Page 12 of The Brat: Prequel

“Why? I think they make our asses look good.”

“Good?! My shorts are practically a thong.” Embroidery floss has more to it than these damn Lycra pants from hell. Worse still, they have a skort around them because yes, this school believes that it’s on the girls not to entice the boys. Ha.

Why didn’t I switch to Midland again? I could be with Shay. It’d be closer to home. None of my father’s allies would be here to taunt me everyday...

“Blyad.” Timofai Stepanov chortles, sneaking between Karine and me. She giggles like a moron whereas I freeze up. “Funny choice of word considering you’re dressing like one.”

I hate Stepanov—he’s not only a jerk. He and his father are on the wrong side of the Bratvan coup so that means he’s doubly an asshole. Little comments here and there, not solely from him but from the sons of my father’s old guard, indicate that they consider me a traitor.

The best part? I have zero idea why.

Karine is pretty much the only person who talks to me in my grade, and I’m not even sure if she likes me anymore.

“Back off, Stepanov.” My attempt to appear confident flatlines—I sound anxious as fuck.

Leering, eyes scanning me over like I’m a piece of meat, he fixates on the ass this skort doesn’t cover.

Everything about this kid puts me on edge. Not simply because he’s tormented me for years at this point. I’m used to him being verbally aggressive, but that look is borderline proprietary and that’s one step too far.

So, I react.

Karine gasps when, following one of my brother-in-law’s self-defense transitions to the letter, I sweep Stepanov’s feet out from under him.

If someone filmed it, I bet that’d get Brennan to finally crack a goddamn smile—textbook move. I only wish I could watch a recap in slo-mo.

“The fuck?” Stepanov grunts as his butt collides with the floor.

“Bitch,” Janek Sibirsky snarls, stepping forward, crowding my space.

Praying the gym instructor will show up soon, I stand my ground as a bunch of the clique gather around us.

I flinch when Sibirsky’s hand snaps out. Prepared to bite him à la Camille, I watch as it drops when, thank God, the coach blows his whistle and the guys scatter.

“What’s going on?”

“Vasov kicked my feet out from under me,” Stepanov declares, though he’s lounging on the floor like some kind of Roman emperor at a feast.

I shoot a quick glance down my legs, following where his eyes ogle—fuck. He’s been looking up my skort. The bastard!

“Because he called me a whore,” I warble, eyes big and round. Karine and I have long suspected that Coach Grant sleeps with some of his students, and if manipulating him prevents me from getting another detention, I’ll do it. “He was acting aggressively toward me, sir, and I-I reacted. I’m sorry.”

“Is this true, Stepanov?” Coach barks.

“No, of course it isn’t!”

“Sir, when have you ever known me to act aggressively? I don’t start fights. Ask Karine.”

“Um, actually, I didn’t see anything,” my so-called friend squeaks and edges away from the drama.

Goddammit.

Guess there’s the confirmation I didn’t need—our friendship exists because we share the same electives and she prefers to sit together at lunch rather than alone.

She hasn’t been right with me since back when Maxim was still my guard and he got in her face about pressuring me to wear a bikini to a pool party.

Thankfully, Coach is a pervert and the gym shirt that fit last gym class but doesn’t so much this week, because my boobs are on steroids, snatches his full attention. (Ew.) “I’ll be writing you a note for you to take to the principal’s office after class, Stepanov.”

He jerks to an upright position. “You can’t be serious, sir!”