“Close the door after you,” I demanded, unnecessarily snappy.

She did, shaking her head and smiling at my antics. Nothing disarmed an asshole more than a person who didn’t take them seriously.

“Sweet dreams, my love.”

“Whatever.”

“Love you.”

I looked the other way. This shit again. “You, too.”

I could hear her laughter carrying down the hallway laden with stupid paintings.

Restless, I picked up my phone and scrolled through my text messages.

Knight: I’m having THE talk with Luna today. Wish me luck.

Good luck trying to get your man card back, you ball-less sack of emotions.

Stacee: You awake? ;)

Not for you, Stacee, you slut-shaming, gay-bullying, diet-personality Barbie, whose only unique characteristic is that your parents were illiterate enough to fuck up your generic name.

Hunter: On a scale of one to ten, when one is yawn, why-are-we-even-discussing-this and ten is I-will-fucking-dip-you-in-cold-fire-then-feed-you-to-my-blind-cat, how angry would you be if I told you I namedropped you to fuck the Lenke twins? (P.S. at the same time, if it makes a difference)

Minus thirteen, and their name is Lemke. At least that’s what their matching lower-back tattoos said when they licked my balls at the same time. (P.S. it doesn’t)

Arabella: You awake?

No, idiot. I’m asleep at seven pm, the time you sent me this message. I’m eighty like that.

Alice: Soooo, it’s official now. Jason and I broke up. Drinks at mine?

Only if it’s cyanide, and you’re the one doing all the drinking.

I had no idea what made me think I’d find a text from Lenora. We never exchanged numbers.

Or words.

Or fucking glances, for that matter.

We weren’t exactly on good terms. Then again, it was unlike her not to fight back when I pushed her. And this time, I’d shoved her out of the fucking picture and into another time zone. Why was she keeping silent?

Are you up to something bad, Good Girl?

I tossed my phone across my nightstand and squeezed my eyes shut. My room was my kingdom. All black, not a drop of color except for the occasional white or gray, and yet I felt so trapped inside. I wondered if that was going to change when I moved to England.

Negatory, ass face.

I’d always felt trapped. Even in the wild.

I’d traveled all across the globe, spending entire summers in France, Italy, Australia, the UK, and Spain. And my damn demons always tagged along, like they were chained to my ankle, their shackles noisy in my ears.

I was going to slay them this summer, though.

I even knew which weapon I would use to cut the link between us.

A sword I’d be making from scratch.

The following weekend, Poppy dragged me to one of Arabella’s pool parties.

Showing up uninvited was my idea of hell. But Poppy used the cheapest trick in the book: the heartbreak excuse. True, Knight wasn’t going to be there—he had family matters to take care of—but she didn’t want to face Arabella, Alice, Stacee, and the rest by herself.

So I tagged along, praying the entire drive there that Vaughn wasn’t going to show up and use his cock as a party trick. I was tired of fighting him, of shooting him mean comebacks, of standing my ground.

Oh, and also, I’d sort of retaliated by pouring superglue into his locker. It was childish and silly, but in my defense:

He started it, using actual garbage.

Not many things in the world make me smile like watching the Vaughn Spencer trying to unglue his chem book from the bottom of his locker before putting a dent in the neighboring locker with a vicious kick.

We walked into Arabella’s Spanish villa, located in the gated community of El Dorado, already wearing our swimsuits. Poppy had opted for a coral pink bikini under her white beach dress, while I had on a black, studded one-piece and ripped jean shorts.

“You’re So Last Summer” by Taking Back Sunday blasted from the sick surround system. People cannonballed into the Olympic-sized pool and did shots from bikini clad cleavage. Arabella, Alice, Stacee, and a guy named Soren were sitting in a circle outside, drinking pink champagne from colorful sand buckets.

Arabella sneered as soon as she looked up and caught sight of me.

“I thought your kind can only enter when invited?” She arched a microbladed eyebrow, comparing me to a vampire.

“That’s just a rumor. We’re actually perfectly able to barge into your house unannounced and drink your blood like it’s happy hour.” I helped myself to one of the buckets, pretending to take a sip. I wasn’t so dumb as to actually drink their alcohol.

“All we can hope is for you to burn under the sun, then. It’s not like anyone is going to miss you.” Arabella batted her lashes, unwrapping a Popsicle and sucking on it with the enthusiasm of a porn star.

This earned her a chuckle from everyone around.

I bit my tongue. I couldn’t exactly compliment her on her literary knowledge about vampires, which she’d probably learned from Twilight (the movie, not, God forbid, the book) and only because Robert Pattinson was, like, “super-freaking-hot.” It was her house.