In the Arms of the Elite Page 41

It feels good to be at school, studying like crazy and working to keep my grades up, so I can qualify for as many scholarships as possible. That, you know, and also kick Tristan’s ass and take top of the class.

Speaking of Tristan, we’re supposed to be working on an economics project together, but he’s been so damn cranky these past few weeks, I can barely get a word in before he stomps off. It’s frustrating as hell, trying to work with someone who won’t talk to me.

Even more frustrating when I’m trying to date that same, said person.

I’m sitting in The Mess with Zayd, watching surreptitiously as he pens lyrics on a napkin with a bright, red pen, when Isabella Carmichael walks in, dressed in the red skirt and black blazer of a first year. She comes right over to the high table and pauses beside me.

“Do you think we could have a moment?” she asks Zayd, batting her lashes prettily and tucking a few errant strands of brown hair behind one ear. Zayd looks at me for confirmation, raising his pierced brow in question.

“Yeah, of course,” I say, thinking about Dad’s whispered words. “I didn’t know she was mine, or I would’ve … I wouldn’t have let Jennifer keep us apart.” Thinking about what he said, and about that bet Harper threw in my face, I feel sick to my stomach. “Maybe just sit at a different table for a minute?”

“Ah, I see how it is,” Zayd says, standing up and then pausing to turn back and grab my face, leveling me with a punishing kiss that makes me see stars. Isabella scowls at us as she tucks her skirt under her thighs and sits down, waiting until Zayd’s moved several tables away before she turns to me and smiles.

It’s not a very pretty smile, I’ll tell you that for sure.

“How’s your boyfriend doing by the way? Or should I say … boyfriends? I mean I’d heard from the Royals that you were called Working Girl for a reason, but I guess I didn’t want to admit I’d shared the same womb as a whore.”

“First off, your ‘Royals’ are nothing more than displaced despots. Second, slut-shaming doesn’t look good on anyone. Don’t do it. It makes you look like a hypocritical asshole.” I lean in, putting my elbow on the edge of the table. “Third … forget the Infinity Club, Isabella. There’s nothing but trouble for you there.”

“Like you’d know. It’s not as if you are or ever could be a member.”

“Windsor York has asked me to marry him. On more than one occasion. Don’t you think if I were to become a prince’s bride and find myself suddenly swimming in billions that I’d be welcomed with open arms?”

“So why don’t you?” Isabella asks, slamming her palm on the table and making the water glasses quiver. She glares at me with very familiar brown eyes, her mouth twisted into a pout. “Why, when you could be so much more than this, do you insist on slogging through?”

“Marrying a prince will elevate my status in your eyes, but working my ass off to get into my first-choice university means nothing?” I ask, and Isabella scowls at me.

“We might share blood, but you’re not my sister and never will be. Don’t try that kill them with kindness crap with me. It doesn’t work.” She lifts her chin and tosses her hair. “I am nothing like you. I … am a Carmichael.”

“A simple DNA test would prove otherwise,” I tell her, and she stands up, nostrils flaring.

“You know, I only came in here because I felt sorry for you.” She tosses her hair in a shiny wave. “My friends and I were getting together for a study thing yesterday, and on our way past the girls’ chapel bathroom, Sharon announced she had to pee. We all took a detour, and well. It’s not looking good for you.”

“Just spit it out,” I murmur, leaning back in my chair and rubbing at my temple. Talking to Isabella makes me feel sick, like looking at a shattered illusion that’s now become distorted in a funhouse mirror.

“Tristan was in there, you know. Him and that Lizzie girl.” My mind flashes back to that moment when I found Tristan and Kiara in that same bathroom, and a wave of nausea sweeps over me. “We walked in and found him fucking your friend. Doesn't that bother you?”

“Get out.” I rise to my feet and look her dead in the eye. “This is my school, my dining hall. Leave.”

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but—”

“Out. Now.”

Isabella smirks, and even though I know she’s doing this to bait me … it’s working. She rises to her feet, turns, and sashays her way out of The Mess, leaving bullshit and lies in her wake. Little sister, what the hell am I going to do with you?

Her words stab through me like a knife, and I feel myself bleeding emotions all over the floor.

“Are you okay?” Zayd asks, hopping back up on the dais and leaning down to look into my face.

It takes me several breaths to get control of myself, but I manage it. Just barely, but I do, looking up and into Zayd’s beautiful eyes. Even if Tristan’s chosen Lizzie, I’ll be okay, won’t I? I have Zack and Creed, Windsor and Zayd. It’ll just make my choice twenty-percent easier, right?

So why the fuck does it hurt so much?

“I’m okay,” I tell him, taking his inked fingers and giving them a squeeze. It’s just rumors and gossip, that’s all that it is. Secrets like this are what caused so much damage with the former Bluebloods. Lies and bullshit.

I can’t take it seriously, not unless I talk to Tristan about it.

“You sure?” Zayd asks, kneeling down to look into my face. “Because if I have to kick that little girl’s ass to keep you happy, I’ll do it.”

“I know you would,” I say with a laugh, kicking out the chair Isabella was using and gesturing to it. “Now sit down, and let’s talk Becky Platter.”


Tristan is shoving binders back onto the library shelf in a fury. Clearly, he's upset about something, but I can't seem to figure out what it is.

“Are you angry with me?” I ask, trying and failing not to think about that moment in the library during first year when I reached up to grab that book without any panties on under my skirt …

“What on earth gave you that idea?” he deadpans, shelving the last book and moving back over to the table to write a note on his tablet. He jams the stylus into the screen in a way that makes me cringe.

“You've barely spoken to me in weeks. You sit next to Lizzie in The Mess every time we eat together, and …” I pause, my eyes tearing up even though I don't want them to. I told myself I would let Tristan make his own choice. If he has then …

He stops and turns to look at me, silver eyes blazing. There's fury in them that just barely reaches the surface. I can sense it, all of that anger boiling inside. He is really and truly angry with me, that much I know for sure now.

“Do you really want to know, Charity?” he asks, getting that vicious twist in his voice that he used to lash out at me so much during first year. Tristan steps forward and slams his palms into the shelf on either side of me, breathing hard. His blazer button is open, the two halves of his jacket hanging down as he stares at me from under a fall of shiny raven hair. “Because the very fact that I have to tell you is what's pissing me off the most.”

“I …” I start, thinking of Isabella's words, those awful, nagging things trying to worm their way under my skin. “We walked in and found him fucking your friend. Doesn't that bother you?” I'm not going to fall for that shit though. I'm not even going to bring it up unless Tristan does first. He wouldn't cheat on me with Lizzie. If he were going to choose, he'd just say something … Like maybe he's about to say something right now? “I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about.”

Tristan closes his eyes, but he's still panting, fingers curled around the edges of the shelves behind me. I reach up and put a hand over his chest, closing my own eyes and feeling the frantic beating of his heart.

A small squeak escapes me when Tristan's hand whips down and grabs my wrist, almost too tight.

Our eyes both open and I find myself getting lost in the brilliance of his blade-gray gaze. It's a double-edged sword, that's for sure. He can defend me with it … but he can also cut me if he wants, make me bleed. And boy, would I bleed for this man.

“What do you think about me and Lizzie?” Tristan asks carefully, his voice like velvet, his smell like cinnamon. His warmth transcends the distance between us, making me shiver.

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