Clear Lake Academy holds the worst of the worst delinquents from around the country. Each and every student there holds a notorious background that led them there and almost everyone avoids them.
After setting the tenth building on fire, which just...
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The world blurred in a single flash. A shove—sudden and hard—sent me crashing to the floor. My dress twisted around me as I hit the ground, landing on my side just as a sharp blow struck my stomach.
Instinct took over. My arms curled around my abdomen, trying to shield myself, but the hits kept coming—relentless, measured, one after another.
A strangled breath tore from my throat at the impact, but my body refused to fight back. I lay there, frozen beneath the weight of the one truth I had never wanted confirmed: I had finally pushed him too far, and he had done exactly what I'd feared he always might.
This wasn't like the fights I'd grown up throwing myself into.
This wasn't some scrap in an alley or a schoolyard where bruises meant pride.
This—this—pierced somewhere deeper, somewhere bone-deep and old.
Yet, I didn't cry. I couldn't because if I did then he would have enjoyed it even more. So I bottled in every tear that tried to escape and laid silent while his voice tore through the air—shouting, raging—muffled by the haze clouding my head. Each strike left another bloom of pain on my skin, but my arms went limp beside me, as if my body had given up trying to protect what he clearly had no problem destroying.
The bubble popped as soon as the blows stopped. I watched him walk away—watched his back rise and fall with furious breaths. He slammed his hands onto the desk, the sound cracking through the room, then ripped off his jacket and hurled it aside.
For a half-second, I wondered if he regretted it.
But then he turned, saw me on the floor—dress rumpled, dirt smeared across the fabric, faint imprints of his shoes marking my skin like accusations—and instead of remorse, he reached for the bottle near him and poured himself a drink.
The room spun as I pushed myself upright, slowly, painfully, forcing my legs to hold me as I stood in my unsteady heels.
I couldn't feel anything after that moment.Numbness spread through me as I stepped forward, closing in on him. I felt filthy. Not because of my dress, not because of the bruises. But because of what had happened.
Because of who had done it.
I was Pandora Wilson.
I never let anyone lay a hand on me.
This was the first and the last time—because I would break him before he ever tried again.
He stared at me over the rim of his glass, his face hard and his eyes blazing. But I had had enough. I was trouble and I brought vengeance.
"I always wondered what I did to make you hate me," I began, my voice steady despite the shaking in my limbs. "Why you never gave me a chance. Why you had to remind me—every day—how much of a disappointment I am."
