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Killian and his best friends, Dimitri Rathbone and Tristian Mercer, are inseparable, spending all their time together as the reigning kings of our high school. The three of them comprise the complete royalty of the senior class.
These three share everything, and they protect what’s theirs.
Tristian is insanely good-looking. He’s all blond hair, tan skin, and lean, hard muscle. I know that, out of the three of them, he does best with the girls. Much like Killian and Rath, he’s also enormous. Intimidating not just because of his size, wealth, and popularity, but mostly because of something else. His smile never quite reaches his eyes. They’re ice blue and carry a glint of cool detachment. Just looking into them
Rath is the opposite of Tristian, with his inky-black hair, lip piercings, pale skin, and dark eyes. He’s quieter than the other two, those intense eyes always watching, tracking.
Rath has a leather journal in his lap, scribbling notes inside. Wireless headphones are plugged in his ears. The lines of his jaw are sharper than before, more defined by the dark scruff of his beard, and he has a new nose piercing to go with the two in his bottom lip. His hair is a bit longer, shaggier around the ears, and his body is long, taking up the entire leather loveseat. He still has the same presence I remember from high school, like the light bends around him, making his aura just a touch darker than everything else.
Tristian sits across from him, and time has served him just as well. His cheekbones are sharper than I remember, hair still an immaculate sweep of pale gold. He has a man’s face, now. Full lips and long, dark eyelashes that oppose his fair hair. He’s scrolling through his phone, smirking at whatever he’s perusing. He almost looks nice.
Killian, my stepbrother. I almost don’t recognize him. His eyes are cast down at the floor, jaw flexing around something that looks frustrated and impatient. He’s bigger than before, probably a half a foot taller, wider across the shoulders and chest. His shirt looks handmade, fitted perfectly to accentuate the bulging muscles in his arms and chest. Below that is the sprawling canvas of ink that his skin has become. His arms are absolutely covered in tattoos. No single one stands out more than the others, but I can clearly see the word ‘KILL’ spelled out across his rough knuckles. If the boy I
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Rath pulls the buds from his ears slowly, one by one, dark eyes assessing me.
For the Lords, the prize isn’t in the Lady herself. It’s in the possession of her.
“Only thing worse than bartering pills with a dozen bitter old hags is working for you three dickless cockroaches.”
Being their toy will be easy. The hard part will be deciding who I want to lose more.
She didn’t seem inclined to attend dinner with the sentient manifestations of Satan’s genitalia. Can’t say I blame her. You’ve got the personalities of an anal itch. Don’t know how I stand it.”
“Actually, I was talking to Ms. Crane.” He gives her a wink and the old woman sneers back. “Don’t you get fresh with me, you failed abortion.”
There is nothing god-like about Tristian Mercer. If anything, he’s a demon.
I’m beginning to sink into the acceptance that I’ll know what comes when they want me to know. It’s a sobering realization to have, knowing that this is shaping me, molding me into someone compliant and quiet.
“That I would know how to handle being bullied?” I give a dark laugh, hardly able to believe it. “You brought your glorified sexual assault victim to teach your little sisters about…what? Standing up to assholes? Bringing them down? Shaking it off?” I shake my head. “Jesus, Tristian, Shakespeare couldn’t write this kind of irony.”
“Ask any woman. Most have had some kind of experience at some point in their lives. Hell, I’m only nineteen and I’ve yet to meet a guy who didn’t..."
I want to know how he reconciles protecting one girl as he’s hurting another. I want to know what he tells himself to make it feel okay.
They have my blood, and now they’re about to meet my fire. Because I’m going to burn this motherfucker down.
