In the Arms of the Elite (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #4) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,4

my face that's built of crumpled wishes and selfish desires. I always wanted to meet my sister, longed for another family member besides Dad who'd love me the way Jennifer never did.

That's not going to happen here, and that's okay.

I've come a long way from the sad, lonely person I was in junior high.

“I am nobody's pet,” I tell her, my voice stern. I know when she looks at me, she can see it, too. And it's not because Miranda put cute, loose curls in my rose-gold hair. It's not the designer dress. It's not even the expensive necklace hanging between my breasts. It's all coming from the inside. “And I am a Blueblood. We don't tolerate bullying at Burberry Prep, not anymore. I won't put up with it.”

Isabella opens her mouth, closes it, huffs. Her brown eyes, as familiar as the ones in my reflection, close. When she opens them back up, they're burning with fire and humiliation. And then … she goes and does it, tosses her hair.

She executes the move flawlessly.

Damn it.

“Whatever. We're not at Burberry now though, are we?” Isabella turns to walk off, her dress just barely covering her ass. I'm not judging, it's just … sad. She's fourteen for crap's sake. Before she gets three feet from us, Isabella pauses and glances over her shoulder. If I didn't know better, I'd say she had Dad's nose. “No wonder Mom dumped you. What a disappointment.”

Isabella spins away in a flurry of brunette hair, rejoining her friends near the seating area by the bar. My mouth tightens into a thin line as I think about her sitting between my parents, about the tears in my dad's eyes that he never fully explained.

“You've wanted this for so long, Marnye-bear. I'm just happy the moment is finally here.”

Huh.

“Do you want me to beat her up for you?” Miranda asks, and I glance over to see she's positively fuming. I shake my head, and then tuck my fingers into the pockets of the sexy, little cocktail dress. Wow. I would never have expected Tristan Vanderbilt to pick out a dress with pockets on it, especially not the Tristan from two years ago.

“She's upset about something,” I say, pushing the hurt down as it tries to rear its ugly head inside of me. “And I think I might have some idea of what that is.”

Turning to Miranda, I pull out the fake driver's license with two fingers and force a grin. I'm not going to let Isabella Carmichael get to me, not even if she is the culmination and destruction of fourteen years of hopes and daydreams.

“Why don't you get yourself something fruity and alcoholic, and I'll be the DD?”

Miranda narrows her eyes at me, but nods anyway and grabs my hand, dragging me over to the bar.

Isabella stays as long as we do, right up until the club closes, and I swear, I can feel her eyes on my back the entire time.

It's not a comfortable feeling … almost like I've got a target between my shoulder blades.

I'm going to have to watch my new little sister very, very carefully, aren't I?

The next morning, I'm rudely awoken by the sound of a bus horn outside my window. Groaning, I pull a pillow over my head to quiet the noise. A few moments later, there's a knock on the door, and I'm forced to get up anyway.

Miranda's still peacefully passed out on the couch, snoring, and Dad's left for a doctor's appointment. I'd intended on going with him, but he didn't wake me up. Part of me wonders if he doesn't want me to know how bad things are getting.

“This better be good,” I grumble, rubbing at my sleep-crusted eyes and throwing the front door open.

My eyes widen, and a small squeak escapes my lips.

Fuck.

This'll teach me to check the peephole for, like, murderers and stuff. That is, murderers and tatted rock star boys.

“Whoa there, Working Girl, are you rocking duckie pj's?” Zayd asks, throwing out this devilish little grin as he pinches the shoulder of my pajamas and then leans in for a kiss.

I'm so shocked to see him, and embarrassed as all get-out, but when he steps forward and curls his inked arm around me, I forget that I'm wearing pajamas with feet.

Zayd tastes like cherry Coke and cloves, and he smells like sage and geranium. With his strong arm banded around me and his lips against mine, I can barely breathe. My heart is beating out of