My Stolen Life: a high school bully romance (Stonehurst Prep Book 1)

by Steffanie Holmes

  His entire body stiffens under my touch, and I imagine even his heart shriveling in his chest. This close, I catch a whiff of Noah’s deep, inky scent – shadowed and strange and tinged with salt and jasmine. Noah’s breath hisses out between clenched teeth, and something hard presses against my thigh.

  An erection.

  He’s hard.

  I think I’ve imagined it, but no. I freeze in place, and his cock grazes my naked thigh, giving a little jerk like a nod of approval. Noah’s hard as a rod.

  For me.

  “No one wants you at school, at our parties.” Noah’s lips press against my earlobe. His hatred stains my skin. “Not after what you did.”

  “I was thirteen when your brother died,” I whisper back, my lips grazing his ear in return. I enjoy the way his body squirms. “I had such a crush on you. It’s on every page of my diary, your name and mine circled in broken hearts.”

  On impulse, I reach down and cup him through his pants. I know people must see this, but I don’t care – this moment is for Noah and me alone. This is our battle of wills.

  Noah’s body tenses, coiling in on itself like a snake eating its own tail. A strangled cry escapes his lips.

  I am Mackenzie Malloy, and I can make even my enemies hard for me.

  I rub his cock through his pants, and he squirms in this delicious way.

  “Fuck you, Mackenzie,” Noah rasps. He doesn’t move, even as his cock jerks in my hand. “Stay away from me, or you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

  And something about pressing my body against him, feeling every plane and curve of his muscled frame while I’m dripping wet in a ruined costume, breaks me. I know he’s seen behind my mask, into the bruises that stain my soul. And I want to bruise him, too.

  My fist grips his cock, holding him against me. I lift my knee and drive it hard into his balls.

  24

  Noah

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  25

  Mackenzie

  I walk home, shivering, in bare feet.

  Noah bellows a string of curses that follow me all the way to Malloy Manor. I revel in the feel of his body crumpling against me as he doubled over. The sight of his beautiful eyes bugged out and his face twisted in pain will comfort me on dark nights.

  I spend the rest of the weekend playing with Queen Boudica in the ballroom of my blood-stained house. Gabriel calls me twice, but I don’t answer. I can’t face him. I put on my favorite Octavia’s Ruin album and blast it at top volume. I listen to him sing the stars and the rain, and I let a single tear fall into Queen Boudica’s fur.

  I think about Noah, and about his cock grinding against me even as he spat words of hatred in my ear. And I think that even if there was a sliver of a chance we might burn up in each other’s hatred, it’s gone now.

  The dread of school on Monday sits heavy on my skin. I consider staying home, but I know I can’t avoid them forever, and I can’t risk truancy officers coming here to look for me.

  My phone pings. Even though I don’t have social media, I have alerts set up on my name. Hundreds of photographs of my wet, bedraggled ass flood my feed, making it outside of the Stonehurst circle to celebrity gossip sites. The comments scroll past. Bitch. Skank. She looks like trailer trash. Did you see her with Noah? She threw herself at him even though he hates her. How desperate can you get?

  I hate them.

  They’re right.

  I hate myself.

  I press my palms into my eyes. Why did I ever think this plan would work? I should have known I couldn’t fit into their world anymore. I’m too messed up. Too broken.

  The alarm on my phone rings on Monday morning. Queen Boudica stretches out her paw, touching my cheek. “Mew?” She begs me to stay in bed, to keep her warm with my body. It’s the only thing I can do right.

  “I’m sorry, girl.” A single tear rolls down my cheek – the third tear I’ve shed in as many weeks. It’s disgusting. I give in to this one indulgence and allow it to fall, splashing against my chest and rolling off the end of my nipple. I wipe my eyes before the next tear can fall, pressing my fists into my sockets, pushing the pain back inside, where it belongs.

  I lower my hands. My gaze catches my reflection in the mirror over my dressing table. Mackenzie Malloy stares back at me, her jaw set with determination. Haughty defiance burns in her eyes.

  Bring it on, bitches.

  My mask in place, my armor protecting me, I climb out of bed and prepare to face Stonehurst Prep.

  School is just as horrible as I expect it to be.

  But I get through it. Minute by minute, hour by hour. I stare straight ahead in class, trying to tune out the whispers, the laughter, the disgusting sexual advances lobbed at me. My locker is plastered with printed photographs from the night – me, kissing Gabriel beside the pool, struggling with him in the water like a siren possessed. Me, pressed up against Noah, my hand in his crotch, my face buried in his hair.

  Gabriel. Fuck. I can’t even look him in the eye. He kissed me, and I…

  The double standard grinds my gears. Noah was the one hard for me. He started this shit, and yet he holds court like a king while I bear the brunt of their cruelty.

  Classes crawl along at a snail’s pace, but at least under the eyes of the teachers, I have some safety. I debate skipping lunch altogether, but I know my absence will be noted. I know Noah will count it as his victory.

  Something hits my hair while I’m waiting in line for lunch. I keep my eyes fixed ahead, raising my hand to touch something slimy dripping down my hair. Out of the corner of my eye, Eli gets up from the royal table and strides toward me.

  I can’t deal with him today. I step out of the line and circle back toward the door. I slam my elbow into a weedy-looking guy loitering beside the condiment stand. When he turns in surprise, I grab his tray out of his hands and make a run for it.

  “Hey, that’s my lunch, you crazy bitch.”

  The laughter swirls around me like a tornado. I don’t stop, don’t look. No one touches me or accosts me. I run until I reach the bathroom, and I slam the stall door shut and lean against it, the tray wobbling in my shaking hands.

  I’ve just about got my racing heart back to normal when the bathroom door swings open, and a clan of hyenas enters, cackling and baying for blood. They crowd around my stall, beating their fists against the walls. The lock rattles.

  Faces pop over the top of the stall. “That’s her,” Cleo sneers. “I told you she eats in here. What a loser.”

  Something hits my cheek. Wet, wadded up toilet paper. The cackling rises an octave. It pounds in my ears, and for the first time since I woke up to find myself trapped in a coffin, I long for silence.

  I swipe at Cleo’s face with my nails, but she’s too fast. I’m trapped. “Grab the bins,” she says.

  Fuck no.

  I throw my hands up to cover my head as a cascade of waste and filth topple over the sides of the stall. Wadded toilet paper, used sanitary pads and pill packets bounce off and pile up around me. Their fists drum a relentless beat as they empty the contents of the bins over the stall, over my head.

  26

  Mackenzie

  I wait in the stall, numb, surrounded by stinking trash, until the bell rings, until they leave, their laughter echoing down the hall. I wait until I’m sure I’m alone.

  Alone.

  I wrap my fist in one of the fluffy towels, smash one of the high windows in the bathroom, and crawl outside. The freshmen have gym class, so the playing fields are filled with students. I duck behind the trees as I make my way to the front gate. I don’t want them to see.

  I can’t face the bus, so I walk up to Harrington Hills. The sun beats down on me, mingling sweat with my already disgusting scent. People cross the street to avoid me. Every stomp of my shoes against the pavement drives home the undeniable truth.

  I don’t belong here.

  The walk takes over an hour, but finally, I see the tower of the manor’s th
ird story peeking between the tops of the jacaranda trees, the breeze blowing up from the ocean making the purple blooms dance in fairy-tale reverie. I duck into the wooded area and head for the door of the maintenance shed, digging in my pocket for the key. I know as soon as my hand rests on the door that something’s wrong.

  I locked the door when I left this morning.

  I always lock the door.

  Yet it swings open at my touch, revealing the rows of machinery that operate the car lift and other features of the house.

  Shit.

  I contemplate backing out and calling Antony. But he’ll be at the club, preparing his fighters for the match tonight. He needs to focus. Plus, I don’t want him to see me like this. I reek. I need a shower.

  Righteous anger bubbles inside me. This is my home. On today of all days, the violation of my personal space is too much to take. I pull Antony’s knife from my shoe and flick it open.

  I slip off my shoes, padding forward silently on my stockinged feet. My eyes dart into the corners of the machine room as I step inside. The fans drop the temperature, and goosebumps rise on my skin.

  No one in here.

  I reach the other side and nudge the door into the tunnel. It swings open. I duck inside, pressing my back against the concrete wall. Adrenaline pounds through my veins as I creep along the tunnel to the car lift. My fingers grip the balustrade, and I haul myself up the spiral stairs into the garage.

  In the gloom, the rows of cars appear menacing – like ranks of Roman soldiers advancing on an outnumbered foe. I pick my steps cautiously, peering behind each car, checking around for signs of an intruder. My body coils with tension, ready to strike.

  I reach the other side of the garage. Nothing. Where are they? Who are they?

  The door into the house is ajar. I know I closed that, too – I don’t want Queen Boudica playing in the machinery. A fresh wave of rage and panic assaults me as I hear a faint, pained ‘mew’ from the other side.

  Queen Boudica is in there.

  I bolt forward, my caution forgotten. I fling open the garage door. The garage opens into a wide hallway. On one side is a commercial kitchen where a personal chef would once have cooked for our family. On the other side, the chef’s living quarters and a laundry worthy of a Victorian poorhouse. I breeze past these rooms, following my kitty’s cries.

  I turn the corner and gasp.

  Queen Boudica lies in the middle of the floor, the marble around her smeared with blood. She lifts her head, those fierce yellow eyes swimming with pain, and gives me a pitiful ‘mew.’

  The sound breaks my heart.

  Behind her, scrawled across the wall of the central atrium in wobbly letters, are the words:

  GO AWAY

  27

  Mackenzie

  Cold, righteous anger embraces me. I rush across the room and scoop Queen Boudica into my arms, clutching her to my chest and feeling the racing patter of her heart. Blood dribbles from a slash across her abdomen – a knife cut, cruel and deliberate.

  GO AWAY

  The rage engulfs me, like falling through ice. I am frozen blood and bone. I am made of ice and vengeance. I am what this disgusting act has made me.

  GO AWAY

  I know who did this.

  Alec. Alec, who swore he’d get me for his nose, for rejecting him. Alec, who wasn’t at school today, lording it over me with his buddy Noah. He could have waited for me to leave the house through the maintenance shed. The door is heavy and set on counterweights, so it swings closed on its own time. I’m always in a hurry so I usually leave it to shut on its own. He probably hid in the bushes and waited until I left for school, then snuck inside and hurt Queen Boudica. But how did he know about the maintenance shed? I’m careful to cover my movements, not even the paparazzi have discovered it yet—

  This isn’t all Alec. I remember the face peering at me from the top of the security fence. Eli. He’s friends with Noah and Alec.

  He told them about the gate.

  The words in my old diary flash in front of my eyes, and I’m so angry I black out for a moment. Eli’s supposed to protect me. He—

  Something crashes over my head.

  My heart leaps into my throat.

  He’s still here.

  He’s inside my house.

  When I recover enough of my faculties to think clearly, I cradle Queen Boudica against me and crawl down the hallway, keeping each movement as silent as possible until I reach my father’s study.

  SMASH.

  I jump at the sound of something breaking. It comes from upstairs. I think of all my things scattered around the ballroom. If they’ve destroyed my shit, I’m going to fuck them up.

  I’m tempted – oh so tempted – to creep upstairs and drive my knife into Alec’s kidneys while his back is turned. My fingers tighten on the blade, and I imagine the satisfaction of feeling it sink into his flesh. I make the motion of twisting it inside him, mincing his organs to mush. But I won’t leave Queen Boudica. I don’t know how many people are upstairs or what they intend to do to us, and I won’t put her in more danger. Right now, I need to get those bastards out of my house.

  I crawl into the study, find the release for the panic room, and tuck us both inside. As the door swings shut behind me, I mash the buttons to bring up the CCTV. I’ve disabled several cameras to save money, but I still had five trained on different areas of the house. I flick through the feeds, and I see him – a figure in dark pants and a green hoodie climbing out an upstairs window.

  He’s alone.

  The figure leaps from the ledge. I suck in a breath, hoping he’ll break his leg on the flagstones. No such luck – he lands with remarkable grace in a soft garden bed, narrowly missing a towering cacti because the gods want to spit in my face today.

  He’s on his feet in a flash, running for the wall, right where Eli stacked the lawn furniture. He bounces on one of the chairs, grabs the top of the wall, and vaults over like he’s in the fucking Olympics or some shit. He tucks his chin down, obscuring his face in the shadow of the sage-green hood, but as he sails across the wall I get a good look at his hoodie.

  Only it’s not a hoodie.

  It’s a Stonehurst Prep letterman jacket.

  Alec LeMarque’s jacket.

  I clutch Queen Boudica to my chest as I press the phone to my ear. It goes straight to voicemail. “I need you,” I whisper. “Alec LeMarque was in my house. Get Galen over here, now.”

  Antony’s boys swarm the manor, searching from top to bottom in case Alec left an accomplice behind. On the first floor landing, they find a table upturned, the porcelain vase smashed across the tiles. That was the sound that startled me. My room – my old room – is also a mess, more of a mess than I’d left it after I found the diary. My porcelain dolls had been thrown against the walls until their heads shattered. But the ballroom and my new bedroom remain untouched, thank fuck.

  They don’t find any intruders. We have no way of knowing what Alec might’ve seen.

  I know this is bad, but it’s a background concern to me right now. I’m covered in sticky mess from Cleo’s stunt, my shirt stained with Queen Boudica’s blood. I pace across the kitchen while Antony’s doctor – the infamous Dr. Galen – lays Queen Boudica on the table and expertly stitches her wound. She stares up at him with those saucer eyes swimming in pain, her fur matted, her breathing labored.

  The words flash across my vision. Words written in the blood of my best friend. GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY.

  My fist connects with the kitchen wall.

  “Easy, tiger.” Antony doesn’t look up. He’s on his phone, no doubt rescheduling the practice session.

  “He cut my cat,” I hiss. “I’m going to cut off his balls.”

  “All done. She’s a tough girl.” Dr. Galen kisses the top of Queen Boudica’s head. She nuzzles in his arms, groggy from the drugs. “She’ll be tearing up the joint again in no time.”

  “She’s going to be fine?”

&nbs
p; “The wound looked nasty, but it was superficial. Her attacker managed to miss all her major organs. She’ll be groggy for a few days, and I’d keep her away from other cats.” He strokes her head, and I notice several rows of claw marks across his hand. “She’s much more accommodating than my usual patients.”

  Considering Dr. Galen is usually digging bullets out of crooks or repairing nasty wounds for cage fighters, I take his word for it.

  I take Queen Boudica from him. She stares up at me with wide, pain-soaked eyes, her claws digging into my shirt. I’m never, ever letting her out of my sight again.

  Dr. Galen washes his hands in the sink and exits with a nod to Antony. My cousin leans against the cabinets and fixes me with that look of his, the one that says he’ll follow me into the fires of hell to fuck shit up with me, and he’ll laugh the whole way. “What are we dealing with here?”

  “Alec LeMarque,” I growl. My fingers curl into claws. “He’s been gunning for revenge over his precious nose. That prick Eli must’ve told him how to get into the house – I found out from the diary that I used to sneak him in through there. Eli’s the only person who could possibly know about the maintenance shed – the paps haven’t been anywhere near that side of the house. He’s the only one I saw on the CCTV, but I don’t know what he’s seen or how much he knows.”

  “Shit.” Antony cracks his knuckles. “Just say the word, Claws, and I’ll make sure he never speaks again.”

  If he’d offered a month ago, I would have shut him down. I needed to deal with my own shit. Antony’s solutions tended to be more… permanent. But that’s before they invaded my space and fucked with my precious Queen Boudica.