Harper's party is being held on a yacht, much like Tristan's party during first year when they burned that beautiful, beautiful book. I try not to think too hard about that incident because, come on, burning a handwritten J.K. Rowling masterpiece is pretty much unforgivable.

“I can't believe you're so organized that you even organize your vengeance,” Zayd murmurs as we move down the beach as a unit. Tristan is in front, but I'm right behind him. I think, if he were to relax just a little bit, I'd be in front and he'd be able to decompress a bit. Pretty sure he'd enjoy it, too, dropping that heavy mantle he carries, even if only briefly.

“Are you angry?” I ask, because after the notebook had been passed around, and I'd given my speech, the room went silent. We didn’t talk much after that, pretty sure the boys are still processing what they read in my notebook. It wasn't just the list or the rules, it was the other things, my observations of their weaknesses, my own recollections of past events. There were real, true entries in there with my thoughts and feelings and heartache.

“Fuck no.” Zayd snorts, raking his fingers through his pumpkin-orange hair. I miss the sea green. Every time he changes it, I get nostalgic. But at least I know I won't have to wait long until the next color shift. He glances over at me with those big emerald eyes of his. Have I ever noticed how long and dark his lashes are? He's wearing eyeliner, but no mascara or anything. They're just that pretty, I guess. “I mean, I wish you'd taken revenge on me in some way other than getting me unsigned from my label, but I'll survive.” Zayd grins to soften his words, and I smile tightly.

“That song …” I start, and Zayd grimaces. He knows exactly what song I'm talking about, the one that he ridiculed as garbage to his friends, the one I know was not put together by a ghostwriter. Zayd might be an asshole, but he's got creative integrity. “You wrote it.”

He doesn't argue, just purses his lips and glances up at the moon. The way the silver light makes his tattoos shimmer is priceless. He spins his right lip ring around with his tongue.

“Maybe.”

“It was beautiful,” I start, but Zayd doesn't look like he believes me.

“Do you really think getting on a boat with Harper and her friends is a smart idea?” Creed snaps, interrupting our conversation. He’s clearly the most irritated at the list of weaknesses. The way he glares at me through his narrowed lids makes that blatantly obvious. “That didn't exactly go over so well last time.”

“Not everyone on that boat is her friend,” Tristan quips, moving up the dock without hesitation. There are two Pleb boys on the door, but they stand aside as Tristan sweeps past. When they see me, they exchange a look, but I've got Zayd on one side, and Creed directly behind me.

We head in without incident, the rest of our crew close behind.

Tonight, we're just testing the waters, seeing how the other students react. Never underestimate the power of mob rule.

“What the fuck are you doing on my boat?” Harper snaps, moving in to intercept Tristan. “You're not invited.”

Tristan looks around, snaps his fingers, and then points right at Harper's chest.

“I see bets being made which makes this an Infinity Club party. You do not have the authority to keep me from a Club gathering.” He smiles at her, and I get that shivery feeling across my skin. A spider spinning his web. “So get the hell out of my way.” He shoves past her with his elbow, and we follow along behind him, Harper’s blue eyes tracking the movement of our group.

We take the stairs and find the top deck, surrounding one of the drink tables and claiming it while we gather refreshments.

I stick with soda.

Not only is my dad a recovering alcoholic, but I feel like I need my wits about me. Greg and John are at the opposite end of the deck, watching us. My throat closes up, and I squeeze my hands into fists by my sides.

Windsor notices me watching, his eyes following the path of my gaze.

“They can both swim, can't they?” he asks casually, directing his attention to Zack. My big burly football player friend looks back at the prince, and nods slightly.

“Last year, during the swim test, they passed.”

“No violence,” I repeat, and find myself under the intense stare of a pair of hazel eyes and a pair of brown ones.

“No violence, just a bit of fun and games,” Windsor says, grabbing Creed's attention. “You game, mate?”

“I'm game,” Creed drawls, his anger focusing into a fine point. Instead of turning it on me, however, he levels it on Greg and John, two of the biggest bullies and undeniably, two of the biggest assholes in Burberry Prep—present company included.

“What are you planning on doing?” I ask, as they take off through the crowd. Zayd and Tristan exchange a look before following after, Myron trailing behind them. Miranda grabs my arm and then, when our gazes connect, she sputters a bit and releases me.

Miranda kissed me.

My best friend kissed me.

What am I supposed to do with that?

I love her, but I've never been attracted to girls like that. If I were, I'd pick Miranda in a heartbeat.

“What are they doing?” she asks finally, but I have no idea. I grab her hand and drag her along in the Idols' wake, pausing as I see them fanned out in a half-circle in front of Greg and John, forcing the other two boys to keep their backs to the railing.

“What were you planning on doing?” Tristan demands, crossing his arms over his chest. “You two, and Ben fucking Thresher, Prince of Factory Farmed fucking Chicken. Real classy, to throw your lot in with someone who makes all their money off abused birds.”

“We were just playing around,” Greg says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. John, on the other hand, is sneering like he's not afraid. He should be. Didn't he learn his lesson in the forest last year when he got his ass kicked by Creed?

But I said no violence. The Idol boys—plus Wind and Zack—better not mess that up.

“Put these on,” Windsor says, handing over a pair of orange life vests. “You're going to want them.”

John snatches one from his hand, and then chucks it over the edge.

“Go to hell, you fucking limey piece of shit.”

“Limey?” Windsor repeats with a harsh laugh. “Oh, you bloody idiot.” He grabs John around the waist, and Zack rushes in to help, pinning his hands while Zayd goes for his legs. John is screaming and thrashing, but with three strong guys on him, he doesn't stand a chance. Without ceremony, they chuck him right over the edge and into the water.

John screams on his way down, and I rush over to the railing to see him disappear with a big, foamy splash. My heart stops as I watch the ebony swells, waiting for him to pop up. A few seconds later, he does, flailing and cursing the boys' names before he starts a fairly impressive butterfly stroke towards the shore.

I glance over and find Greg frantically slipping into the life vest. He might be a bully and a jerk, but he's also apparently not as stupid as John. He lets Tristan, Creed, and Myron lift him up together and dump him over the edge. He pops up much faster than John, swiping soggy hair from his face.

Tristan leans over the railing and cups a hand to his mouth.

“If you come back, we'll dump you again. The less trash at this party, the better.” He turns around and scans the gaping Plebeian crowd with a simmering charcoal gaze. There's a lot of murmuring behind cupped hands, but nobody challenges Tristan. They all stay well away from us all.

“Well, milady,” Windsor starts and then pauses as I raise my eyebrows. “Although really, I should say my lady”—he enunciates those two words nice and sharp—“because my diction teacher would slap me with a ruler if she could hear my nonsense.” He waves his hand dismissively and then, surprisingly, steps forward and sweeps an arm around my waist.

I have trouble catching my breath for a moment there, this fevered, frenzied feeling taking over me. Windsor's cheeky, and he flirts with everyone, but I've never had him touch me quite like this.

“Was that an acceptable level of non-violence,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. My pulse begins to race as he leans in toward me, putting his mouth within millimeters of mine. “Because holding back is not one of my specialties.”

“That was okay,” I start. Even though it was a bit more physical than I would've generally gone for, those boys … what they tried to do to me, or pretended they were going to do to me … When I think about it, I get cold sweats. Windsor's touch helps a little.

No. No lies. Not even to myself.

His touch … it helps a lot.

“Good. Because the last thing I'd want to do is upset you.” Windsor leans in and skims a kiss to my cheek, making my pulse thunder. When he pulls back, he's grinning, and I notice the other four boys watching us carefully. Their gazes are rife with tender feelings: jealousy, confusion, possession. I just can’t right now.