Cruel Prince (Royal Hearts Academy, #1)(16)

Old habits die hard because my initial reaction is to put Britney in her place. Fortunately, I come to my senses.

I’ll give my old pal credit. She’s lasted longer than most.

I tamp down the urge to laugh as I watch her look around the cafeteria for a place to sit. She’s not at her breaking point yet, but she looks out of her element.

And nervous.

The earbuds in her ears and the fact she’s absently mouthing the lyrics to one of her favorite songs are dead giveaways.

“The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World. The song was released the same day she was born. And eight years before her mom died.

But no one else would know those things about Dylan.

Not unless they know her like I do. Like I thought I did.

Britney grimaces. “Her bag is ancient, her Doc Martens are an emo fashion disaster, and that mop on top of her head looks like a blue snow cone…after someone pukes it up.”

All that shit might be true, but I guarantee Dylan doesn’t give a single fuck what anyone thinks about her appearance.

“I know,” Hayley chirps. “Seriously, who the hell wears combat boots? Is she like…joining the army?”

“One can only hope,” Britney mutters with a dramatic roll of her eyes.

Her friend Morgan laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “The girl is such a loser. Such a tragedy that her uniform is the most stylish thing she owns.”

Britney picks up her phone and snaps a photo of Dylan. “I have to post this on Instagram.” She smiles down at the screen. “RHA’s favorite cousin-fucker—Dylan Taylor.” Her nose crinkles as her friends reach for their own phones. “I didn’t want to be rude, so I tagged her. Think she’ll mind?”

I barely manage to halt the groan lodged in my throat. Usually I’m able to tune out all their dumb bullshit, but their topic of discussion happens to be the girl I hate.

It’s taking nearly every ounce of my willpower not to put my fist through the table and then beat the nearest person over the head with it.

Instead, I do the next best thing. I watch as Dylan loads up her tray, looking at the cashier with wide eyes as she pays—because the gourmet shit they serve here is expensive as fuck, even by our standards—then wait for her to pass me.

A second before she does, I punt Britney’s messenger bag from underneath the table.

Dylan goes down like a stack of dominos.





Chapter 11





Dylan





It was a bad idea to order spaghetti and meatballs for lunch.

I’m sure the red-orange hue of the tomato sauce I’m currently floundering in will pair well with my white button-down shirt.

Fuck. My. Life.

At least I can take solace in the fact that a portion of my meal spattered on Britney’s thousand-dollar Burberry messenger bag. Bitch.

But as much as I want to beat her ass for intentionally tripping me, I won’t give her the satisfaction of letting her know she’s ruffling my feathers.

Instead, I calmly peel myself off the cafeteria floor, silently praying I don’t slip. Again.

As suspected, everyone’s eyes are trained on me.

Well, everyone except for Jace, who appears to be enjoying his food without a care in the world. And Oakley, who’s laughing so hard he’s shaking.

Assholes.

A faint flicker of pity passes in a few people’s gazes as I straighten myself out, but not enough for anyone to hand the new reject a paper towel.

Whatever. Screw the sheep.

With a smirk, I pluck a strand of spaghetti off my shirt and plop it in my mouth. “It’s good. But it could use a little salt.”

“Gross. You’re so wei—” Britney starts to say before her face turns ashen. “Oh my God, you dumb slut. You ruined my bag.”

I lick a drop of sauce off the tip of my thumb and shrug. “Consider it karma for ruining my lunch.”

With that, I walk away.

But not before grabbing the remaining spaghetti strands off my shirt and tossing them in her direction.

“You’re gonna pay for that, bitch,” she calls out as I head toward the exit.

My response is a middle finger in the air.





I’m barely in the bathroom thirty seconds when the door opens, and I feel someone gawking at me.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” I snap as I vigorously scrub my stained shirt with a paper towel.

“Don’t have to. Britney already posted one on Instagram.”

Of course, she did.

“Before you bathed in tomato sauce,” the girl adds.

Lifting my gaze from the mess, I glare at the short, curvy brunette donning a pair of black-rimmed glasses. She’s cute, but she definitely doesn’t look like a typical member of Britney’s crew.

Probably a wannabe.

“Thanks for the play-by-play.” I crinkle my nose. “Now buzz back to your queen bee.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “That’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

Irritated, I stop scrubbing. “How so?”

“By assuming I was part of Britney’s posse.” With a huff, she unzips her bag and takes out a white button-down shirt. “You’re wasting your time. Those stains will never come out.”