Page 55 of Eat. Prey. Love. (Apex Academy Capers #5)

I push the office door open, leaving the cursed place with a spring in my step that wasn’t there when I walked in. Rockland’s absence is like an unexpected holiday, a reprieve from whatever abusive nonsense she had planned for our meeting. My phone vibrates as I stride through the hallway, light pouring in from tall windows.

Today might actually be a good day—it’s a fucking miracle.

BabyGirl: Rockland was a no-show. Think your stuff cowed her, Fitzy?

Though I didn’t ask them to, my crazy tiger and my mischievous gargoyle went on a rampage of vengeful shenanigans last week. They were eager for revenge on the staff members who have been shitty to me since we returned from break to face the false accusations. Clearly, Midori and the other assholes spread shit around with the professors as Amity has with the students, and it’s made me a veritable pariah. I don’t much care about the students glaring and avoiding me—I’m used to that shit. The teachers aren’t new, either, but that comes with its own set of challenges. I have to be cautious of everything I do and say in their presence to keep people from adding to my administrative misery.

TigerWoody: Then our master plan worked, Baby Girl. The moping mythical and I managed to push those fuckers into a corner.

EmoBatman: C’est vrai, Fitzgerald, except we do not know what will come to pass once they regroup.

LustyLibrarian: Something that should have been considered BEFORE you did that shit.

BabyGirl: They meant well, big guy. And if it gets them to back off so I can finish these damn big projects before the end of April, I’ll deal with it. I have so much to do to be ready for the final presentations. I don’t need the extra stress of people dogging me.

TigerKing: She’s got a point, dragon. If we can keep the adults from fucking with her, she can handle the dumbass kids.

BabyGirl: Fuck, yeah, I can.

TigerWoody: That’s my mate. Use their spines for a toothpick. It’s hot AF, Baby Girl .

Smiling at his enthusiasm for murder, I pocket my phone and quicken my pace toward the Shirdal building, the hub of creativity where my studio nestles among others. Forty-five minutes of undisturbed work awaits me—a precious slice of time before the grueling voice class begins.

The air shifts around me as I dodge clusters of students, my senses heightened—not just by my bunny instincts but also by the whispers that flutter through the halls like insidious moths. Asani, Rockland, Midori—they’ve been weaving their web of words, and it’s sticking to the walls, to the minds of the Council-friendly staff. The thought sends a ripple of anger down my spine, but I press it down, focusing on the projects that need my attention.

“Voice teacher’s got claws out this week,” I remind myself, rolling my eyes at the prospect of facing the music, quite literally. Not that I can’t handle it—I’m Delores Fucking Drew, after all—but when your passion becomes a battlefield, even the strongest warriors feel the strain.

I bound up the steps two at a time, my heart thumping in sync with each jump. Creativity pulses through my veins, pushing out those pesky rumors, filling the void with vibrant colors and bold strokes of imagination. That’s where I’ll find my sanctuary—the notes that will soar from my throat—no matter how harsh the teacher or how tangled the lies.

The moment my hand touches the cold metal of the studio door, a shiver skitters up my spine — not from chill, but intuition. Something’s off. The door doesn’t greet me with its usual silent compliance; it whines, just barely, a sound as subtle as a whisper but loud enough for a bunny shifter’s sharp ears. I push it open and peek inside. Shadows cling to my space, unfamiliar, wrong.

I don’t like this one fucking bit .

“Someone’s been here,” I mutter under my breath, fishing my phone out of my pocket with nimble fingers. My thumbs dance over the screen, firing off a text to Fitz.

BabyGirl: Studio door’s weird. I think someone broke in.

His response flashes up almost immediately, the ping slicing through the quiet.

TigerWoody: Leave now. Go to voice where there will be people around. I’ll run diagnostics on all security measures and cams, then send Ren’s tiny friends along to gather shit for me. Someone’s going to regret violating your domain, Baby Girl. I promise.

“Always so protective,” I whisper, though a thread of warmth weaves through me at his concern. Fitz’s text bubbles keep coming, a rapid-fire of frustration and worry. He hates that I’m alone after Rockland’s no-show—there’s no one here to see if someone might be lurking in the shadows.

BabyGirl: I’m fine, Fitzy. You can watch me through the cameras as I head there if it makes you feel better.

TigerWoody: It’s cute that you think I need permission.

BabyGirl: It’s cute you think I don’t assume you’re always watching anyways.

My smirk deepens as we banter and I head for the elevator to go down to the vocal student level. I actually think I’ll be fine, but I love that he worries so much. Lucille barely cared if I was alive most of my youth unless I was useful as a prop. My men are invested in keeping me safe, happy, and secure, but not so much that I don’t get to spread my wings—so to speak.

Unfortunately, my momentary joy is short-lived when the elevator doors open and I hear an ear-grating shriek.

“Oh, look, it’s the thief .” The snarl comes from Felicia O’ Leary, my Pred Games harasser. Her voice is as grating as gravel underfoot, especially at this pitch. I turn and face the wolf shifter head-on. She stands with an overly smug posture, all arrogance and sharp teeth as she spews lies obviously seeded by Asani’s venomous tongue.

“You’re full of shit, O’Leary,” I snap, moving closer until we’re inches apart. Our eyes lock, two predators in a standoff that has nothing to do with claws or fangs. “Whoever fed you that story is setting you up to get your flea bitten fur skinned off for a mop.”

“That won’t matter when it hits Prednet,” she retorts, her smirk as cutting as a blade. “You’ll be out on your ass, or better yet, vanished.”

“Try spreading that trash, and my lawyer will have your package expressed delivered. And not just yours.” My words are icy, aimed at making her wonder just what my gangster lawyer can do. “Your whole family will wish they’d never heard your name when my guys unleash on them. Remember: Fitzy already took off your alpha’s head and pissed down the neck hole in public. We weren’t even sleeping together then. Now? Oh, dear, I simply can’t imagine how much fun he’ll have hunting them all down.”

She huffs, a mix of defiance and disbelief, hair flipping like a scorned queen. But before she can throw another barb, Professor Alexandre’s voice cuts through the tension. “Dolly, let’s begin.”

“Oh, darn. Time for me to go. Bye, Felicia, ” I say with a smug grin. With a final glare that promises retribution, I pivot away from her, striding past Alexandré into the sanctuary of music, leaving the growls and threats behind.

I stride into the voice lesson, my anger from Felicia’s confrontation smoldering like hot coals within me. Professor Alexandre gives me a sharp nod, and I force my focus onto the scales and arpeggios, my voice rising and falling with controlled precision. Each note serves as an outlet, channeling my frustration into the melody.

My focus cannot be split by all the bullshit; I started the semester behind as it is.

“Sharper on the high E, Dolly,” Alexandre critiques snootily. Her gaze is sharp normally, but today, it’s like a knife blade.

“Understood,” I reply, adjusting my posture and taking a deep breath. The piano keys dance under Alexandre’s fingers, and I match them with a renewed fierceness. My voice soars, powerful and clear. For those moments, I’m not just a bunny shifter; I am the music.

The harsh demands to push my voice and my talent continue as the lesson goes on, and I know for sure that she’s been inducted into this cult of bullshit the faux Khan, the recently dyed Rockland, and the headmistress have concocted. Alexandre hasn’t always been nice, but she’s seemed mostly fair, and that wasn’t the case for this lesson. She behaved like she wanted to injure me, and that’s new.

I exit the room with my resolve hardened. “Fitz will tear them apart for this,” I mutter to myself, already composing the message in my head to sic my guardian on Felicia and the brainwashed voice professor. The injustice of the accusation fuels my steps, each one a silent vow of retribution.

How the hell is it that the adults in these damn schools behave worse than the damned kids? It’s fucking embarrassing , honestly.

The corridors stretch before me, leading to the dance studio. Dread coils in my stomach, the whispers of my peers scratching at my ears even when they’re silent. If word has spread to Fabreaux, my ballet instructor, then my reputation might as well be toe-shoes strung up to dry—an exhibit of shame rather than talent.

“Shut the fuck up before I make you shut it,” I hiss under my breath, not caring if anyone hears.

It’s not just about clearing my name now; it’s war against the conformist pred mentality. The very thought makes me want to scream or kick—anything to vent this building fury. As I approach the dance studio, my pulse quickens. Every step is heavy with the weight of what I’m about to face. A predator among predators, all too eager to pounce on the wounded.

Delores Diamond Drew doesn’t cower—not anymore—so I straighten my spine and walk in with my Lucille-esque ‘get fucked’ face on.

“Bring it on,” I whisper, my fists clenching at my sides.

I’ll handle Fabreaux, the gossips, the Council—anyone who dares stand in my way.

This bunny no longer runs away from a fight—she starts them.

The moment I cross the threshold into the ballet studio, Fabreaux’s eyes lock onto mine, and her expression is a frigid overture of disdain. It’s the same look the alpha predator gives when a lesser animal has stepped out of line—an unspoken warning that I’m on thin ice. No words needed; her tight-lipped frown and the slight narrowing of her eyes broadcast the rumors that have found fertile ground in her ears.

“Great,” I mutter, feeling my own expression harden in response.

She can get fucked by a giant spiky troll club, too.

I pivot sharply on my heel, stalking toward the locker room with my spine rigid and chin definitely raised. My fingers tremble with barely contained rage, but I shove them into my bag to fish out my leotard and tights.The metal locker door slams shut louder than I intend, echoing off the walls like a challenge.

“Calm down, Dolly,” I order myself, though the clatter of my pointe shoes hitting the wooden bench betrays my frustration. The soft thud is unsatisfying, nothing like the impact I wish I could make on those spreading lies. I yank the tights up my legs, each movement brusque and efficient. There’s no room for error, not now. The leotard follows, hugging my skin tightly and serving as a reminder that I’m about to enter a battlefield.

Looking at my reflection in the locker mirror, I take a deep breath and sigh. “You have to focus and not let them see you sweat,”

This class isn’t just about pliés and pirouettes anymore; it’s about proving that I won’t be broken by petty gossip or intimidation. As I tie my hair back with a snap of elastic, there’s a grim set to my mouth. Once done, I push through the locker room door with a resolve as unyielding as my pointe shoes’ shanks. Today, every step will be an act of defiance, every leap a testament to my tenacity.

These people think they can test my limits? They haven’t seen anything yet.