I’m not a virgin anymore. It’s weird to think that. Even weirder when Creed and I are in the same room. He taps his fingers on the surface of the library table while I attempt to tutor him.

“I’m not thinking about math—at all,” he tells me, and I level a glare on his arrogantly beautiful face.

“Start thinking about it if you truly want to get into Bornstead,” I quip, pushing the tablet his way. “Now check over that problem. You made a simple mistake, and I know you can fix it if you try.” He makes sure his fingers linger on the back of my hand, making me shiver, before he finally does what I’m asking and studies the screen.

Miranda rolls her eyes at us from across the table, and goes back to her own schoolwork.

After we’re finished, the twins walk me back to my room, see me safely inside, and wait until I’ve locked the doors behind me before they go.

This is our ritual: at least two of our crew—I should really start calling us the Bluebloods of Burberry Prep since that’s what most of the Plebs are starting to say now—follows me home, waits until I check and lock the room, and then heads back to the Towers.

It’s not until the end of January that I have any problems with that.

Tristan and Zayd drop me off, as usual, and say goodbye, making me wish I wasn’t all alone over here in the remodeled janitor’s quarters. I used to like it, having my own space like this. Now it just feels lonely and separate. Sometimes when I head over to the Towers, I find the others laughing and joking in the halls, darting in and out of each other’s rooms.

I want that, too.

Then again, I’m here on a scholarship, so I don’t complain. Instead, I wash my worries away in the shower, dress in some pjs, and sit down on my bed to start studying for tomorrow’s statistics test. Everything seems fine until I hear the doorknob jiggle with the sound of a lock.

There’s always been the worry that the Harpies would steal or replicate one of the master staff keys and get in, so we installed a bar lock, a chain, and I still have those cameras from last year. If someone does break in, tough on them. I’ll have video proof.

“Who is it?” I ask, heading over to the door to look through the peephole. There’s nothing but black. Someone must be holding their hand over it, or else it’s been covered with tape or something. Taking a few steps back, I head for the emergency landline phone to call one of the staff members.

I don’t like the way this is going, and even with the extra locks, I don’t feel safe.

Too bad it’s only Thursday, or else I’d have my cell with me.

I pick up the handset and glance at the list of numbers that are laminated and stuck to the wall. Just before I start dialing up Mrs. Amberton, I notice that there’s no ringtone. Frowning, I hit the button on the wall unit several times, trying to get it to start up.

There’s nothing.

And that is when I notice that the cord to the handset is no longer attached to the wall.

“Fuck,” I curse as I turn around and see that the door’s already been unlocked and pushed in as far as possible. Someone is using a thick envelope to pop the bar lock, while, presumably, another person uses a string that goes from the chain lock over the top of the door. It slides right off and the door falls open, even as I’m charging forward and slamming my body into it.

Several other people push from the outside, and I end up losing my footing, stumbling back as all nine girls slip into my room, and Mayleen shuts the door behind them, redoing all the locks.

“Hello Marnye,” Becky says, sneering at me. They’re all still dressed in their uniforms, all of them pretty, done up with makeup and fancy wigs to cover their bald heads.

“Hello Becky,” I reply, my heart racing. At least the boys aren’t here, right? This is … well, I might die, but at least I won’t get raped first.

Crap, my life has gotten dark fast.

I watch them all carefully as they surround me, and then I reach down and snatch the baseball bat that’s leaning next to my bed, bringing it up in a sharp swing that takes Becky Platter right in the side of her hip.

No violence is a good rule.

But it doesn’t apply in self-defense. I’ll hit every one of these girls with the baseball bat if it means keeping my life.

Becky screams and stumbles, and I use the moment of confusion to race past her, grabbing at the locks on the door. Unfortunately, the mechanisms that were supposed to keep me safe backfire. There are too many locks and not enough time.

Somebody grabs me by the short hair on the top of my head and drags me back while another girl goes for the baseball bat. Too late. I’m wildly swinging it in my own defense, and I hear a feminine grunt as the weapon takes Anna Kirkpatrick right in the stomach.

“You fucking bitch,” Kiara screams, grabbing the bat and yanking so hard that it flies out of my hand and smashes into the clean China teapot that Windsor left on the kitchen counter. It shatters to pieces as I’m thrown onto the bed by the force of so many hands.

One or two girls, I could fend off. But nine?

I’m so screwed.

“Let’s hurry up before one of her boy toys shows up,” Ileana Taittinger says, opening my wardrobe and pulling out the iron. Every student has one in their dorm. Ms. Felton loves to give marks out for wrinkled uniforms. I’ve seen Creed and Zayd get plenty. Tristan, he’d rather die that have a single crease that wasn’t ironed.

“Do you have the buzzer?” Ebony Peterson asks, and Abigail Fanning tosses something her way. Ebony catches it, and then flicks on a switch as Harper plugs in the iron, and the other girls, like Valentina Pitt and Kiara Xiao hold me in place.

I’m struggling so hard that I manage to get a kick out that nails Ebony in the nail. She drops the buzzer to the floor and the plastic bit shatters to pieces. The motor sputters out, and there’s a moment of stunned silence.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” Harper snaps, pointing her finger at the bathroom. “Go find some scissors, or a razor, or fuck, even a knife. If we take some of her scalp off with her hair, it doesn’t matter to me.”

She tests the iron to see if it’s hot, and then scowls. It must not be. Not yet.

I fight even harder, flailing and kicking. If anyone gets near my mouth, I’ll bite. Hard.

Unfortunately, nobody does.

“Got a razor and some shaving cream,” Becky says, trotting back in with Ileana on her heels. They both climb on my bed and starts squeezing strawberry cream gel into my hair.

“Don’t do this,” I say, not particularly concerned about my hair. It’s the increasingly hot heat of the iron that worries me. “I’ve got hidden cameras in here. Whatever you do to me now, it’s on video. It live streams to my phone.”

“Well, that’s too bad then,” Harper says, tapping the iron and then hissing. A grin takes over what should rightfully be a very pretty mouth. Every time she scowls, that illusion is ripped away and the villain beneath the princess rears her ugly head. “You don’t have your phone tonight, do you? And by the time you get it back tomorrow, you’ll know better than to mess with us.”

Becky takes the razor and starts shaving the hair on the sides of my head. It’s already pretty short, but even then, a disposable razor isn’t mean for such thick hair, and it quickly gets clogged up. Ileana snatches the razor, wipes it on my bedspread, and tries again.

“I’ll grab some scissors,” Valentina suggests, heading over to the kitchenette and digging through my drawers.

Meanwhile, Harper has something in her hand. It’s a piece of metal with a short wooden handle. Actually, the longer I look at it … the more I realize that it looks like a brand, one of those ones ranchers heat up to mark their cows.

She notices me looking and turns the brand to face me.

“Do you like it?” she asks, blinking innocently. “I had it custom made. It says Working Girl. I thought maybe we could stamp it on that huge forehead of yours, so the whole world would know who you really are.” She grabs the iron off the fold-out ironing board that’s stored in an inset wall cabinet, and then presses it on my bare arm.

The pain is so intense that I trash even harder, and manage to dislodge a few of the girls. I barely notice though. No, instead I’m wrapped up in this white-hot agony of blistering flesh. I start weeping without even meaning to, the pain’s so great.

Harper releases the iron from the crook of my elbow and presses the brand against it, heating it up.

I’m still fighting against the other girls, making it a hell of a lot harder for them to shave my head.

“Hurry up, Harper. The brothel bitch is way stronger than she looks.” Ileana’s whine makes my head throb with an incoming migraine. Or, well, maybe that’s the second degree burn on my arm. It’s hard to say.

The leader of the Harpies, Miss du Pont herself, climbs up on the bed and straddles my waist.

Her smile is horrific, like watching an alligator open its jaws before it swallows its prey whole.