“If you do this,” Harper begins, moving forward with her short brown hair—courtesy of Windsor York—billowing in the wind. Don’t dish it if you can’t take it. Moving back a step, I end up bumping into Zayd. One of his arms goes around me, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. It’s like with every breath, I waffle between being excited and being terrified. Please don’t touch me; touch me more; get away from me; kiss me until I see stars. “Then you’re giving up control of the school. You’re Plebs, all of you.”
Abigail Fanning and Valentina Pitt flank Harper as she moves toward us, the chair with the ropes still attached sitting between their group and ours. When I glance past Harper toward Zack, I can see that he’s bleeding from his fight.
“If you think we’ll fold that easy,” Creed drawls, glancing at me and making my entire body light up with feeling. He’s quivering, too, but he tries to keep it hidden as he tosses some of his angelic hair back from his face. Would this be an inappropriate moment to think about the hot tub? Yeah, probably. “Then you clearly haven’t been paying attention. We’ll destroy you.”
Harper’s mouth is as sharp as a blade, and her eyes glimmer with rage and hate. She does not like losing—especially not to someone like me. To her credit, she’s managed to pull in most of the Bluebloods to her side. The rest, we won’t know about until we get to shore. What she does have is a trio of boys—Greg, John, and Ben—who will likely become her side’s version of the Idols.
“So you’ll break up the greatest collection of Bluebloods in the history of Burberry Prep for some commoner? We’re the future rulers of the world. People live and die based on the decisions our families make. Tristan, I’m your fiancée.” Harper starts to move forward, and then pauses as the ladder creaks, announcing the newest attendee to our little soiree.
Windsor York, my secret weapon and amazing new friend, appears with a smirk.
“Well, bloody hell.” He hauls himself over the edge and then stands up before brushing his palms down the front of his uniform. His hazel eyes take in the scene in one, fell swoop. “Looks like I’m a bit late to the party.”
Without hesitation, he moves over to stand in front of Zayd and offers me his hand. It’s impressive how the flames from the burning boat turn his red hair, crimson. Zayd pulls me back when I reach out for Windsor, and the prince cocks an eyebrow before sighing.
“Yeah, way late, asshole.” Zayd is pissed, but not at me and not even at Windsor, but at the whole situation. Even though I appreciate the sentiment, I elbow myself from his grip and take up a strong stance of my own. Even though my friends are here, and I appreciate them, I can’t fully trust anyone but myself. “If we hadn’t gotten here when we did …” Zayd’s voice trails off, but he has to know that Windsor is most definitely on our side. He was just helping in other ways. That much I do know.
The prince gives Harper and friends a skeptical look.
“I disabled the motor on your friends’ boat. I don’t imagine they’ll be showing up tonight.” Harper turns almost the same red shade as Windsor’s hair. She’s furious. “And I’m not late.” He gives a dramatic eye roll and a wink, that I’d return if I wasn’t so shaken up. “I saw Zack on his way up here, with these idiots trailing behind.” He gestures at the Idol boys, and Tristan snarls at him. “My time was better spent elsewhere. Oh.” As if it’s just occurred to him, Windsor snaps his fingers and lifts up the front of his shirt.
There’s a tattoo there, an infinity tattoo.
The entire boat falls silent.
“I’ve been resisting the Club for a long, long time, but Marnye needs someone on the inside to watch her back, so … here I am!” Windsor lifts his arms for emphasis, ever the showman. “Oh, and I’m an awful, dirty fucking wanker. I don’t have a trust fund, or parents breathing down my neck that control my purse strings: I have nine billion in personal assets to play with.” Windsor pauses, resting his head in his hand. “Well, twelve billion in US dollars, I suppose.”
“Do you think I’m threatened by you?” Harper snorts a laugh. “Some tenth-string prince from a country nobody even knows about?”
“England?” Windsor asks, his voice tinted with wry humor. “You do understand where the pilgrims came from, right?”
Harper spins to Tristan, desperate to make headway with someone. Clearly, Windsor isn’t interested in her games. The boy dances to the beat of his own drum, that’s for sure.
“Last chance, Tristan.” Harper is dead serious, but Tristan simply smirks at her.
