Crown of Thorns by E.M. Snow
1
My first glimpseof the viciousness that is Phoenix Townsend happens three months after Ravenwood and Thornhaven announced they were merging for the upcoming school year. Two hours after Margaret showed up at my front door begging me to go to the “party of the fucking school year” at his house. And exactly one week before Phoenix himself claims my existence as his.
But maybe I should start with Margaret. My missing-in-action best friend.
“Please, Joss,” she’d pleaded with me earlier, hurling herself across my bed and crumpling the neatly tucked, rose-print comforter. “And don’t even think about saying you already have plans tonight, either. Bingeing Netflix isn’t a plan, it’s a slow death that asks you if you’re still fucking dying every two episodes. Woman, this is our chance to check out the Thornhaven guys!”
Thornhaven is—was—the all-boys school that was like a sibling to Ravenwood Preparatory, where I’ve attended since the start of seventh grade. Due to “budget constraints,” Ravenwood and Thornhaven decided to consolidate, breaking the Thornwood Prep news just before summer break. Both campuses are still operating (junior high on Thornhaven’s grounds and senior high on Ravenwood’s) and all the staff and faculty seem to still be employed, so the budget excuse is a giant load of bull. Thornwood is clearly our schools’ coed siren call to all the students that chose not to return to Angelview Academy this year.
And that siren call? It definitely worked because enrollment is through the roof.
Still, while most of my classmates lost their minds at the prospect of non-teacher testosterone on campus, I’m not so much excited as dreading it. Combining our two schools only means more problems, more drama, and more filthy rich kids that give zero shits about people like Margaret and me.
That’s why I’d rolled my eyes at her spiel and reminded her that she’d had plenty of opportunities to check out some of the Thornhaven boys during cheer practice this summer. But then she gave me the look. That stupid, puppy-dog-eyed face that usually made me cave and go right along with whatever she wanted, despite all reason or logic.
After tonight, though, fuck the look. We weren’t here fifteen minutes before she pranced off with some hulking football player with the vocabulary of a twice-baked potato.
Leaving me to wander this booze-soaked orgy alone.
It’s not that I’m uncomfortable with binge-drinking or the excessively heavy petting going down around every corner or even the whirlwind of destruction. This is hell on earth for me thanks to the glares from girls I’ve gone to school with for years, girls making it clear I don’t belong at this party and certainly not in this house.
No, scratch that last part.
This castle.
It’s on an obscene amount of land in the 90077 zip code and overlooks all of Los Angeles like a fortress of decadence. There are giant windows everywhere and tons of dark gray and ivory—ivory marble floors, massive gray furniture, and ivory and gray paintings. Not that mass-produced stuff either, but the kind of art sold in the galleries downtown where people pay thousands for squiggles on ripped canvas.
Supposedly, there’s an indoor pool, an auto gallery (whatever the hell that is), and a home bowling alley somewhere around here, too. All I know for sure is that this house looks as if it ate all the homes that Nina, my grandmother, used to clean on the weekends before—
A male voice rips me from finishing that thought. “You look bored as fuck.”
I glance to my right, where a tall, skinny guy is studying me. Male attention is another coed school inevitability I’m not too thrilled about. I know how lame that sounds, but I have limited experience with boys. I mean, look at what had happened at the music store where I work just a couple months ago.
Gorgeous Thor lookalike told me that I was the best thing he’d met since coming to Los Angeles.
I became putty in his hands and almost lost my damn mind during my shift.
“I’m actually trying to find my friend,” I tell the skinny boy, taking a step to my left.
He slinks closer and offers me a crooked smile. “Me too—Molly. You want—”
“I have a boyfriend,” I lie. He just arches an eyebrow and gives me a so-fucking-what expression, so I add, “He goes to Angelview.”
“Oh.”
Here’s the thing about Thornhaven boys: they loathe anything Angelview Academy that doesn’t have boobs and a vagina attached to it. No doubt he’s mentally slut-shaming me for fraternizing with the sworn enemy, but he thankfully leaves me with the one disdained-soaked syllable. Fidgeting with the tiny music note charms on my bracelet, I return to scanning the room.
I stop when I fix on a trio of girls hovering by the wet bar.
Brunette, blonde, redhead, they’re girls I tend to avoid like the plague, Kallista McKay and two of her loyal foot soldiers whose names I always get wrong since I’ve only heard them referred to as Shut-Up-Bitch and Don’t-Eat-The-School-Lunch-Piglet. They typically ignore me, but now they’re glowering at me like I just told them Chanel No. 5 smells like cat piss.
“That’s the second dumb fuck that’s hit on the chubbaluffagus,” the redhead announces in a non-whisper-whisper.
Chubbaluffagus.
I haven’t been called that since sophomore year, but it still has the same effect that it did back then. The word rings in my ears and leaves me clenching my hands at my sides so that I won’t tug at the hem of my dress. It makes me question myself for even looking at them, which is their intention. For everyone around them to feel inadequate.
Deep inside, I know that I never was. That dropping a few dress sizes doesn’t make me any more worthy of respect. And yet, I can’t help but feel like shit around these girls. Squaring my shoulders, I try to remove myself from the situation, but Kallista’s syrupy-sweet voice stops me in my tracks.
“Wonder if they know the bitch moonlights as a toilet cleaner?” She’s not looking at me, but at the redhead.
“Nah, they’re too busy building her self-esteem so she’ll let them blow their loads on her oversized tits. Besides, it’s her grandma who cleans the toilets. I’m guessing future janitor-in-training gets a free ride or whatever.”
“I wonder how much shit one has to scrub to cover the whole semester.” Kallista cocks her head, as if she’s truly giving it some thought, but a cruel gleam flickers behind her eyes. “Or how many blumpkins one must give Headmaster Poynter before performing said scrubbings. Kind of sad, if you ask me.”
They’re all laughing now, but rage sparks and ignites within my veins.
They can call me fat. Sure, it stings and brings back painful memories, but it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Hell, they can even accuse me of sleeping with the entire faculty for free tuition. They will not shit-talk Nina, though.
“You don’t know a thing about her,” I say, my voice soft but dangerous.
The entire group goes bug-eyed, and honestly, I’m shocked myself.
Kallista juts her hip out and starts, “I know—”
“She almost died earlier this year; did you know that?” I stalk toward them until less than a foot of marble flooring separates us. “No, you didn’t. Because you don’t give a shit about anything or anyone that you can’t bully or buy. Kind of sad, if you ask me.”
It takes all my effort to stand tall once I snap my mouth shut, but I don’t regret what I said. It was almost like purging myself of all the awfulness I’ve had to deal with over the last several months. My grandma’s seizures. Seeing her comatose and admitted to a long-term care facility. Having my universe upended as I tried to survive each day in that house without her.
A house I might be torn from if anyone discovers I’m living alone.
The blonde snaps her fingers in front of my face and sneers. “What? Did you expect us to set up a GoFundMe or something?” She flaps both hands to shoo me away. “I don’t feel sorry for you, so you can fuck off now.”
All I can do is blink. No matter how many times I experience it firsthand, it never fails to stun me how people can so blatantly not give a damn. The one that told me to literally fuck off tosses her platinum hair and pivots on the heels of her suede platforms. Kallista and the redhead follow, each casting me a dismissive look like I don’t matter to them in the least.
The reality is, I don’t.
I’m good for a quick side-eye and a few verbal jabs, but otherwise, I’m as insignificant to them as a fly. By the first day of school on Monday, they’ll have forgotten what I said, and I’ll go back to being a nobody who says nothing.
“I can’t wait,” I mutter and I fucking mean that as I continue on in search of Margaret.
My next stop is the kitchen, and I swear to God, I’m so over this party that if I don’t find her here, I’ll walk my ass home.
Inside the palace-like kitchen, with its expanse of white marble surfaces and gleaming appliances, the chaos of the party is at an all-time high. “Starboy” thunders from the home sound system, and there’s a game of liquor pong on one of the massive center islands. Based on the yelling and cheering that sounds on par with a pro football game, the competition is intense.
Two guys are playing, and they are easily the most stunning boys I’ve ever laid eyes on. They’re both tall and muscular, but the one with the longish, dark blond hair is a little leaner, while the guy with the messy, dark hair and black T-shirt is broader in the shoulders. That’s where my eyes linger.
The dark-haired boy with the broad shoulders and green eyes and arrogant smile. There is a cruelness to his expression that’s natural, genuine. He doesn’t look like a normal teenage boy just having fun and playing a stupid game with his friends.
He looks like a predator, hungry to destroy his prey.
A shiver skates down my spine, and I force my attention back to his companion. The blond guy is taking off his gray T-shirt, though I’m not sure if it’s because it’s soaked with booze or that he wants to show off his abs. When he hands his shirt over to a girl standing nearby and shoots her a half-smile, my eyes bulge.
I know him.
Kind of.
As much as you can know the stranger you randomly kissed at work during an entirely out-of-character moment. He’d claimed he was only visiting LA for a week. The fact he’s here tonight, two months later, determines that was a lie.
“Shithead,” I mumble before I can stop myself.
“Hmmm? Which one’s the shithead? And what the hell are you wearing?”
Blanching, I whip around to find a gorgeous, willowy girl with wavy brown hair and wide-set hazel eyes. She’s tall, hovering an easy six inches over my five-foot-six frame, with one perfectly plucked eyebrow raised as she examines my pastel pink jumper dress and striped T-shirt with a critical eye. Like every other girl here tonight, she’s dressed to kill in thigh-high suede boots and a plaid navy crop top and matching mini that looks suspiciously like our school uniform skirt, minus a few inches.
In an instant, I recognize her, too. Reina Hartley. She had enrolled at Ravenwood in the middle of second semester last year. We had gym together, but we’ve never spoken. Until tonight.
“I got it at American Eagle,” I blurt out. “M-my friend said it was fine.”
She nods and smiles like I’m the most precious thing that ever lived.
“One, you should fire your friend because it looks like you’re on your way to a playdate. Two, it does absolutely nothing for your tits. You look like Selena Gomez and that hot witchy chick from The Witcher had a kid with all the tits and ass. Own that shit because I would.” She glances down at her chest for a second before giving me a half shrug. “I’m flat and have to use chicken cutlets half the fucking time.”
“Thanks … I guess?” How else do I respond to the Frankencompliment?
She tosses back the shot she’s holding and saunters my way, resting one hand on her hip once she stops moving. “So? Which one’s the shithead, Josslyn?”
I’m so shocked she knows my name—that she’s even speaking to me at all—I don’t answer right away. Then, I worry she’s trying to trap me. As if she knows exactly what I’m thinking, she crosses a plum-painted fingernail over her heart.
“I won’t say a word,” she promises.
Puffing out my cheeks, I hesitate for a few seconds. Reina gives me an encouraging nod, so I release a relenting breath. “The hot surfer looking one, Aric. We met over the summer, and he … he gave me a fake number. It was a shithead thing to do, but I guess being bitter about it makes me pathetic, huh?”
The last few words are barely a whisper because I realize just how pathetic I truly sound.
Reina’s brows sink together. “So … you don’t actually know who they are?”
The way she’s looking at me can only mean two things: She’s fucking him, or he gave me a fake name. I settle on the latter, hopeful that I’ve not just gained a new enemy. “That’s not his name, huh?”
“No, no … I mean, not exactly.” Crinkling her nose, she snorts. “The shithead in question is Alaric, my older brother by about three whole minutes.”
Fuck. My. Life.
The blood drains from my face so quickly that I get lightheaded and trip all over myself trying to form an apology. Reina waves it off with a flick of her wrist, her stack of white-gold bangles clanking together.
“It’s not like you said anything that isn’t true,” she says, but I still can’t meet her gaze, so I focus on a smudge on the toecap of my Converse. “They’re all shitheads in that little circle, but definitely Aric and Phoenix. Those two can suck a bag of dicks.”
The other name snaps my head up. “Phoenix? As in Phoenix Townsend?”
She makes a face at the boy with the green eyes. “I take it you’ve at least heard of him since you obviously didn’t realize you were standing before royalty. Look at the prick, practically terrible in every way.”
I’ve heard.
In fact, every Ravenwood girl had heard of the undisputed king of Thornhaven and his legendary temper. His predatory aura makes a lot more sense now. It’s his house we’re all currently standing in. His party, his alcohol, his domain. Phoenix Townsend is already extending his rule over the newly formed Thornwood, and I’m betting this party is his first move at claiming the fresh territory. The more I watch him, the more I’m sure. He’s not having fun.
He’s conquering.
I startle when he reaches out and swipes all the cups from the island. There’s a beat of stunned silence, and it feels as if the room is collectively holding its breath, wondering what it is he’s going to do. With a smirk, he climbs on top of the island, grabbing a bottle of high-end vodka as he goes.
“What the hell is he up to now?” Reina hisses.
Phoenix surveys the crowd beneath him, daring someone, anyone, to challenge his rule. Our eyes clash, and I realize I was totally wrong about the color of his. They’re not just green, but brilliant and flashing and wicked. He shoots up an eyebrow, as if to ask who I am and what I did to deserve his presence, before fixating on something another boy with dark hair is saying.
Based on Reina’s grumbling, I discover he’s Phoenix’s younger brother, Gideon. I’ve heard his name, too. Whatever it is that he says makes his big brother laugh, a sound that’s both outrageously sensual and completely unnerving. Almost like it’s literally crawling beneath my skin to sift through all my secrets and worries and doubts.
Then, Phoenix turns back to his crowd, tips the bottle of Belvedere he’s holding to the floor and drawls, “To Saint Angelle. May that motherfucker burn in hell, right where he belongs.”