“What the hell is going on?” As soon as I hear that pterodactyl screech, I know who it is. Harper du Pont appears out of the trees dressed in Louboutins and some fancy designer dress that rides up so far on her thighs that I can see the lacy white panties underneath. She storms across the clearing and gets up in Creed’s face, just after he knocks Greg to his knees with a punch to the stomach. “Leave them alone,” she hisses, and there’s a collective intake of breath from the crowd.

Idol versus Idol.

I’d sort of hoped this might happen.

Harper has always had per people; Tristan has always had his.

What was it he said in the limo that day?

“If you keep talking, I’ll toss you right out of this limo, and we’ll find out if the Plebs enjoy their queen better … or their king. Don’t test me, Harper.”

There were cracks in the skin of this court, and they were bleeding blue blood long before I ever set my sights on them.

Tristan appears a moment later, swiping his hand down his face. For a second, I imagine that he and Harper were having sex in the woods, and I feel nauseous. But then I realize they were probably fighting. She’s too worked up; he’s too pissed off.

“Creed gave these assholes an order, and they fucked it up,” Tristan snaps, circling the small group like a caged lion shaking out his mane. “Leave him alone to mete out his own justice.”

“Since when do you care so much about Cabot?” Harper growls back at him, her brunette hair short and fluffy with frizz. It’s a pretty amazing sight to behold; I won’t lie. She hasn’t noticed that me or Windsor is here yet; I imagine when she does, she’ll have another fit. “What? Are you two gay for each other now, too?”

Tristan’s storm gray gaze snaps to life with refined cruelty, a hint of malice balancing on the blade-thin edge of his stare. He looks beautiful in his blue shirt, gray wool coat, and black slacks, like a model on his way to a shoot. His raven-dark hair shines in the bonfire’s light, picking up all the subtle blue highlights.

He circles around and ends up standing near me. Unlike Harper, he doesn’t miss me or the prince standing there in the shadows. His jaw tightens, and he turns away, back toward his fiancée.

“If you undermine Creed’s authority, you undermine mine. You know the rules: you control the girls, and I control the guys. Don’t fuck this all up because you’re pissed about your hair.” Tristan’s words are cold, cruel, and precise, like a blade to the gut.

Harper’s eyes widen, and she looks past him to me and Windsor for the first time before snapping her gaze back to Tristan.

“At least John and Greg are always on my side,” she says as the two boys help each other up, bleeding and groaning. Creed looks unfazed, almost bored.

“Are they?” Tristan asks, moving up to stand in front of Harper. “Are they always on your side? Because last time we hung out, all they did was talk shit about your mom, and lament the fact that we were together so they couldn't sleep with you anymore.”

Someone gasps theatrically, and I glance over to see Becky with a solo cup in one hand, the other lifted to her throat as if in shock. Ever the drama queen. Like Creed to Tristan, it must kill her that she's not the queen of the school. Since I haven't quite started on my revenge with the girls, I make a mental note to exploit that weakness.

“Really?” Harper snaps, tugging her dress down in the front and closing her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, they are blazing with fury. “Because all I hear about from the girls is how you stopped fucking them long before second year started. You stopped fucking them soon after you made that stupid bet with Creed and Zayd. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you had a thing for the Working Girl. Should I call your dad and tell him about it?” She turns away with a huff, and half the Bluebloods go with her, including Greg and John.

Once they've gone, there's a moment of quiet. Nobody moves; nobody speaks. I can't see Tristan's face, but his shoulders are drawn so tight it looks like he's in pain.

Finally, Creed makes the first move by heading over to the drink table and pouring himself straight vodka. He tips it back, scoffs, and swipes his arm over his mouth. The music starts up again, and Windsor moves over to stand beside me. He doesn't seem to care that Zayd is sitting right next to me.

“I have to say, I've only just arrived at Burberry prep, but it's quite obvious …” Windsor reaches up and brushes some hair from my forehead, making me shiver as our eyes meet in the firelight. “That the ones who think they're in charge are actually following someone else's unspoken orders.” He winks at me, before holding out a hand and inviting me to dance.

I exchange a look with Zack, and find his face an impenetrable wall of stone. My hand seems to reach out of its own accord. Windsor's fingers curl around mine, and he pulls me to my feet. Zayd mumbles something under his breath that I can't quite hear, and as Windsor yanks me into the crowd, I catch his green gaze watching us with envy.

Nobody will dance with you like I did, his expression says. Nobody can mold your body to theirs the way I can.

I turn away, and focus on Windsor's hazel eyes as he sweeps me off my feet into a princely waltz. No, he doesn't dance like Zayd, but he has some impressive skills nonetheless. After a few songs, Miranda takes over, then Zack.

He may not be as graceful as Windsor, as agile as Miranda, or as sensual as Zayd, but he's big, warm, and he holds me so tight I feel like I could never fall with him holding me.

We don't stop dancing until dawn peaks its bright, little fingers over the edge of the horizon.

“There's more to the story than you're letting on,” Windsor says, sitting on the edge of one of the school’s many planter boxes.

Part of my biology grade this year includes helping out in the academy gardens. I'm supposed to be showing Windsor what to do, but instead he somehow winds up sitting and chatting will I do work. I sit back, wipe my hands on the knees of my overalls, and glare up at him. We're in the greenhouse, so it's hot enough to make me sweat. I swipe an arm across my forehead.

“Of course there's more to the story,” I say, pulling out a carrot and swinging the orange length of it at him for emphasis. “We just met. I'm not about to spill all my secrets to you, despite what you might think.”

Windsor smirks at me until I drop the carrot in his lap, smearing his pristine overalls with dirt. He wrinkles his nose, but tosses the vegetable into the basket before pulling out a few more. I'm guessing this is the most extensive gardening work the prince has ever done.

“I've pieced together quite a lot about your escapades from academy gossip, and I've seen your efforts reflected back in the party.” Windsor tosses his fourth carrot into the basket before standing up and swiping his palms down the front of his overalls. “I want to help.” I glance skeptically up at him, and he smiles bemusedly down at me. “After all, they threatened me the moment I walked in the door. I can't exactly let that go, now can I?”

I snort, pulling the last of the carrots out of the dirt, and putting them into the basket before standing up and turning to face Windsor.

“Don't pretend this is all for my benefit,” I tell him, picking up the basket and moving over to the large, industrial sink in the corner. Carefully, I tip the basket of carrots out into the stainless steel basin and turn on the removable faucet, so I can rinse them off. After this, we'll deliver them to the kitchen, and we'll have the rest of the afternoon off. “I researched you: Miranda is practically an expert on your life.” Dirt swirls down the drain as I glance over to the prince’s handsome face. He really does look like royalty, almost too perfect to be real, as if he should exist in a painting or a sculpture and not necessarily in real life. “You have a reputation for being … How should I put this, a bully who enjoys bullying bullies.” I exhale. It's a mouthful, but it's true.

Windsor doesn't pretend to deny that, but he does reach into to the sink, snatch a carrot, and bite off the tip. When he extends his hand and rubs his muddy thumb against my lower lip, my knees get seriously weak, and I have to clutch the edge of the sink to keep from wobbling.

The guy is an incorrigible flirt, and even though I know that, it doesn't stop me from liking it.

“I like to take down big prey,” he says with a grin, “it's true. I like a challenge, Marnye. Let me help you the way your friends can't.” Windsor steps towards me, and cups my face between his dirty palms. “They were all here last year. Whether they were complicit or not, they're all tied together. But not me. I’m new, no strings attached, no ulterior motives. I just find it amusing to bring down those who think they're too high to fall.” He releases me suddenly and steps back, leaning against the wall beneath the window. Cold, winter sunshine streams in and makes his hair look like blood. The way his hazel eyes take me in, it feels like he’s stripping me bare. “There's no harm in that, is there? Besides, what's it hurt to have an extra pair of eyes to watch your back?”

I sigh, but I don't answer him. We met a week ago. What can I say, I don't trust the guy.

By the end of this week however … something happens that makes me start to.

There's nothing I hate so much as swimming; not because of the activity itself, but because it leaves me alone and vulnerable with every girl at that school who hates me.

Now that I'm on the cheerleading team, I don't have to do it much, but Burberry prep is an old-fashioned school that still requires students to learn how to swim before they're allowed to graduate. Miranda’s been complaining about it all week, loudly proclaiming that the public schools don't do this anymore, and that it's unfair and impractical.

“What does swimming have to do with surviving in today's society?” she asks anyone that will listen, but it doesn't matter. On Friday, students dress down in batches and take turns swimming laps in the pool for Coach Hannah.