Secret Heir (Dynasty #1)(26)

I can feel said flaming face burn even hotter in response, in a mix of anger and embarrassment. Because he’s right. My traitorous body is emitting all the wrong signals right now and I want nothing more than to set the record straight.

“That’s because you’re a delusional narcissist,” I retort. I hear a chuckle from somewhere in the living room, reminding me that we have an audience. But I couldn’t care less. Let them see me put this prick in his place.

Raph only smirks in response. Smirks. He’s clearly enjoying himself. But I’m not, and this conversation needs to be over. Now.

I’m also well aware that his arm is still wrapped firmly around my waist and I hate the fact that I can feel every ridge of chorded muscle, even through my blazer.

I open my mouth to make myself blindingly clear, ready to break his arm if that’s what it will take for him to let me go. But he’s already speaking.

“We’re having a party here later tonight.”

I stare back at him in silence, because I have no idea why he’s telling me this. I can tell nothing from his expression and for a split second, the ridiculous thought springs up in my mind that this is some kind of invitation.

But his next words make it crystal clear that it’s not. Not at all.

“You’re not invited,” he adds flatly, as if it’s obvious.

I have no desire to attend his stupid party. But still, his words feel like a slap to the face.

It’s enough to sweep away any lingering embarrassment or any other thought or feeling which isn’t hate, for that matter.

“Screw you, asshole,” I hiss, with enough venom that I feel him loosen his grip. Only slightly, but just enough.

He’s too distracted, by god knows what, to react when I shove him back so that he lands on his ass on the cold marble step.

I stalk up the rest of the steps, leaving Raph laid out on his ass in the same way that he laid me out on my ass in class earlier. But I don’t miss the hoots of laughter coming from Baron and Lance’s direction and Raph’s responding growl, telling them to shut the hell up.

I turn into the left wing hallway and something feels off, although I have no idea what. I try to shake off the irrational feeling. My nerves are probably still fried from that run-in with the king of all assholes.

But when I open the double doors to my suite, I find that the whisper of premonition was not unwarranted.

It takes a moment to register what I’m seeing. There are flyers plastered on the walls and what was once immaculately white marble has been replaced with pictures of naked women—escort flyers. Tits and ass. All over my walls. Every square inch.

I stand deathly still as the anger simmers in my veins, boiling over until it’s all I can feel and the lewd images plastered all over my walls blur into a haze of anger.

It’s eerily quiet in the halls. As if those bastards downstairs are gleefully listening, waiting to hear my reaction.

My mind brings up the image of Raph coming down the stairs earlier, that icy gaze burning through me as he caught me. Why he didn’t just let me fall, I have no clue, because clearly, he loves seeing me suffer.

That motherfucker.

But I stifle the scream of frustration that’s working its way up my throat and calmly walk across the hall towards the St. Tristan suite. The door is locked but I don’t let that stop me.

I kick the door down, surprised by my own strength. I guess what they say about anger and adrenaline is true—it really does give people superhuman strength.

I’m surprised that no one comes running upstairs at the loud bang. They probably think I’ve keeled over and died and there’s no way any of those fuckers downstairs would even consider rushing to my rescue. No, they probably can’t even imagine that I’ve just kicked down Raph’s door or what I’m about to do. That’s because they have no fucking idea who I am.

That same adrenaline pumps through me as I scan the room. It’s as large as my suite, larger maybe. It’s surprisingly tidy for a guy’s room and the whole place smells like him—citrus and cool winter mornings. It only fuels my anger. My gaze falls on the shelves lined with soccer trophies—way too many to be normal. I look at the plaques on some of the trophies – MVP, Arcadia High School League Cup, Eden High School League Cup and it goes on and on.

Well, well, well, I guess Dani was right—this asshole is some kind of soccer star. I can’t help the smile that breaks out on my face as I look across the room.

There’s a set of large double doors leading out to a balcony which overlooks the ocean. Perfect.

Armed with Raph’s precious trophies, I walk over to the French doors, fling them open and proceed to hurl each trophy out to sea. Every single one.

When I’m done with those, and the trophy shelf is satisfyingly bare, I grab an armload of Raph’s no doubt very expensive clothes and sneakers, then add those to the cargo now floating across the ocean.

Ten minutes later, I’m standing on the balcony with a face splitting grin on my face as I look out at the beautiful view—Raph’s precious belongings, scattered on the rocky beach beneath and floating out to sea.



I spend the next couple of hours trying to rid my walls of the flyers. But there’s way too many of them and the high ceiling makes it impossible to reach all the flyers without a ladder.

I finally give up just before midnight, staring hopelessly at the discarded flyers piled high at the center of my room, and the still covered ceiling and higher sections of the walls.