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They’re nervous.

My phone chimes with a notification that I don’t need to read. It’s telling me to meet them downstairs in three minutes. I quickly obey, because I don’t like it. The confusion. The uncertainty. The ember in my chest that’s hoping Lex meant it, and the way it’s so easily stamped out by the suspicion he wouldn’t.

8

Verity

The massive SUVidles at the curb, while a guy waits expectantly at the back passenger-side door. He’s young–maybe a sophomore? Although I wouldn’t guess that from the way he’s dressed. Pressed slacks, a crisp button-down. There’s a PNZ pledge pin on the pocket.

“Princess,” he says, opening the door for me. Inside the dark vehicle, I see the brothers inside, but I’m too busy wrapping my head around the interior to notice their expressions. It’s like a limo, the seats facing one another, and I can only assume the pledge will be the one doing the driving, because all three Princes are back there, waiting.

“We’ve got a meeting in Coach Reed’s office in ten minutes, Red,” Wicker says, glaring at me from inside. “Get your ass in the car, or I’ll do it for you.”

“Sorry,” I say, trying my hardest not to look at Lex. Unfortunately, I realize quickly that this skirt is going to be a problem with the height of the SUV. I try twice to lift my foot up to the ledge, but the narrow fit of the skirt, plus the heels, makes it impossible.

“Um.” I look to the driver, tucking the jacket I’d brought beneath my arm. “A little help?”

With a start, he takes me by the elbow and places a hand on my hip, but Lex’s low, venomous voice makes the boy freeze.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

The boy stammers, “S-s-she needs–”

“The only thing she needs,” Pace says, jaw tense, “isus.” Snapping forward, he grabs my wrists and yanks me in. My knees drag across the carpet and I hiss, skin burning.

“Pick her up,” Lex commands.

“I’ve got it!” I shout, trying and failing to fight off Pace’s harsh grip. Wiggling like a worm, I manage to lever myself upright. Breathlessly, I slide into the empty seat next to Pace, cradling my knee with the hand he hasn’t captured. “Jesus.” Each of their gazes bore into me as I catch my breath, willing the hot burn of humiliation off my cheeks.

Pace bends to pluck my jacket off the floor, his dark eyes crawling up my calves. “Your legs might look killer in that skirt, but considering what you signed on for, you might want to use your brain the next time you get dressed.”

I go to grab the jacket, but much like my hand, he tightens his grip, not releasing either. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, disconcerted at the sight of his hand entwining with mine.

Wicker, who’s sitting across from us, gives my outfit a long, disdainful look. “It means that a Prince should have easy access to his Princess’ pussy, so wearing a straightjacket on your legs is a cockblock.”

I shrink into myself, smoothing back that fucking curl Stella worked on for so long. “This was one of the approved outfits,” I mutter, trying futilely to pull my hand back. “I followed directions.”

“Burn that skirt and any other like it,” Wicker says, not-so-discreetly shifting his crotch. “When my time comes, I’m not going to waste it wrestling you out of wool poly blend.”

I give up fighting Pace more quickly than I think I should, fixing my eyes to my knees as he rests our clasped palms on his thigh.

The driver slams the door and Lex looks at his brothers. “Why are you going to see Coach Reed?”

“Father set up a meeting,” Pace says, not sounding overly happy about it. “He wants me and Wick back on the team.”

“Seriously?” Lex asks, seemingly surprised. “He never mentioned it to me. They’re already in pre-season.”

Coach Reed is the Forsyth hockey coach. I glance at Wicker. “Don’t you play lacrosse?”

My question gets his attention, and he throws his arm over the back of the seat, giving me a smug chin lift. “So our little cubslut’s a fan.”

My eyes narrow. “I’ve just seen your banner on campus. No one can miss a head that big.”

Lex makes a small, amused sound, and for the first time since last night, I look him in the eye. He’s not smiling, but there is a certain mirth in his gaze when he looks at his brother. “She’s got a point, Wick.” Such a tiny reaction, and yet, it makes my stomach erupt in frantic flutters.

Both the rose and the note are nestled in my bag.

In any case, it’s pointless to pretend I don’t know Whitaker Ashby. There’s not a girl or guy on campus who isn’t aware of his reputation. He’s devastatingly handsome, flirtatious, athletic,smart.His face is on one of those banners that hangs from the athletic administrative building honoring the best of Forsyth U; his body in motion, lacrosse helmet covering half his head, a perfect bead of sweat gliding down his sharp cheekbone toward his strong jaw. I think about it every time I pass it on the way to the visual arts building.