Playboy Princes (Royals of Arbon Academy, #2)

Playboy Princes (Royals of Arbon Academy, #2)

Jaymin Eve & Tate James



To self-isolation, for forcing our butts into office chairs so that this book would be here months early.





Chapter 1





The wet, heavy sound of my fist smacking into his face would have sickened a lesser woman. Me, though? It made me happy. Every crack of my knuckles into his flesh, every spray of deep red blood, every pained grunt and cry from his bruised throat.

I knew he was done. He’d been done ages ago, but I was toying with him. Dragging out the pain and using his broken body as my own personal rage therapy.

With every swing of my balled fist, every strike of my elbow, knee, and heel, those vile words burned through my brain. Over and fucking over.

Genetically superior babies.

Contracts signed.

Violet’s falling in love.

Fuck me. Fuck me and my stupid, childish, moronic naivety. How could I have trusted him?

Alex. Goddamn Alex.

I kept beating my pathetic excuse for an opponent as I pictured my vile boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—in his place. But physical violence like this was a stopgap. A coping mechanism. What Alex would get would have to be a thousand times worse than a few broken bones and some internal bleeding.

Hands grabbed at me, and I lashed out at them too. My mind was too far lost to rage, and I barely even registered what was happening until my feet left the floor and my thrashing body was slung over a broad shoulder.

“What the fuck?” I screamed, my voice hoarse. I must have been yelling while I whaled on that poor fool, not even noticing it. Fuck, I hoped I hadn’t said anything incriminating.

On the other hand, who gave a fucking shit? I sure as hell didn’t. Let them know exactly who Violet Rose Spencer really was. I hoped Alex would hear about the purple-clad fighter named Violence and feel some real fear.

The dark room around me blurred and my head spun. I was hanging upside down, my long bloody braid almost drooping low enough to brush the floor as someone—probably one of my well meaning friends—hauled me out of the fight arena.

“Let me down!” I demanded, smacking his back with bruised, aching hands. My blade was gone, and I had no recollection of dropping it. When had I decided that steel would make the fight too quick and resorted to my bare hands? I had no idea. But fuck, I needed to get it back. That blade had cost me more of my soul than I was willing to admit, and I couldn’t just let some punk snatch it.

The dickhead carrying me didn’t respond and sure as shit didn’t let me down like I asked. Instead he sped up until he was damn near running out of the fight arena and down a gloomy tunnel. He didn’t bother turning on his palm reader light or pause to check arrows, so he was clearly pretty familiar with the underground network that seemed to span the whole of freaking Arbon city.

I continued to rage for another few moments until a door slammed and I was abruptly dropped on my ass in the middle of a plush carpeted floor. By Rafe. I’d been carried—and dropped—by Rafe of all fucking people. He still had his mask on, but it was him. No doubt about it.

“Oh, boy.” I chuckled a dark laugh. “You seriously picked the wrong night to fuck with me, Prince Prickly.” I clambered halfway to my feet only to be shoved back down to the floor by a rough push to my shoulder.

“Shut up,” he snapped, tearing his mask off and glaring at me with those dangerously beautiful eyes of his. “I am this fucking close to losing my cool, Vi; you need to just shut up for two seconds.” He held his finger and thumb up to demonstrate how close, and I suspected they were less than a hairsbreadth apart.

Normally, I wouldn’t give two fucks what Rafe wanted, but something wasn’t stacking up. So I kept my fury bottled up inside while he paced the expensive, decorative carpet and ran his hands through his messy black hair, over and over.

I pulled my own purple mask off while I waited and tossed it on the carpet beside me.

“Are you done?” I snarked when he finally stopped pacing and turned to glare at me again. I hadn’t tried to move from where he’d shoved my ass onto the middle of the carpet. Not because he’d told me to—fuck that—but because seeing him so worked up and ragey when I was still hyped up on the adrenaline of my fight… well… I was woman enough to admit it was a major fucking turn on. I stayed put on my ass because I was dangerously close to jumping his bones.

Apparently my question hit a trigger for him, though, and his mouth dropped and his face twisted with disbelief. “Am I done?” he repeated, staring at me like I’d grown three heads. “Me? Am I done? That’s what you’re asking?”

I blinked up at him a couple times, confused at where this conversation was going. “Uh, yeah, that’s what I asked. You’re pacing like a caged wolf and looking all”—sexy—“murderous and shit.”

He just gaped at me, seemingly lost for words for the first time since ever. It didn’t last long.

“Are you fucking joking? You just almost killed that poor fuck out there! With your bare hands!” His eyes were pitch fucking black at this stage. “What the hell happened? Did you have some kind of psychotic break in the time between the game and fight?”

Guilt washed over me. I’d been so focused on channeling my rage I hadn’t given my opponent a second thought. At least, not past how I could inflict the maximum amount of damage and pain, all while picturing he was Alex.