Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #4) - C.M. Stunich
Anarchy at Prescott High is a reverse harem, high school, enemies-to-lovers/love hate/bully romance. What does that mean exactly? It means our female main character, Bernadette Blackbird, will end up with at least three love interests by the end of the series. It also means that for a portion of this book, the love interests are total assholes; there are also flashbacks of past incidents involving bullying. This book in no way condones bullying, nor does it romanticize it. If the love interests in this story want to win the main character over, they’ll have to earn it.
Might be hard though, considering the Havoc Boys are dicks.
If you’ve read my other three high school romance series—Rich Boys of Burberry Prep, Devils’ Day Party, or Adamson All-Boys Academy—then just know this one is a bit more intense, and character growth/redemption are needed more than ever. Stick with us. It’s fairly similar to I Was Born Ruined (the first book in my Death by Daybreak Motorcycle Club series).
Any kissing/sexual scenes featuring Bernie are consensual. This book might be about high school students, but it is not what I would consider young adult. The characters are brutal, the emotions real, the f-word in prolific use. There’s gang violence, group sex scenes, and a school shooting.
None of the main characters is under the age of seventeen. This series will have a happy ending in the final book.
“Alright, darling, keep your head,” Victor tells me in a voice crafted of confidence and desire, possession and pain. He knows me so well, everything about me, really. He knows the darkest recesses of my heart, but he also knows that deep down, on the very inside, there is something about me that still wants to believe.
Believe the world is good.
Believe that love prevails.
Believe that there is justice.
I’m standing in the Prescott High School gymnasium, surrounded by people, watched by cops … and yet, all I can think about is how I’m going to flay Kali Rose-Kennedy and lay her to waste. I am done with her shit. And I am done with shit from people like Neil, and Eric, and Coraleigh.
Done. Done. Done.
“They’re all watching you,” Callum says, stepping up close, like a dark avenger in his black suit and crossbones cufflinks, with his imperfectly beautiful voice. “There are five police officers in here, Bernie.”
I’m standing there in that stupid pink dress—why did I pick this? It isn’t me at all, is it? No, it’s what Pen would’ve worn. But I … I am not my sister. And I never will be. As soon as I get my ass out of here, I’m dying the tips of my hair as red as the red, red motherfucking rose.
As red as blood.
As red as the blood I’m about to carve out of Kali.
She stares at me from across the room, and I swear to god, I can’t see anything else. If she hurt Aaron, God nor the devil will be able to save her. I wet my lips with my tongue as she turns away from me, threading her way through the crowd toward Sara Young.
Why on earth she would go back to a police officer when she’s already been labeled a snitch is beyond me. Sometimes people do stupid things, I guess. Sometimes people do really stupid things.
Fortunately for Kali, this will be the very last stupid thing she ever does.
“The fuck is she going?” Hael grumbles, swiping a hand over his face. My body shivers at his nearness, but I just stroke my lioness down and let her know that it’s time to hunt, not time to mate. Not yet. Maybe later, in Kali’s blood.
Shit, I’ve already been labelled the school bully for throwing Kali’s face into a locker, so I might as well tell the truth, right? If I’ve got the title, then I’ll earn it. Like I said, there are two sides to every story, but usually, only one of them is true.
“Cops, got it,” I say belatedly to Callum. Oscar’s eyes track my movements as I start off in Sara’s direction. With all his weird issues about touching people—you know, unless they’re on their period or tied up in his bedroom—I don’t expect him to touch me.
“Whatever it is that you plan on doing, run it by us first.” He puts his long, tattooed fingers on my arm, searing my skin with the type of mark you can never scrub clean, one that’s made up of desire and unfulfilled promises.