Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys, #4)

by C.M. Stunich

Instead, I’m going to soak my pretty, pink dress in blood.

Victor tells me, checking his phone as we pass through the automatic doors of the emergency room and into the diffused gray of a December evening.

“You don’t have to be ashamed that you couldn’t take someone’s life; that’s a virtue.”

“Like how you told yourself all night that you were dreaming of bloodshed, and then bitched out at the last second? You are pathetic, Bernadette.” Kali’s ghost is still there, at the edge of my vision, a flickering hallucination sent to torment me from beyond the grave.

“Don’t forget: I’m the son of a serial killer. Might be best not to piss me off.”

According to Oscar, I have cheap taste, but I can at least tell you how fucking hard you make me.”

“Get away from me,” I groan, because I have awful intimacy issues. When Vic says things like that, I just … I don’t know how to process.

“Bernie … if I weren’t around, do you think you’d be okay?” She smiles at me and reaches out to cup the side of my face. “You’re so much stronger than I am, you know that?”

I bat her hand away. I bat it away because I feel like I’ll be able to have her touch me like that forever, like my sister is as permanent as the sun and endless as the moon.

“Are very different. You I knew I wouldn’t kill. So I fucked you. Right here on this couch.”

“That’s why I’m chain-smoking,” he explains, lifting up a nearly full ashtray in explanation. “Because I hate math.”

Why are you pretending you can still act aloof and disinterested when all you want is to tie me up and fuck the shit out of me?”

“He tried to strangle me. And now it’s become a fetish of mine. How fucked-up is that?”

Well, fuck me. I did not see that one coming.

You are living proof that the world can try its hardest to crush a person’s soul and still fail.

You are second chances and beautiful beginnings, Bernadette.

“So you agree then? You agree that private schools give the wealthy an advantage over the lower classes?”

James and Trinity … are both Maxwell Barrasso’s children. And, apparently, that doesn’t stop them from fucking each other. Interesting.