PROLOGUE

DRAKE

SIX MONTHS AGO 

The Bacchanal is supposed to be a night of excess. Too much sex. Too many drugs.

It’s initiation night for the senior members of Havoc House, cementing them as brothers in arms after graduation and beyond. They’ll enjoy the benefits of membership for life.

But let’s be honest, tonight is just an excuse to throw the biggest party of the year.

Next year, it will be my turn.

I’m so close to being done with all this shit that I can practically taste it.

Half-naked girls shriek in fear and excitement as they scamper through the trees. Bare-chested guys in skull masks chase them through the darkness.

This night is supposed to be about fulfilling all of our darkest desires.

But not murder.

A large shape on the ground catches my attention as I wander through the trees.

The shape of girl.

At first, I think she might just be passed out.

The girl lies facedown on the ground. All I can see is tangled blonde hair filled with leaves and bits of twig. For about half a second, I tell myself that it’s just a prank. This has to be a full-size doll or particularly lifelike crash dummy laid out to spook whoever is lucky enough to walk by.

I kneel on the grass. Cold liquid seeps into the fabric of my jeans. Just like the others, I’m not wearing a shirt. The chill wind blowing over my bare chest feels like the icy breath of the Grim Reaper.

Death is coming.

Then I turn her over.

Her face is so bruised and bloody that even her own family probably wouldn’t recognize her.

I hear a shriek behind me. Anya Davenport comes running out of the shadows, her too high heels sinking into the dense ground so she stumbles a little as she reaches me.

Anya is precisely the kind of girl who wears sky high heels while running around the woods in the middle of the night.

“Oh my God. Who is that?”

I don’t look away from the girl’s face. “No fucking idea.”

“Is she dead?”

“Do I look like a doctor to you?”

“We need to call for help.”

Words I’ve heard over and over again whisper through my head.

Havoc business stays inside Havoc House.

If I call the police then this party is over. There might not be any other parties following it ever again. The school administration turns a blind eye to our activities most of the time, so do the local police. Havoc House as always had free rein on the campus of St. Bartholomew’s College.

That will change if the authorities find out we let a girl get hurt like this.

Things have gone wrong at our parties before, of course. That kind of thing is inevitable when this much alcohol and sexual tension is involved. Worst case scenario, some chick gets dropped off at the door of the emergency room so she can get her stomach pumped. We’re responsible for what happens out here, but there is a long history of otherwise reasonable adults looking the other way when Havoc Boys get into trouble.

But this is something different.

“We need to do something,” I murmur, even though I have no idea what that should be. We’re at least a mile into the forest that surrounds the campus. I’m either going to need help carrying her out or hiding her body, depending on how this situation shakes out. “Go find me the nearest Havoc Boy. Now.”

Instead of doing what she’s told, Anya puts a hand on my shoulder that I resist the urge to shake off. “Are you okay?”

I can’t stop a burst of dark laughter, even though nothing about any of this is funny. Anya stares up at me with wide eyes like I’m the one who just got the absolute shit kicked out of me. Her reaction isn’t a surprise. Nobody is going to care about the anonymous girl sprawled at my feet. Everyone knows the score when they show up for the Bacchanal.

This is a night where anything goes.

Not that it makes this right.

When I glare up at her, Anya takes an involuntary step back.

“Just go,” I growl. “You won’t like what happens if I have to tell you again.”

The simpering expression on her face changes, eyes widening with true fear.

I know what I look like, especially tonight.

My mask covers most of my face. Filigreed flowers decorate the crown. Twisted ram’s horns protrude from the top of a demonic and skeletal face that wouldn’t be out of place in the pits of hell. All that’s visible is my eyes and the lips I twist into an angry frown. Made of heavy porcelain and hand-painted with metallic black, the mask could be a work of art.

All of are masks are slightly unique, individually handcrafted by some artisan in Venice but the general theme is the same.

Lotus flowers and skulls.

The lotus represents our endless pursuit for hedonistic pleasure.

A human skull carries obvious symbolism, in addition to just being generally threatening.

Havoc House is for life and death.

The Havoc House pin, a human skull with a lotus flower carved over one eye, that we wear on the collar of shirts might as well be stuck into our skin.

Even when you’re not wearing it, the mark it leaves never fades.

I lean over the girl again. Her features are vaguely recognizable, but I still can’t place her.

I’m careful not to get any of her blood on me as I try to check if she is still breathing. Blood is evidence of what happened here. It’s messed up that I’m already considering the criminal implications of this, but it is what it is.

Havoc House is more important than one girl who was stupid enough to show up for the Bacchanal.

The pulse in her neck is weak, but there. I have to watch for almost an entire minute, but eventually her chest rises with a shallow breath.

Still alive, at least for now.

Her dress is torn to shreds, revealing a delicate pink bra printed with roses. The panties are missing and I look away from her bruised thighs in disgust.

I’d like to think that none of the guys in Havoc House could be responsible for this.

Not that it matters, this is our night. Everyone is going to think it was one of us.

The sound of a someone crashing through the trees makes me tense. A painted skull mask appears first, lotus flowers over the eyes shimmering in the moonlight. Even though the thing completely covers his face, I know who it is.

“What do we have here?” Vaughn asks, slowing as he catches sight of me.

“A problem.” I shift out of the way,so he can see the girl sprawled on the ground in front of me.

My best friend takes a few more steps into the clearing. He stops short when he catches sight of the girl. “Jesus Christ. What did you do?”

“Don’t be a dick. I found her like this.”

“Who is she?”

“You’ll need to ask whoever broke her face. She could be anybody under all this bruising.”

“Someone really did a number on her.” He kneels next to me, but is as careful as I am not to touch the girl’s body.

Neither of us bother to speculate on who it might be.

Bacchanal is the biggest party of the year. Our entire student body is probably out here, drunk and having the time of their lives.

Which makes for dozens of potential suspects, including the other Havoc Boys.

Havoc House is made of some of the most privileged sons on the eastern seaboard. Most of our father’s were Havoc Boys before us and we will graduate into lives of excess and extreme wealth. Membership in Havoc House is lifelong, including all the benefits and the responsibilities. Even once our school days are long behind us, we honor the pledge we take to protect each other.

Self-control isn’t an attribute that tends to flourish around here. The thought that one of us could beat a girl half to death for kicks makes me sick, but that doesn’t mean I’m eager to figure out who did it.

“I need your help carrying her out of here.”

“And get her blood all over me? No way.” Vaughn looks over the girl’s still form, his disgust obvious. “I’m not getting anywhere near this mess.”

“Fine, I’ll just call an ambulance.” When I pull out my phone to make the call, he slaps it out of my hand. “What the hell?”

He looks at me like I’m an idiot. “You really want the police and paramedics swarming around here? Tonight, of all nights?”

There have always been rumors around the local town about what we do out here during the yearly Bacchanal. People running naked through the trees. Animal sacrifices. Rites and rituals borrowed from pagan religions.

Orgies, consenting or otherwise.

Most of the rumors are exaggerated, but not all of them. But the last thing we want out here is witnesses with badges or  curious townies waving cell phone cameras around.

I pick up the phone, checking to make sure the drop didn’t crack my screen. “Are you saying we should just leave her here?”

Vaughn shrugs. “Get some of the pledges to drop her off at the door of the ER in the morning. That’s what we always do when things get out of hand.”

“The girl is bleeding from her head. She might be dead by the morning. This isn’t like the time Declan had to go get those matchbox cars surgically extracted.”

“Pledge week can be a real bitch.” Vaughn’s lips quirk at the memory before he gets serious again. “You’re overreacting.

“I’m overreacting,” I repeat. “About the unconscious and bleeding girl who is barely breathing?”

“You know what, call the cops.” He holds his hands up in surrender, expression slightly mocking. “If you want to be the one responsible for one of us getting carted off to jail, then I guess that’s on you. And when the school threatens to shut down Havoc House unless we narc on one of our brothers, just go ahead and flush two hundred years of tradition down the drain.”

Vaughn and I have been best friends since I arrived at St. Bart’s three years ago. Our fathers were Havoc Boys and, so were their fathers before them. Loyalty to Havoc House has been driven into both of us since before we even stepped foot on campus.

Nothing is supposed to be more important than that.

Not even a girl’s life.

My father’s voice rings through my skull, making my head ache.

Havoc means brotherhood over blood.

Havoc means never having to apologize.

Havoc is for life.

The man has been married three times in the last ten years and hasn’t spoken to my mother except through lawyers for even longer than that. But he never misses monthly drinks at the club with his Havoc brothers, even though it’s been over a quarter century since they graduated.

Havoc House is for life.

I can practically feel his glare boring into my back, even though he is five hundred miles away. “We can’t just leave her here.”

“The chick is breathing. Head wounds always bleed a lot. She’ll probably wake up in a few hours with a wicked hangover.” His voice is cold, but his gaze lingers on the girl’s face for a brief moment before he turns away. “I’m leaving and I suggest you follow my lead.”

Vaughn stands and brushes off his pants, seeming more annoyed at the dirt on his knees than anything else. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he strides away.

I stare down into the girl’s face. One eye is so swollen that she probably couldn’t open it, even if she were awake. There are scratches and dark bruises all over her body and her leg is bent at an awkward

This is what it looks like when you beat someone so badly that you’re hoping it kills them.

My phone grows hot in my hand, the screen still on because I started dialing and never finished. The 9 and 1 taunt me, waiting for me to delete them or press just one additional number. These sorts of things are easy to track. It isn’t as if I’m going to find a payphone in the middle of the forest. If I make this call, eventually it will come back on me.

There won’t be any taking it back.

The girl makes a choking sound, liquid rattling in her lungs as she tries to breathe.

I’m no doctor, but I know that sound isn’t a good one.

I look down at my phone again and decide.

Havoc House is for life.

Chapter One

Olivia

The campus of St. Bartholomew’s College smells like expensive perfume and sin.

It’s probably in my head. But I still choke on the phantom odor as I climb out of the cab that can’t even go past the impressively high main gates. St. Bart’s might as well be a fortress, considering how difficult it is to get inside.

The gate guard sounds apologetic when he tells the cab drive that he’ll have to let me out and turn around. Only school-owned town cars and personal vehicles with special faculty passes are allowed inside the thick wrought iron fence that surrounds acres of school property.

Once you’re inside, there isn’t any getting out.

I wave away the cab driver’s protest and shove a handful of crumpled bills at him, enough for the fare and a generous tip.

There will be enough fighting to come. No point in getting into one now.

What’s a half-mile walk, considering everything that’s already happened?

Slinging my battered duffel bag over my shoulder, I set off up the hill that leads to campus. My boot heels slip and slide on the gravel, their smooth soles meant for fashion, not hiking. I have to be careful where I step if I don’t want to break an ankle.

Which means it’s going to take twice as long as it should to make it to the top of the hill.

Sun beats down on the back of my neck. Beads of sweat prickle on my skin and every piece of my exposed flesh will probably be bright red within minutes. Physical activity is not my favorite thing at the best of times, but especially not when I’m wearing a babydoll dress and stripper boots that I shoplifted from Nordstroms.

It makes twisted sense that entering St. Bart’s feels a bit like passing through the gates of hell.

I remind myself that anything worth doing, is worthy of suffering. It would be idiotic to think any of this might be easy.

This is the first step of a thousand, each more difficult than the last.

There isn’t a sidewalk, because no one ever walks up this road.

But it’s arrival day for the new school year, so I’m not the only one headed to campus.

A line of solid black town cars roll slowly past me. The windows are blacked out, but I know curious faces press against the glass. Jaws will drop when they realize who they’ve just seen, necks craning back for another look as the car turns around a bend in the road and I disappear from view.

It’s been six months since anyone here laid eyes on Olivia Pratt.

None of them thought they’d ever see this face again.

The rumor mill will already be churning by the time I reach the cluster of buildings at the top of the hill. News will have spread far and wide, via text message or updates on social media, that Olivia Pratt is back at St. Bart’s.

Famous or infamous.

Sometimes, one is indistinguishable from another.

I’m not disappointed when I reach the administration building and shove open the heavy oak doors. A dozen faces turn in my direction, expressions varying from shocked surprise to outright disdain.

Everyone takes a collective breath and all conversation stops.

The tension is thick enough to choke on.

When the noise finally resumes, I know I’m the topic of every conversation.

Cold air from the air-conditioning rushes over me like spring rain, drying the sweat on my skin into what I hope is a dewy sheen. My heels clack on the shiny marble floor as I stride forward like I’m on a catwalk instead of this brightly-lit hallway full of intimidating strangers.

I’ve spent more than my fair share of time around rich bitches. They may wear designer clothing and expensive haircuts like armor and warpaint, but they’ll also fall apart at the first sign of true danger. Their pampered lives are no training ground for an iron spirit.

Even though they look at me like I’m the gum stuck to their shoes, I am the only true survivor here.

And I plan to do a hell of lot more while I’m here than just survive.

My long blonde hair is pulled up into a high ponytail that cascades over my shoulder and down almost to my waist. The platinum and honey highlights were teeth-grindingly expensive, but trust-fund babies can sniff out drug store hair dye like sharks scenting blood.

Their gazes linger on my high heels and short skirt. My back itches as their attention lingers on the words I spray painted in iridescent pink on my black leather jacket.

Raise Hell.

It’s a promise.

I don’t have to hear their whispers to know what words those lips are forming.

Olivia Pratt.

Olivia Pratt?

Olivia Pratt!

They can whisper and point, study me for weaknesses that can be exploited. Until this moment, I was a cautionary tale. The moral of the story girls whisper to each other about what happens when you end up in a place you don’t belong. Even if the attack wasn’t exactly my fault, I should have known better.

Olivia Pratt is the girl who got what she was asking for.

And now she has the absolute nerve to come back, as if nothing ever happened.

That’s right, bitches. I’m back and I’m not going anywhere.

The crowd parts as I stroll to the office, as if no one wants to get too close even though they can’t tear their gazes away. I keep my legs moving and my eyes staring straight ahead. I don’t know what they might see in the glassy depths of my blue eyes, so I keep my attention trained above their heads as if none of them exist at all.

If our gazes meet, they might see the secrets I’m trying to hide.

My fingers toy with the skull-shaped rosary beads in my pocket, their surfaces worn smooth from frequent handling.

If there has ever been such a thing as a righteous God, then I know I have him on my side.

I’m here on a mission and I will move heaven and hell to see it done.

A pleasantly plump woman with dyed black hair and cat-eye glasses blinks in obvious confusion as I step up to the desk.

“Olivia Pratt?”

She says the name after a moment of hesitation, like she can’t quite believe the evidence cooly staring her down.

“I’m checking in.”

“Yes, we got the call that you were re-enrolling last week. It was a bit of a surprise.” She shuffles some papers around, waiting a beat for the explanation that will not be forthcoming. “Here is your class schedule and room assignment. Welcome back.”

I allow myself a brief smile, because she almost sounds like she means it. “Thank you.”

Her gaze follows me until the office door slams shut behind me, with eyes that I know are wide and staring. Even the staff here couldn’t have thought that Olivia Pratt would back, not after the embarrassment. The only thing waiting here for a girl like that is ridicule and social ostracism.

This is the girl responsible for bringing the police to St. Bart’s because she couldn’t handle herself.

The girl who disappeared after that without finishing out the year. She wasn’t even brave enough to face everyone after what happened. Never bothered to provide answers to all the questions.

So the rumor mill did it for her.

I’ve seen the posts on social media, all guesswork and fear mongering. Whether Olivia Pratt is a true victim or just an embarrassed slut seems to be anyone’s guess.

No one seems to actually know the whole truth.

All the gory details couldn’t have filtered to the faculty, but I’m sure the school administration heard enough.

Enough to know that Olivia Pratt would have to be an idiot to show her face here again.

But they have no idea what dark thoughts swim through my pretty little head.

Vengeful sugar plum fairies dancing in blood.

Outside, the sun is still shining bright. It’s a nice counterpoint to the darkness in my soul.

I hear the loud roar of an engine. There is only a split second of warning before a flaming red Ducati Superlegerra with custom paint comes roaring up the road. I jump back on the sidewalk as it whizzes past me, inches from knocking me flat on my ass.

It screeches to a stop a few yards away, next to a crowd of guys who are laughing cheering. None of them seem all that concerned about how close they just came to witnessing vehicular homicide.

The gorgeous bike’s asshole rider pulls off a helmet painted the same flaming red and swings a long leg over the frame. He shakes a head full of short wavy hair that must curl when it gets long, chocolatey brown with hints of a blonde at the tips where it’s been bleached by the sun. Naturally tan skin that practically glows under the sun. Fashion-model good looks with a heavy touch of something more exotic than most of the WASPy, establishment types around here, makes it clear who from afar who this is.

His mouth curves into a sensuous smile as a crowd of girls rushes up to welcome him back.

Drake Van Koch.

He is too far for me to see them, but I know his eyes are a piercing gray-green that stand out in stark contrast to the dark slashes of his eyebrows and vibrant gold of his skin. This a guy who won the genetic lottery, making him as beautiful on the outside as he is ugly on the inside.

I recognize the other guys with him, too.

Cole Bryant.

Nolan Lennox.

Vaughn Ashbridge.

Havoc Boys.

I’d spent hours with school yearbooks studying the faces of every guy in Havoc House, in every pose and situation that I could find. As I did, I tried to imagine which one of them could have done it. Which one of those smiles hides the soul of a psychopath.

A rapist.

An attempted murderer.

The same hands they raise in triumph after a rugby win bruised skin and broke ribs, led to internal bleeding so bad that it was barely survivable. One of them left an innocent girl to die alone in the woods: unconscious, barely breathing and slowly bleeding to death.

One of them is going to pay.

Drake doesn’t even bother to find a parking space for his bike. He just leans it up against a tree, swinging the keys around on his index finger while they all stride away. No one is going to tow his Ducati or threaten him with tickets if he doesn’t move it somewhere else. And the rule about personal vehicles not being allowed on campus obviously isn’t applied to everyone.

But I already knew that normal rules don’t apply to the Havoc Boys.

I watch them go, desperately wishing that lightning would strike them all down despite the clear skies above us. When I find out which of them is responsible for what happened, nothing will stop me from destroying him.

I’ll destroy them all, if that’s what it takes.

If I were the Wicked Witch of the West, right about now is when you’d hear that signature cackle.

I’ll get you, my pretties.

And your little club, too.

Chapter Two

Drake

“Olivia Pratt is back.”

The harshly whispered words barely register as Vaughn slides into the chair next to me at our lunch table.

Lunch is my favorite meal of the day. It isn’t frenzied and sugar-laden like breakfast, but it also doesn’t turn into a ridiculous production in the way that dinner does. Lunch is low-key and quiet, the best remedy for the hangover that only starts to go away around this time of the day.

Which is why I’m not expecting the words that drop like rocks into the pit of my still empty stomach. Everybody knows not to bring serious shit to me while I’m eating. Vaughn might be my best friend, but he needs to learn quick that things have changed.

As newly-minted seniors, I am now the president of Havoc House. Which means, I get to make the rules.

The vote only passed last week, but I’m already enjoying the perks of my position.

When what he said finally filters, I freeze with my sandwich halfway to my mouth.

“You’re serious?”

Except today is the day when the rulebook gets set on fire and tossed out the window because the old rules no longer apply.

“As the grave.” Vaughn’s smile is grim. “A little birdie told me that she picked up room keys from the front office this morning. I don’t think any of us have actually laid eyes on her, yet.”

I instinctively lean forward, putting less space between us so that I don’t miss a word.

My gaze catches on the large crucifix hanging on the wall. Jesus’s bowed head makes it seem like his pained gaze is focused on our table. Someone is always listening at Saint Bart’s College, but it isn’t the Lord that I’m worried about.

“So what?” Bringing the sandwich to my mouth, I take a gigantic bite. Chewing will give me time to think.

“So…what are we going to do about it.”

On paper St. Bart’s is technically a private Catholic college. In reality, it is so much more than that. The most elite families in the world have been packing their kids off to this place for centuries. When you want a more personal experience than the Ivy League, you come to St. Bart’s. The connections we form here is what will keep us a step ahead of everyone else. Almost everyone here is rich and the ones that aren’t are extremely well-connected.

There are a few scholarship students, but the admission standards are so high that we only ever have handful at any give time. Most of them are easy to ignore.

And it’s an undisputed fact that Havoc Boys are on the top of the heap. People want to be us and even when they can’t, settle for just being as close to us as possible.

St. Bart’s is preparation for the social dynamic that will continue for the rest of our lives.

It’s easy to let that shit go to your head.

“What are we going to do about what?” Cole dumps a tray laden with bags of chips and snack cakes on the table. Already a big guy, he has the appetite of someone training as a Sumo wrestler. He flirts with the cafeteria ladies for extra snacks. “Who are we talking about?”

“O-liv-i-a. Pratt.” Nolan grabs a bag of chips off Cole’s tray and noisily opens it before settling into his own seat. “At least, I assume we are. She is all anybody seems to be talking about today.”

“Can you assholes keep your voices down?” Vaughn hisses. He leans forward in his seat like we’re about to trade state secrets. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do about her.”

Olivia Pratt.

I didn’t know her name when I stumbled on her unconscious in the woods.

But I know it now.

Everyone does.

That name has been on everyone’s lips for months, ever since the night of the Bacchanal and police showed up to shut us down for the first time in Havoc House history. The local newspaper ran stories about a girl from St. Bart’s ending up in the hospital. It doesn’t take an idiot to put two and two together. She never came back to school and the rumor mill has been churning nonstop as everyone speculates about what happened to her.

Nobody has outright said that she got hurt during a Havoc House party, although most people must have guessed. She got attacked on the night of the Bacchanal, the biggest party of the entire year. Everyone on campus was either there, or sitting at home wishing they were.

“She never made a statement to the police,” I point out. “Maybe she just came back in a sorry attempt to pick up the pieces. I don’t see why that should matter to us.”

Vaughn stares at me like I just grew a second head out of my neck and started practicing ventriloquy with it. 

“It doesn’t matter why she came back.” The gaze he turns on all of us is heavy with things better left unsaid. “She should have stayed gone.”

I know what he’s thinking, like we share the same mind.

We’re Havoc Boys. If one of us was responsible for what happened to Olivia, then all of us will suffer the consequences.

I’d like to think that none of us did it.

I’d also like to think that unicorns exist and girls can’t get pregnant if it’s their first time.

Some things are simply fantasy.

Maybe some random guy from town did sneak onto campus and took advantage of the chaos to get his rocks off.

Maybe Olivia was attacked somewhere else and her body just happened to be dumped basically in our backyard.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter.

We can’t take the risk of this coming back on us.

I feel a stab of unease at the thought of it, but only for a minute.

My loyalty has to remain with Havoc House.

Though that doesn’t mean I’m completely without a conscience. “What makes you think she won’t keep her mouth shut?”

“Doesn’t matter what we think she might do.” Nolan crosses his arms over his chest and leans back far enough that the front legs of his chair come off the ground. The chair is perilously close to tipping over, but he manages to stay perfectly balanced. “As long as the bitch is here, she’s a threat. There is only one way to respond to a threat like this.”

Cole nods in agreement, talking with his mouth full. “We need to make sure she knows that coming back here was a bad idea. If she won’t go on her own, then we’ll have to make her.”

Vaughn raises an eyebrow. “Aggravated rape and assault didn’t do the trick. You think something else will?”

Last year, we’d bribed a nurse at the hospital for a copy of Olivia’s admitting report from the emergency room.  They’d done a rape kit, but the results were inconclusive. I would have preferred to have us all exonerated, but lack of any solid evidence is the next best thing. Whoever attacked Olivia worked her over in pretty much every way that is humanly possible. It’s a small miracle that she survived at all.

Something about this isn’t right.

“It’s only been a few months. How is she already recovered?”

I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until Nolan answers me.

“I guess her luck didn’t manage to run out until now.” The chair comes crashing down to the floor with a loud bang. A few people glance our way, but he ignores them. “The only reason this chick would come back is because she wants to cause problems. I don’t know if it’s money or status that she’s after, but I don’t care. She has to go.”

We’re in a public place, which is not exactly an appropriate venue for this discussion.

The dining hall is full, but no one would dare sit at any of the empty seats at our table. Our table is in the middle of the room and we’re surrounded on all sides by other students, but they might as well not be there at all. We exist in our own bubble, though I don’t have to look to know that furtive eyes watch our every move.

Havoc Boys are always the center of attention, but right now the spotlight is more than a little blinding.

I pitch my voice a touch lower. “And what are you suggesting that we do, exactly?”

Cole and Vaughn exchange a glance as Nolan smiles. That smile has always been more menacing than any other expression he wears. He tips his chair back again and regards the ceiling with a menacing smirk.

“A campaign of utter terror, of course.”

The temperature in the room drops by a few dozen degrees. My own narrow-eyed gaze rests on his face. I resist the urge to blink even as my eyes burn. “That isn’t your call.”

Cole rests his elbows on the table as he leans forward between us like a referee, lunch forgotten. He seems a touch too eager to see us at odds. His attentions shifts to me. “What’s it going to be, prez?”

I am the president of Havoc House. There are no terror campaigns without my say so. Nolan can spout off all he wants, but the others won’t go along with him unless I give the okay. When I open my mouth to tell him to drop it, movement out of the corner of my eye distracts me.

The dining hall doors fly open with a loud bang.

A momentary hush falls over the entire room. For a split second, it’s quiet enough to hear a pin dropping.

Olivia glides in like a long-lost princess coming home to her adoring subjects. Her head is held high and her gaze seems to take in everyone in the room, while not actually focusing on any of us.

Long blonde hair is caught up in a tight ponytail at the top of her head, the end trailing down her back. Delicate wisps frame her wide blue eyes and full pouty lips that would look even pinker wrapped around my dick. It’s the sort of hairstyle that looks effortless but probably took forever to get just right.

She has on an oversized  jacket over a skimpy babydoll dress that is somehow sexy and virginal at the same time.

The girl looks amazing.

I loudly clear my throat and the room returns to its normal noise level. People turn back to their conversations, but more than one gaze lingers on Olivia.

I watch her turn sharply on her heel toward the refrigerated cases full of grab-and-go sandwiches.  With her back turned, I notice the words spray-painted in sparkly pink on the black leather of her jacket.

Raise Hell.

With the pink skirt just barely sticking out from beneath the leather jacket and the alluring half-smile on her lips, she looks like innocence wrapped in sin.

Someone who went through what she did can’t possibly be confident enough to face us all down.

But here she is.

It won’t take much for the tide to shift from seeing her as an innocent victim to a desperate whore that got what she deserved. But Olivia doesn’t seem to care as she flashes a smile at whoever she catches staring her down.

Even though I know next to nothing about this girl, it’s obvious that the tiny package contains a much bigger personality. Her presence is explosive and electrifying. I can barely tear my gaze away from her.

An ember burns in my chest, like the start of something new and wild.

I want to tear the clothes off that hot little body.

I want to hurt her.

I want to to break her, so I can put her back together again.

I want her to forget that any other guys have ever existed.

I want her.

Badly.

The realization comes with a burst of unwelcome surprise. Before that night, I wouldn’t have been able to pick Olivia Pratt out of a lineup. But this girl, the one striding toward the salad bar like she owns the building, I would have noticed her from a mile away.

It doesn’t matter what she might have been before. Nobody needs to tell me that whoever Olivia is now, she is very dangerous.

When I finally turn away, the others are staring at me.

“Welcome back,” Nolan murmurs sarcastically.

“Shut up.”

I hook my foot on the elevated chair legs and pull. Nolan crashes back down to the floor hard enough that his midsection hits the round edge of the table.

He lets out a painful groan, but smashing his gut on the table isn’t enough to kill the look of mockery on his face. “Fun as it might be for you, hurting me isn’t going to make this any better”

I search my memory for any hint of Olivia Pratt before that night. “Does she look different?”

“Not really. I tore a page out of a yearbook in the library from last year. This is the same girl. I hope she has a decent trust fund, must have cost a pretty penny to fix her face after it got rearranged.” Vaughn’s eyes narrow on where Olivia has disappeared behind the drink dispensers. “You’re right, though. Something is different. I can smell attitude from a mile away and that chick is covered in it. She wasn’t like that before.”

Like a phoenix from the ashes. The old Olivia is gone and something very new has arrived in her place.

“What are the chances that she plans to lay low?” I ask, pretty sure that I already know the answer.

“Let’s find out.” Nolan cranes his neck to peer into the drink alcove. As soon as the long blonde ponytail reappears above the stack of glasses, he cups his hands around his mouth and shouts loud enough to be heard over the dull roar of conversation. “Looking good, Pratt!”

The room goes quiet again.

Vaughn ducks his head with a curse while Cole just laughs, spewing chewed bits of food on the table.

Olivia balances her tray on one hand as she picks up a glass filled with iced tea. Her movements are deliberate and unhurried as she comes around the drink station. If having the attention of the entire room bothers her, she doesn’t show it.

A smart girl would walk away right now. Or run, if she has any survival instinct left.

Olivia doesn’t do either of those things. Instead, she stops to pay at the register and then saunters toward us.

People shift away from her like the sea parting. I can’t tell if it’s because they’re scared of this mysterious creature that has risen from the ashes of disgrace or just don’t want to be too close when we burn her up all over again.

“Is this seat taken?” Without waiting for a response, she gracefully slides into the chair. The voluminous jacket is so large that it wraps around her like a blanket. My gaze focuses on the patch of creamy skin at the low neckline of her dress.

“Someone’s got a habit of ending up where they’re not wanted,” Cole comments. He picks up a bag of chips and tosses it at her.

Olivia catches the bag before it hits her in the face. Turning it over, she reads the label and gives a moue of distaste. “These are really high in cholesterol. I hope you’re not trying to maintain a girlish figure.”

The dig isn’t exactly subtle. Cole has been the general size of a linebacker since the fifth grade. He has a lot of muscle, but his shape is more bear than ape. Not that he is one to worry about his weight, but his eyebrows raise in what almost looks like respect. “Not if it means I can’t pick up girls like you and throw them over my shoulder without breaking a sweat.”

Nolan and I both glare at them. I don’t like the note of flirtation in her voice when she talks to Cole, but Nolan just seems pissed that she isn’t scared of us.

“You need to give me the name of the surgeon that fixed your face,” Nolan comments. He makes a show of leaning over to study her features like his face is pressed against the glass of a zoo enclosure. “From the looks of it, the guy is a real miracle worker. My little sister might want a nose job one day.”

Her gaze cools as it passes over Nolan. “Your sister should just use the same guy who did your mom’s vaginoplasty. Judging from the size of your head, she must have been blown wide open.”

I hear a guffaw from some asshole at the next table. The whole room is listening to this verbal battle.

That doesn’t surprise me anywhere near as much as the fact that Olivia is winning it.

“Nice to see you back on campus, Pratt.” Nolan’s voice is dangerously low. “Although I’m surprised you’d show your face after what happened last time.”

“We’ll throw you a welcome back party,” Vaughn snipes, finally regaining his voice. There is a dare in his tone. “Just come by Havoc House when you’re feeling up to it.”

I expect her to break, show some hint of weakness. It’s not often that the Havoc Boys make one person a joint target. All around us, other students watch for her reaction with baited breath.

Some of them probably envy her, but the smarter ones are waiting for the apocalypse headed her way.

Instead of responding to the obvious threat, Olivia only smiles. “I’m ready when you are.”

She rises smoothly from the table, but doesn’t bother to take her tray. She didn’t take a single bite of the Caesar salad that she bought and I get the impression that move is deliberate. She strode into this dining hall solely for the purpose of being seen.

Olivia wants our attention, I realize, even if I have no idea why.

The image of her broken and bleeding on the forest floor has almost entirely receded from my mind. I just can’t reconcile it with what I’m seeing now. The memory is still there, but without any emotion attached. It feels like it happened to someone else.

She catches me staring at her. The slight smile on her face turns into an aggressive frown. “What the hell are you staring at?”

Flicking her long blonde ponytail, she stalks away before I can think of an appropriate response.

When I glance back at Vaughn, he has look on his face that I recognize. It’s the look he wears when he really wants to say I told you so, but knows that I’ll probably punch him in the face if he does.

Olivia Pratt wants to play games? Fine.

There is only one group of winners here.

“Oh, it’s on.”

Chapter three

Olivia

People like to say that revenge is a dish best served cold. But true vengeance takes planning and preparation. You have to smile when you want to scream, bide your time as the anger burns in your gut.

The only emotion that can really drive you forward is rage. You need the heat and fire if you want to burn down every obstacle on your journey to revenge.

Before anyone trots out Confucius, let me be clear. I won’t just be digging two graves, but enough to put all of Havoc House six feet underground.

Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.

When I was a baby, all pink-cheeked and blue-eyed, my parents used to call me a little angel.

Now, I’m the right hand of God.

It’s time to do some smiting.

Being at St. Bart’s is weirder than I thought it would be, but also strangely easier.

I had blown this up so much in my mind, picturing the Havoc Boys as demons straight from Dante’s Inferno. It had almost been a relief to find that they’re just normal boys.

Gorgeous, but human.

I don’t know what it is about the prettiest faces, but they always seem to have the most to hide. The looks they wore when I strode into the dining hall told me more than any police report or eyewitness testimony ever could.

They are responsible for all of it.

St. Bartholomew’s College is supposed to be a Catholic school, so you’d think it’d be full of good little boys and girls.

But for every saint, there are dozens of sinners.

What this place needs is an avenging angel.

Initially I’d planned to lay low for a couple of days, at least until classes started. But I underestimated just how quickly gossip spreads around this place. As soon as I caught them staring at me as I walked into the dining hall, I knew we were already at war.

And the entire school clamors for a front row seat.

My roommate, Anya, just seems eager to jump up my ass and build a nest there.

“Memory loss. I’ve heard that getting hit in the head can do that.” She watches in fascination as I unpack my duffle bag, obviously trying to pick out which items of clothing have designer labels. “You really don’t remember anything?”

“I don’t have total amnesia. I know my own name and how to eat with a fork,” I point out as patiently as I can. Whatever I say to her will be spread far and wide within the hour. “It’s just that some things are fuzzier than they should be.”

“Like what happened that night.”

“Yes, that,” I acknowledge with a tight smile. “And a few other things.”

Our dorm room is basically an apartment. We share the bathroom and kitchenette, but each of us has our own bedroom.

Of course, you wouldn’t know that from the way Anya stretches out on my freshly-made bed like it belongs to her.

The tight ponytail on top of my head makes my head hurt, or maybe it’s Anya. Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about my roommate at the moment. Instead, I pull out the tie and let it fall down my shoulders and back.

“Your hair is a lot longer,” Anya comments cheerfully. “And I like those platinum streaks. Did you get it colored?”

I tuck a strand behind my ear and give her a soft smile that I hope doesn’t look like a grimace. “Yeah, I thought it was time for a change. Do you really like it?”

The barrage of questions hasn’t stopped since she greeted me at the door. I’m not stupid enough to think she actually cares, but information about me carries serious social currency right now. Everyone wants to know more about the girl who ruined a Havoc party and then had the nerve to come back to school six months later like nothing ever happened.

Anya is in the unique position to drink directly from the source.  I’m sure she’ll be surrounded by other girls at dinner, regaling them with stories about how she was the first person to pump Olivia Pratt for information. I can’t really blame her for taking advantage of the opportunity.

Actually, I’m counting on it.

“Some people might call it a little too streaky, but I like it.” She flashes me a smile that she must think makes up for the backhanded compliment. “You have to tell me what it’s like to be back at St. Bart’s, especially after…everything that happened.”

The girl isn’t subtle, I have to give her that.

“I think it’s the same,” I say casually. A shimmery Givenchy top is crumpled next to her on the bed. I pick it up before she gets any ideas about “borrowing” it without asking. “Just between us, I don’t actually remember very much about what happened. There are some fuzzy memories of being at the party, then everything after that is really just a blur.”

“Wow. You really don’t remember anything? No wonder you were able to come back.”

She stops before saying what we both know she’s thinking.

If I actually remembered what happened, then I’d be too embarrassed to ever show my face at St. Bart’s again.

Little does she know that embarrassment isn’t something I’m capable of feeling, at least not anymore. The anger makes a pretty good substitute.

“I just want to move forward, you know.” I turn my face away so she won’t see my eyes roll. Hopefully, she thinks I’m holding back tears. “The past is past. I can’t change it, so might as well move on.”

“You were never this chill last year. It’s like a whole new you.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing at the absurdity of this entire situation. “You have no idea.”

“I watched this show once where a girl had repressed her memories of being raped because the trauma was so much she couldn’t take it.” Leaning forward, Anya studies my face with wide eyes like I’m some sort of lab specimen. Rumors about my convenient amnesia will be spreading around the school like wildfire as soon as she picks up her phone. “Maybe that’s what happened to you.”

My lip trembles and I hope she notices it. I keep my voice deliberately soft when I ask, “Is that what people are saying happened to me?”

“I don’t really know. I don’t listen to gossip.”

And I’m a three-toed sloth. “That’s okay. It’s probably better that I don’t know.”

“People suck.” She lowers her voice, even though we’re completely alone in the room. “You really should watch yourself around the Havoc Boys, by the way. It was one of their parties that got broken up because of what happened. The police we’re swarming campus for hours afterward. I heard their house even got searched. They might blame you for that.”

Because the girl who gets dragged out to the forest, beaten and sexually assaulted is the one responsible for harshing everyone’s mellow.

“I’m not here to cause problems.” The hanger in my hand makes a snapping sound and I put it down before it breaks. Breathe in. Breathe out. The anger is useful, but only if I keep it under control. “Everyone will realize that eventually.”

“Absolutely.” Anya jumps to her feet. Her gaze shifts over one of the dresses I have laid out on the bed. It’s a pale purple slip dress made of silk that I picked up from some vintage store. “Can I…”

I interrupt before she asks to borrow my clothes. Pretending to be nice and sweet is necessary for my plan, but it only goes so far. “You’ll have to let me know the next time that Havoc House has a party. They’re usually invite only, right?”

 “They are,” she replies slowly, obviously surprised. “Are you sure you’re up for something like that, going back to the scene of the crime.” Anya seems to realize as soon as she says it that using the word crime is practically a direct insult to Havoc House. She rushes to correct herself. “I mean, where it all happened.”

I just stare at her for a long moment “Yeah, sure I would.”

“Oh, okay. Cool.”

“I’m actually getting really tired and I still need to get settled in.” I press my palm to lips that don’t actually open in a yawn. “Can you come back in a bit?”

“Of course, we’ll catch up later. I’m really glad you’re back.” She heads for the door, but hesitates. “I know we weren’t really friends before, but I’m glad you came back. I’m having dinner with a few other girls at seven, if you want to come with us.”

The first rule of playing cool is making it clear that your time isn’t a given. The girls of St. Bart’s are going to have to come to me. As soon as I seem desperate for their attention, my entire plan falls apart.

“I make it a point to never eat more than two meals a day.” The patent falsehood slides off my tongue like melted butter. I love to eat good food, but cool girls don’t overindulge. “I’ll let you know if I feel up to it.”

“Great.” Anya closes the door slowly, obviously hoping that I’ll say something else.

I wait for the door to completely shut before the smile on my face finally relaxes. I’ve smiled more today than in the rest of my life combined. It takes a conscious effort to keep the resting bitch face at bay.

The room is nice, but I was hoping for a single. I have to keep the mask in place every moment that I’m not alone in this place. It’s only been one day and I’m already struggling to keep the disgust and anger from spilling through.

By Christmas, I will be the coolest girl on this campus. The one that no one can stop talking about. The one with a free pass into every social circle until I claw my way to the top.

The Havoc Boys have no idea what’s coming for them.

❖

The campus of St. Bart’s is like something out of a brochure for rich people’s bullshit. Roman architecture meets ostentatious design features in a way that screams too much old money. I’m glad I decided on boots with a low heel as I trek down the cobblestone pathways toward the main lecture hall.

It wouldn’t do much for my new image if I fall flat on my face on the first day of classes.

A shadow momentarily blots out the sun as someone falls into step beside me. It isn’t a surprise because I noticed him following me almost as soon as I left the dorm.

“O-li-vi-a. Pratt.”

His voice is like rubbing your cheek against velvet. Smooth and soft, but with a sharp edge. It floats over me and I suppress a shiver. He pronounces my name in a way that emphasizes each syllable, like it’s more than just a word.

“Drake. Van. Koch. Your name is annoyingly monosyllabic.” I don’t stop walking and barely tilt my head to look at him. Let anyone watching think that I don’t consider the new president of Havoc House worthy of my full attention.

“That’s cute.” His tone makes it sound like the exact opposite.

I’m fighting the urge to look at him and it’s way more difficult than it should be. As much as I want to hate every inch of him, even I have to admit that Drake Van Koch is beyond gorgeous. I know about him what everyone does, that his father is some Dutch diamond baron and his mother is a native South African, supposedly descended from deposed African royalty.

He looks like the kind of guy who is destined to rule the world.

And I can’t fight the impression that, at least at the moment, he most wants to rule me.

Angular jaw that looks sharp enough to cut stone, tanned skin that makes me think of the dark sheen on a lion’s mane. Floppy curls of golden-brown hair flop over his forehead. It looks haphazard, but I’d bet he spent more on that haircut than some people make in a week. His sea foam green eyes practically glow against the backdrop of his features. 

When I look at them, I have the fantastical thought that he can see right through me.

It was those eyes that knocked me off balance in the dining hall. They sucked me in and made me forget for a second why I’m putting up with all of this.

For a flashing moment, I regret that I’m only here for one thing. Revenge.

I can’t let it happen again.

“How long do you think you’re going to last?” he taunts.

I cast him a sunny smile. “Long enough.”

He stiffens at my quick rejoinder. It’s almost as if the kind of guy who has spent his whole life being catered to doesn’t know what to do when someone finally stands up to him.

Drake quickly recovers.

“What’s your game, Pratt?” he asks conversationally.

If you don’t already know he is trying to scare me away, his tone sounds almost friendly.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Even though the building is just ahead, I know it won’t be that easy to escape him.

I’d been hoping to put off my confrontation with the Havoc Boys for as long as possible. But I didn’t have a choice about backing down when they called me out in the cafeteria.

Drake had been practically silent then, but he clearly has a lot to say now.

“My dad went to this school, you know. Along with my grandfather and my great-grandfather,  plus a few uncles and cousins along the way. All of them were Havoc Boys.”

“I didn’t realize that I scheduled a guided tour when I registered for the semester.” My hands are shoved in the pockets of my jacket and clenched into fists. The rosary in my pocket digs into palm. It’s the only thing that keeps my hands from shaking. “This has been great and all, but I have places to be.”

“Tradition is pretty important to us around here. Havoc House has been around for almost three hundred years. As president, it’s my job to make sure that we’re set up for even more.” He continues, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. His posture is relaxed, but I can sense the barely restrained violence in his body. “Just so we’re clear, I will do anything to protect the reputation of Havoc House. Anything.”

 I risk a glance at him out of the corner of my eye. To my surprise, he isn’t even looking at me. He stands far enough away that a casual passerby might not even realize that we’re talking to each other.

It makes me wonder if these barely veiled threats are a risk for him, too.

Interesting.

“You almost make it sound like I’m a threat. You Havoc Boys might not be as tough as you think, if you’re this worried about one girl.”

“I’m not worried, but you should be.”

His foot shoots out and he catches my boot with his heel. Before I can even react, my body pitches forward too quickly to stop the momentum. My hands come up just in enough time that my face doesn’t hit the ground, but I land hard on my knees.

“What the hell—“

He grabs both of my arms and yanks me back up. The movement is hard enough that I don’t stop moving once I’m on my feet. My body ends up pressed against his.

Rock hard abs meet the quivering flesh of my belly as he looms over me.

I hate that the first thing I notice when he pulls me closer notice is how good he smells. His scent his mix of bergamot and pine with just a hint of something floral. The cologne was probably created especially for him because I’ve never encountered anything like it.

Instead of pulling away, I freeze.

That is precisely the reaction he wants from me.

Drake leans forward. For a split second, I think he is going to kiss me. Instead, his cheek presses against mine so I feel the rasp of his five o’clock shadow against my cheek.

“Just remember,” he whispers harshly in my ear. “The next time you fall, there won’t be anybody there to pick you back up.”

Releasing me so abruptly that I stumble, he stalks away in the direction of the lecture hall.

My body is shaking. Electric shocks run down my arms in the places where he touched me. I can’t follow him, even though it’s the same direction that I need to go. If I don’t take a minute to pull myself together quickly, I’ll fall apart completely.

If I go back to the dorm, Anya might be there. I veer to the right without conscious awareness of where I’m going.

Stained glass windows sparkle in my hazy vision, like a desert oasis in the distance.

The cathedral is a gothic affair with towering spires stretching up toward the clouds. It’s taller than any of the other buildings on campus, as if everything else has been designed to be subordinate to it.

Fighting back tears, I burst through the doors and let them slam shut behind me. No one can see me cry, that would undo all of the hard work that I’ve already put in.

This is so much harder than I thought it would be.

I thought I’d have more time to get my bearings, but I’ve already got the undivided attention of the person most likely to break me.

Laying low is officially out of the question.

Drake Van Koch has blown my plans completely out of the water. And it isn’t just him, all of the Havoc Boys will be watching every move I make.

Why did I think I could do this?

The cathedral is dark and quiet. Despite the bright sky outside, light in here is diffuse and eerie through the stained glass.

The confession booth is an old-fashioned affair made of dark wood and lattice-work. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that it’s been here since the the cathedral was erected.

Inside, the booth is claustrophobic and smells like furniture polish.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.”

I’m a lapsed Catholic at best, but I’ve always loved something about the act of confession. The practice feels ancient and settling, like a glimpse into a completely different era. Even when I didn’t have a home, I always managed to find a church to slip into for an hour or so.

A vaguely man-shaped outline shifts on the other side of the wooden screen.

The priest makes the sign of the cross.

Maybe you can blame it on my body’s surprising reaction to Drake and the subsequent mental turmoil. Just thinking about him makes my belly clench tight with equal parts of desire and hatred.       But what I say next isn’t the admission of lustful thoughts I intend or even a description of how many times I used my vibrator this week.

Instead, I say the last thing that should ever come out of my mouth at St. Bartholomew’s College.

“I’m not Olivia Pratt.”