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Synclair Madison.
Current president of The Elite.
The only person Syn hates more than me is my brother.
Because my brother is currently serving a life sentence for killing his.
After setting the pajamas down on the side, I move over to the mirror. No matter how hard I stare at my reflection, I barely recognize the reflection.
I’ve spent so long inside, studying hard just to get accepted to James Keyingham, that any trace of the tan I once had is long gone. My skin is normally pale but tinted with pink. Now, it almost looks gray, made worse by the bold, ink-blue my once blonde hair is now colored.
Before I went out tonight, I’d spent a long time getting ready. My hair was styled into loose waves, and I put on more makeup than I’ve worn for a long time.
Now, I’m a mess.
The little lipstick still on me is smeared in the corners. My mascara or eyeliner—or both—has run down my face a little. I look like I'd been crying, even though I had definitely not been. No wonder Penny was worried.
Most likely, it’s from Syn’s cum, or maybe where Gemini had attempted to wipe it from my face afterwards. There’s certainly a small section of my hair that looks crusty.
Leaning forward, I grip the edge of the sink to brace myself as I close my eyes and take in a few deep breaths.
Despite Penny’s worries, I’m not upset or ashamed about the sex.
It was rougher than I thought it would be, yet, when I realized Syn was behind one of the masks, I’d honestly expected worse.
Never—never—had it crossed my mind that Syn would be one of the people to take part in my initiation. Considering how much he hates me, I’m still confused as to why he was there.
I open my eyes and allow the robe to fall to the floor so that all that’s left is the collar. Reaching up I touch the silver tag dangling from the front.
The collar is basic. Black, an inch thick, and made of leather. The tag is just a simple disc. There’s nothing on the front of it, but when I raise it, I catch sight of something engraved on the back.
Leaning as close to the mirror as I can, I manage to read the small text:
PROPERTY OF SYNCLAIR KEYINGHAM.
Asshole.
Irritated, I drop the tag and twist the collar around. It’s fastened in place with a buckle, but there’s a small latch over the top of it, held in place by a silver padlock.
“The collar does not come off unless one of us unlocks it.” Syn’s words echo in my mind.
The padlock is small, and while I’d not gained any lock-picking skills at my last high school, I’m sure it wouldn’t really take much to get it off—something to jam into the keyhole and a bit of brute force…
Only I’m not going to take it off.
The last time I visited my brother in prison, Cole had pleaded with me to leave this college. And when I asked him to give me a reason, his answer was thirty-seven.
Just, thirty-seven.
Tonight, I discovered that Syn, Royal and Gemini all had at least one tattoo.
XXXVII.
Thirty-seven in roman numerals.
Each one permanently etched into their skin, right by their cocks.
Although the three of them are seniors, they’d all still been in high school when James Patrick Keyingham was murdered.
