Creed, Zayd, and Tristan all look at me like they're not a hundred percent sure whether they believe me or not. A small laugh escapes me, and I point down the hall. “First door on the right.”

“Out of the kindness of my heart, I've even graciously invited your other boyfriends. What do you think, Charity? Doesn't that generosity deserve another kiss?” “Don't be a lewd asshole,” Zack growls, giving Zayd a particularly unfriendly sort of look.

“Let's kidnap her in those pajamas,” Creed drawls, yawning and stretching his arms above his white-blond head. “Quite frankly, they turn me on like nothing else.” “Shush up, barely-ex-virgin,” Miranda grumbles, letting go of Lizzie and taking my hand. “I will dress the love of your lives up, no worries. Give us twenty minutes.”

“I know. But what's done is done. Lizzie can either back off, or I can make her back off. Now, try this dress on and let's see if we can get five guys to get boners all at once.” “Oh, well, that's romantic,” I mutter, but now I'm smiling, too.

What say you we kick all the rest of these bastards to the curb for the night, and have a little sleepover in here? I'll give the driver the night off …” “My dad might not like that very much,” I murmur, but I know I'm getting close to turning eighteen. He won't have much of a say over what I can and can't do. The thing is, I love him and respect him, and I wouldn't want to cause him unnecessary stress either. “What Dad doesn't know won't hurt him,” Zayd whispers, running his tongue up the curve of my ear. “Maybe it won't bother her dad, but it certainly bothers me,” Tristan says,

my mind goes to the naughtiest places. I wonder what it'd be like with Zayd on one side and Tristan on the other? Oh dear. I might've spent too much time reading that book, Groupie, that Miranda gave me a few days ago. It's a reverse harem story where the main character gets all five boys to herself. Like … what I have. But, it ends that way, too. She doesn't have to choose. Lucky bitch.

“I'm a homeless vagrant now,” Tristan drawls, leaning his shoulder against the kitchen cabinets and watching us with sharp, silver eyes. “Does that make you happy, Zayd? Do you lather up your dick with lotion and dream about it?” “No, I lather my dick up and dream about Marnye,” Zayd retorts with a smirk, grabbing me again. I wiggle out of his arms and cast a look over my shoulder. “You shithead,” I grumble, but I'm not entirely displeased at his statement.

“It doesn't matter. I'll sleep at the homeless shelter if I have to.” You wouldn't survive a single night, I think as I narrow my eyes and unscrew the cap on my drink. “There's no reason for that. You can stay with me for the rest of the summer.” “Wait, what?” Zayd asks as I stand up. I give him a frosty look. “Well, he has to stay somewhere, doesn't he? I guess he'll be just steps away from my bedroom door for the next few months.” “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Zayd inserts, holding up his hands and backpedaling a little. “Of course he can stay with me. We're almost sorta, kinda friends.” “I wouldn't go that far,” Tristan says, narrowing his eyes and sighing.

“That's your question? You don't want to ask about my father, or about Lizzie, or even why I tried so hard to beat you during third year?” “You always try hard to beat me. What's new? Tell me where you applied.” Tristan pauses, leaning back in his seat as he studies me carefully. “Harvard.” Of course. “Stanford.” Expected. “Brown.” Interesting choice. “Oxford.” That's too freaking far away. Tristan takes another drink of his beer, watching my face like he's expecting a certain type of reaction from me. “Bornstead.”

“What are you doing?” “Stopping you from running away,” I say, holding my arms wide. Might be a tad dramatic, but that's okay. I don't care. Tristan Vanderbilt is a man used to getting whatever he wants. Well, what he wants right now is to take the easy road and run from me. I'm not having it. He'll have to get used to compromise. “You think you're such a bad man, but you're not. Are you a spoiled brat? Sure. Do you have a lick of cruelty in your blood? Yes. But … I like you anyway.”

“Why are you fighting this so hard?” “You don't understand how complicated my life is, Marnye. I can't just skip off into the sunset. Not with you or anyone else.” He goes to pull his arm from my grip, but I refuse to let go, and Tristan ends up pushing me against the counter.

“Why won't you leave me alone? You have four other guys slobbering for your affections. They all have money, and much less complicated families than I do.” He pauses and looks away for a minute. “Although if you were smart, you'd untangle yourself from the Infinity Club, and you'd run as far and fast as—”

“I want to fuck you so badly,” he murmurs, and I shiver, leaning my head against his. “But I can't.” “Why not?” I whisper, because he's holding me so tight right now. I can just imagine us taking things a step further than we did in his room that day … “Because I use sex like a weapon. I won't wield it against you.”

I'm sure he'll be excited to see my five boyfriends hanging out at his house. “Marnye,” he starts, eyeing the giant bus with a raised eyebrow. It's so long it blocks the driveway; Dad had to park on the street in front of the neighbor's house. “What's all this?” “This is just a, uh, home away from home,” I say, smiling as I hold out a hand to indicate the giant silver and black monstrosity overshadowing our neighborhood. “I hope you don't mind that my friends stopped by for a bit …”

“Mr. Reed,” Windsor greets, coming out of the house with Zack on his heels. The former has no problem sauntering up to shake hands with my father while the latter … The shame on his face is reflected in Creed's. Zayd just looks nervous while Tristan's completely blank. “Oh, right. Those friends.” Dad sighs,

“You're such a nice boy,” Dad says, but then cringes slightly. “I mean, I guess you're all nearly eighteen, so I should say man.” “I'm just thankful you allow me to date your daughter,” Windsor tells him, and I love how it just goes over everyone's head that Wind's 'great-grandmother' is the Queen of freaking England.

He hasn’t forgiven them yet, and I can’t blame him. I’m more likely to forgive something done to me versus something done to a person I love.

“Why do you like me?” I ask, genuinely curious. I'm not fishing for compliments or looking for validation, I just want to know. Windsor cocks a red brow at me. “Mm, interesting question,” he says, looking up at the sky for a moment. When he glances back down at me, there's a much softer expression on his face that makes me shiver. “Now? Or when I first saw you? Those, Milady, are two different answers.” “Now,” I say firmly, exhaling and enjoying the warmth of his hand pressed up against mine. Wind nods, like he expected as much. “Now, it’s because you’re a person who isn’t swayed by the easy things in life. You demand heart and sacrifice, kindness, generosity. Those sorts of acts aren’t easy. I admire you in a way I’ve never admired anyone else.”

“There’s a purity in you that very well might cancel out the darkness in me. Marnye, I’m not ashamed to admit it: I want you, and I’m willing to fight for the privilege of calling you mine.”

Logically, I know Windsor York has no control over my father's cancer. Logically. But there's no logic in a broken heart.

“Lucia seems to really like you. And you're on a first-name basis, too?” Zack gives me a cocky grin and leans down, close enough to kiss. “I don't know if you're aware, but I'm a fucking football star. I can have any girl I want.” “Uh-huh,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

“He's dying, you know,” I tell Zack as Dad drives away. “I know,” he whispers, and since Charlie's gone, I give myself a few minutes to cry while Zack holds me. He does it so gently, so selflessly … I'm positive then that I've well and truly forgiven him.

“Shame. Anger. Hatred. Not toward you though, but toward myself. I don’t know if you remember me screaming. I don’t think I stopped until they took you away, and I punched the wall so hard I broke my knuckle.”

still cracked from that incident so long ago. It’s like life, I guess, how one small action can change the fate of the world forever.

“Miranda says you’re too perfect,” I tell him, turning around and trying to gauge his reaction. “She says you do all the right things and say all the right things, but that you’re probably full of shit.” Zack grins and shrugs his shoulders. “She’s probably right. Marnye, I’m not a nice person. I’m learning, but … I still have a long way to go.”

“Nah, you're different than most girls for sure,” Zayd says, voice softening, green eyes going half-lidded. That sensual look of his only lasts so long as it takes Miranda to chuck her empty beer bottle at him. He dodges it and it plunks into the sink. “What the fuck was that for?” “Saying someone isn't 'like most girls',” Miranda starts, making little quotes with her fingers, “is misogynistic as fuck. It implies there's something wrong with being like a girl in the first place. Don't do it.”

replaces it with a loose black tank that says Feminist AF in white cursive on the front. My mouth breaks into a huge grin, and Zayd grins right back at me. “Pretty fantastic, huh?” he asks as Windsor sips his tea and studies him. “I'd wear it,” he adds,

“You're trying way too hard to be cool. In reality, you're just a douchebag like all the rest of us.”

I liken Zayd to a poisonous tree frog (I’ve told him this, by the way) because he’s very pretty to look at, but he’s deadly to touch.

“Hey Charity,” he says, and Zack makes this irritated sound under his breath. “Yes, Zayd-Gets-the-Girls-Made?” I ask, blinking my lashes prettily. He raises both brows at me as Creed snorts. “That’s seriously the worst bad boy nickname known to man. Why don’t you just call yourself Two-Pump-Chump? That has more oomph somehow.” “Ah, don’t be jealous, man,” Zayd says, leaning his palms on the table and giving me this super saucy look. “If Charity’s heard that awful nickname, then that means she’s been lookin’ me up online, eh?”

“Did you need spank-bank material, Working Girl?” “You are so gross,” I groan, but he’s at least partially right. I did look him up and find that horrible, awful, not-even-a-very-good-rhyme nickname.

“Guys!” Zayd shouts as the door opens and this huge dude with a beard walks in. “I got me a proper girlfriend!” He lifts me up, and laughter spills from my throat. I can’t help it. Besides the fact that we’ve got some sort of crazy, natural chemistry, this is why I liked him so much during first year. He’s got a natural charm—when he’s not being a total bully, that is. “This isn’t the poor girl you tortured, is it?”

But as I said, there’s no logic in a broken heart. None in a lovesick one either.

“That’s my girlfriend’s other boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend,” Zayd says, and his friends look at him like he’s lost his damn mind. “Yeah, I forgot to mention that I’m like, poly or something now.” Zayd

“Starting with the English bloke on the end, that’s Windsor, you guys know Creed, Zack the football douche, and then Tristan.” “Your girlfriend has five boyfriends?” Blond Tips asks, and Zayd shrugs.

“I’m not entirely available,” Lizzie says, glancing over at Tristan. He looks back at her, but says nothing again. Nothing. Why isn’t he saying anything?! “I’ve just confessed my love to Tristan. I’m waiting on an answer.” “Whoa, the plot thickens,” Aiden says, ruffling his frost-tipped hair.

“Congratulations on your new girlfriend,” Bern says, giving Zayd a dark sort of look. “Try not to fuck this relationship up, okay? She’s a good one, I can tell.” He smiles at me and then moves over to grab a beer.