The Ruthless Boys (Adamson All-Boys Academy #2)

by C. M. Stunich

  “Miss Carson, orthodox is highly overrated. Who cares what anyone else thinks? It only matters what you want.”

  “What I want,” I murmur, and then I dunk myself under the water again before holding a thumbs-up over my head. It’s a bit of a cop-out, but what can I say? My boobs are literally floating in the water, and my cheeks are probably about the same color as the pickled plums the boys ate for breakfast this morning.

  There is nothing orthodox about this situation.

  And yet, I like it. I really, truly do.

  The next morning, Church gets up early, donning his yukata and opening our doors, so that the sunlight streams into the room. I groan and roll onto my side, but the twins managed to sneak a ton of saké into their room last night, and we all got a little drunk.

  The last thing I remember is Church tucking me into bed.

  “What time is it?” I grumble, and he smiles over his shoulder at me.

  “Time to get up,” he supplies which is totally unhelpful. Have I mentioned the phone service up here is shit? The Wi-fi is 1995 AOL dial-up slow, and the only clocks are downstairs in the main lodge. I don’t even know where my phone is, buried in my duffel somewhere.

  With a sigh, I stand up and stretch my arms over my head.

  I’m still wearing my yukata, so I force myself to my feet, heading down the hall to the bathroom. It’s quite literally around the corner, so Church can see me safely step inside and lock the door before he goes back to cleaning up our futons.

  I wash my face, brush my teeth, and pee before heading back out. But as I open the door, I see something that I shouldn’t see and freeze, the thin crack in the door my only window into a seriously startling reveal.

  There’s Mr. Murphy, a note in hand, a piece of tape stuck to his thumb. He licks his lower lip, closes his eyes, and whispers something under his breath before sticking a note to my door.

  A note written in purple freaking pen.

  He takes off down the hall with his knapsack in tow as I gape at the scene and then slide the door open the rest of the way. It’s so fucking early, he probably thought everyone was asleep.

  But I saw.

  And even though we sort of suspected him, I’m still in shock.

  I can hardly believe it, sweet, cute Mr. Murphy writing out a note in purple pen and sticking it to my bedroom door. He really fucking is ‘Adam’, sending me all these horrible notes. For a brief moment, I entertain the idea that he’s one of the killers, but no. Ranger’s narrative of him trying to protect me by sending me away makes more sense.

  But is he really the guy with the knife? And what the hell is he trying to protect me from anyway?

  After I’m sure he’s gone, I head out of the bathroom and straight for our room where Church is waiting. It’s kind of weird though, that he closed the doors like that when he knew I was just down the hall in the bathroom. It doesn’t make sense.

  I don’t even look at the note as I rip it off the door, intending on showing it to Church first.

  But then I slide the door open, and the hot, sweet smell of copper hits me in the face.

  My eyes widen, and my hand tightens on the edge of the shoji screen, nails digging into the wooden frame.

  Church glances over at me, blond hair falling into his face, a smear of blood across his beautiful mouth. His expression is far-away, almost dream-like, and those long, elegant fingers of his are wrapped around the hilt of a blood-soaked knife.

  A knife that’s protruding from Mr. Dave’s stomach.

  No, no, not just any knife, but my knife, the hunting knife that Ranger gave me that I left in this very room.

  “Charlotte,” Church whispers, his yukata sliding down his perfect shoulder. I back up a step. The sound of movement to my right draws my attention, and there, standing in the simple but beautiful hallways of the lodge is one of the killers, dressed in their usual uniform of black hoodie plus knife.

  Shit.

  Without thinking, I turn and take off down the hall, ignoring the shouts behind me. Church is one of the murderers?! I think, but it doesn’t make any sense. It can’t be. It just fucking can’t. Maybe … Mr. Dave is one of the murderers, and Church was just defending himself?

  Guilt surges over me at the thought that I may have left him behind to fight by himself, but I can’t stop running or I’ll be the one bleeding from a knife wound next.

  Footsteps pound behind me, chasing me away from the crowd and toward the side entrance that leads to the nude bathing pool. I scramble out, hoping to find other students outside, but the only person I see is another one of those hoodie-wearing creeps waiting for me near the gate.

  Instead of going that direction, I veer to the left and use the narrow patch of garden that surrounds the hot spring to head up toward the woods. Maybe not the best idea in the world, but where else can I go? I’m surrounded by a wall made of thick logs, and I’m panting too hard to scream.

  When I hit the upper pool, I slip and fall in, the warm water sucking me under before I thrust myself back to the surface, gasping for breath, my yukata heavy and wet, dragging me down as I scramble out the other side and into the trees. If I keep going, I should be able to circle around and find someone on the other side.

  Instead, I end up stumbling down a gravel path and under a massive red gate that gives me the fucking creeps. It’s dark out here, and quiet, and I have no idea where my attackers are. Pausing, I take a moment to catch my breath and look around, trying to orient myself.

  That’s when I hear the footsteps again, pounding after me, and I know I have to keep going. I’m leaving a dripping trail of water that’s going to lead these psychos right to me.

  So I keep running, down the path and toward what looks like a building of some sort. It’s a slim chance, but there could be someone in there, right?

  I head that way, only to come to a skidding stop, my feet going out from under me as gravel sprays out in an arc.

  My eyes refuse to believe what’s right there in front of me.

  Lying atop some sort of shrine is a boy, dressed in a yukata, a knife protruding from his chest. One of his hands is flung out to the side, fingers slightly curled, blood dripping into a wet pool beside him.

  His eyes are open, staring up at the roof of the old building, and he is most definitely, one hundred percent, without a doubt … dead.

  Murdered.

  Footsteps sound on the gravel behind me, and a hand clamps firmly down on my shoulder.

  I am so fucking screwed.

  To Be Continued …

  Adamson All-Boys Academy #3

  Academy of Spirits and Shadows, Book #3

  The Family Spells, Book #1

  Rich Boys of Burberry Prep, Book #1

  Flip the page for an excerpt of chapter one.

  Prologue

  My uniform—and my dignity—are in tatters.

  My eyes scan the gathered crowd, but there are three faces in particular that catch my attention. Cold, cruel, beautiful. An ugly sort of beautiful, I think as I meet a narrowed silver gaze and catch the faintest edges of a smirk. Tristan Vanderbilt thinks he’s beaten me; they all do. But what they don’t understand is that I’m not the nervous, eager little charity case I was when I first started at Burberry Prep.

  Lifting an arm up, I swipe a bit of blood from my mouth. My bra is showing through the torn remnants of my white blouse, and it’s the pretty red one I wore just for Zayd. He made me believe he cared about me. Flicking my eyes in his direction, I can see quite clearly now that he doesn’t. He isn’t smiling, not like Tristan, but the message in his green eyes is clear: you don’t belong here.

  “Had enough yet?” Harper du Pont purrs from behind me. I don’t bother turning to look at her. Instead, I let my attention slide to the last of the three guys. My three biggest mistakes; my three greatest betrayals. Creed is frowning, like this whole confrontation is a necessary evil. Get rid of the lower-class trash, clean up the school.

  The wind picks up, the rag
ged red pleats of my academy uniform billowing in a salty breeze. In the distance, I can hear the sea. It crashes against the rocks in time to the frantic beating of my heart. A storm is coming.

  Tristan moves toward me with predatory grace, his expensive loafers picking up droplets of dew as he comes to stand toe-to-toe with me, as close as he was that first day when he insulted me and then laid out the challenge: how long do you think you’ll last? Well. It’s the final day of freshman year, and I’m still standing here, aren’t I? Tristan, though, he thinks that while I’ve won the battle, he’s going to win the war.

  I stay stone-still as he lifts his fingers and tangles strands of my paint-splattered hair through them, giving the short rose gold locks a light tug. Red paint smears across his perfect skin as I meet those gray eyes of his with a defiant glimmer in my own.

  “I take it you won’t be coming back next year, will you, Marnye?” he whispers, his voice like whiskey over ice. Tristan thinks he’s the master of this school, a veritable god. The other boys think of themselves like that, too. I’d like to be a fly on the wall when a confrontation finally comes. They think their money will buy them the world. Maybe, in a way, it will.

  But it won’t buy them true friendship, and it won’t buy them love. It definitely won’t buy them me.

  I glance past Tristan to Zayd and Creed, and then I refocus my attention back on the asshole that started it all. From day one, he went out of his way to make my life a living hell. He succeeded. And Zayd and Creed, they loved every horrible, filthy second of it.

  “Just go home, Marnye, and it’ll all be over,” Tristan says, the softness in his voice edged with cruelty. He’s like a predator who’s too cute to be afraid of. I made the mistake of letting him get too close, and now I’m cut and bleeding—physically and emotionally. I’m fucking shattered. “You don’t belong here.”

  Zayd listens to the whole conversation, and then slides his tattooed arm around Becky Platter, putting the final nail in my coffin. He’s chosen her over me. He’s chosen her and her cruelty and her mocking laughter over me. My hands curl into fists so tight that my nails dig crescents into my palms.

  I meet Tristan’s haughty, self-assured stare. There are tears on my face, and when he removes his fingers from my hair, he touches one with his knuckles, bringing it to his lips for a lick. It’s a derisive, awful move, like a knife in the back. I can feel the blade beside my heart, but it’s just missed. I’m not broken yet.

  “I’ve already enrolled in my classes,” I state, and the entire courtyard goes silent. Nobody is expecting this, the poor girl, the lamb in a pack of wolves, standing up for herself. What they don’t know is that the hardest hearts are forged in fire. With their cruelty and their jokes and their laughter, they’ve forged me into something spectacular. “Come September, I’ll be the first in line for orientation.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Tristan says, still cold as ice, still full of wicked triumph for what he thinks he’s done. His dark hair flutters in the breeze, softening some of his hard lines. It’s all an illusion though. I know that now, and I won’t make that same mistake again. “I’ll make your life a living hell.”

  “You can try,” I retort, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my registration form. I’ll be back at Burberry Prep come hell or high water. This is my opportunity, and I won’t let three handsome faces, three pairs of hot hands, three sets of ardent lips destroy that. “Because what you don’t know …” I take a deep breath, and then bend down to grab the handle on my ratty, old duffle bag. Everybody else here has hired help to carry their luggage. Not me. Straightening up, I lift my chin in defiance and Tristan scowls. “Is that my life outside of these walls was already a living hell. This is just another level of Dante’s inferno, and I’m not afraid.” My gaze flicks past Tristan and back to Zayd and Creed. “Not of any of you.”

  I move around Tristan, intent on the school gates and three months of freedom from these jerks, but he puts his hand around my arm and holds me back. Glancing down, I stare at his fingers pressed against my flesh, and then look back up at his face. He’s smiling, but it’s not a pretty smile.

  “Challenge accepted,” he purrs, and then he releases me.

  As I head down the path in my torn uniform, I keep my chin up and my fears pushed back.

  Challenge accepted is right. I won’t be driven away from the best opportunity in my life. Not by Tristan, not by anyone.

  As I walk, I can feel three sets of eyes on my back, watching, waiting, plotting.

  I’ll have to make sure I stay one step ahead.

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  About the Author

  C.M. Stunich is a self-admitted bibliophile with a love for exotic teas and a whole host of characters who live full time inside the strange, swirling vortex of her thoughts. Some folks might call this crazy, but Caitlin Morgan doesn't mind - especially considering she has to write biographies in the third person. Oh, and half the host of characters in her head are searing hot bad boys with dirty mouths and skillful hands (among other things). If being crazy means hanging out with them everyday, C.M. has decided to have herself committed.

  She hates tapioca pudding, loves to binge on cheesy horror movies, and is a slave to many cats. When she's not vacuuming fur off of her couch, C.M. can be found with her nose buried in a book or her eyes glued to a computer screen. She's the author of over eighty novels - romance, new adult, fantasy, and young adult included. Please, come and join her inside her crazy. There's a heck of a lot to do there.

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