Kings of Quarantine (Brutal Boys of Everlake Prep, #1)

by Caroline Peckham

“Oh, and, princess?” “Yes, sir?” she practically snarled. “Don’t forget about your detention.” “Can’t wait,” she muttered before striding away and I finally let myself grin.

“I imagine the only one you deem special enough to fuck you is yourself. So give your right hand my regards. She’s a very lucky girl.”

“If you’ve brought me out here to suck my cock, then I would have preferred to do it in the warm somewhere,” I joked, taking a swig from my whiskey bottle as I moved to take a seat in one of the huge wooden chairs that sat on the balcony. Saint eyed me for a long moment, his gaze slipping over my black jeans, leather jacket and the blood red T-shirt beneath it which had a tear in it. It was fucking perfect. Saint bait. He knew it. I knew it. A hole in my shirt. Classic.

Saint eyed me for a long moment, his gaze slipping over my black jeans, leather jacket and the blood red T-shirt beneath it which had a tear in it. It was fucking perfect. Saint bait. He knew it. I knew it. A hole in my shirt. Classic.

“You look like shit, Saint,” she purred. “What happened, did your house elf forget to iron your uniform today?”

“Kyan?” a little louder that time which made him roll over and mutter one of his infamous sleeping bullshit quotes. “I can stick the pineapple up your ass or down your throat, either way them prickles are gonna hurt like a bitch,” he mumbled and I snorted a laugh.

It occurred to me that Harry Potter had had it easy in comparison to the Lord Coldemort who was currently making my life a misery. At least Harry had had friends. And Dumbledore. Man, I wish I had a Dumbledore. I supposed Monroe kinda counted. He was like a hot Dumbledore you wanted to Slytherin to bed with and suck his Elder wand.

Asshole that he was, he at least had a sense of humour. Unlike Lord Coldemort and Sir Hates-a-lot.