Soulless_A High School Bully Romance by Ivy Fox

Soulless_A High School Bully Romance by Ivy Fox

Author:Ivy Fox [Fox, Ivy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Bad Influence, Rotten Men, The Privileged of Pembroke High, Rotten Girl, After Hours, Rotten Love, Ivy Fox
Publisher: X-Factory
Published: 2019-09-26T05:00:00+00:00


“Want some ice cream?”

The question flies out of my lips the minute we step back into the manor after the swim meet. Apparently my mouth, like every other organ inside me, doesn’t like the idea of calling it a night so soon and finds a half-baked excuse to spend more time admiring my brothers’ ex-girlfriend.

“Ice cream?” she repeats, flustered, her dusky eyes wide in confusion.

“Yeah, ice cream.” I croak pathetically, trying to give off a nonchalant shrug that comes out just as dismal.

The fuck am I saying?

Ice cream!

Smooth, Rome. Really fucking smooth, jackass.

“You have heard of it before, right? Rocky road, mint chocolate chip, cookie dough—”

“Yes, Rome. I’m familiar with the concept.” She snickers at my rambling.

She continues to giggle, melting my insides with how the silky sound infiltrates the air around me so effortlessly, wrapping me up in a warm, soothing cocoon, one I know I have no business enjoying. I think it’s one of the few times I’ve ever seen her truly relaxed and content.

Shit!

I’m so fucking screwed if she’s going to do that again.

Why didn’t I just say goodnight and let the melancholic girl go up to her room and wait for Ollie to sneak in like he’s done every night this month? The only answer I can come up with that makes any sense to me, is that I must be a fucking masochist—a glutton for punishment—and my penance comes in the form of a 5’8, forlorn, silver-eyed girl, who is doing her best to pretend she’s got her shit together, like I’ve done most of my life.

“Well, come on then.” I bustle away from her, fleeing toward the kitchen while my mind berates me and lists every argument there is on how this is a bad fucking idea.

Again, what the fuck am I doing?

I almost let out a girlish sigh of relief when I see Henrietta still in the kitchen, prepping for tomorrow’s meals. In any other circumstances, I’d be upset to see her still working so late, as it’s well past nine, but right now she’s exactly the kind of buffer I need to stop me from doing something moronic.

“Little late to be working, don’t you think, Avó?” I accuse her anyway, knowing Henrietta has been on her feet since six this morning.

Like my prick of a father, I don’t sleep much. Insomnia was quick to affect me as early as infancy, so knowing the ins and outs of everyone in this house—while I stayed up for hours fighting off my restlessness—became one of my favorite pastimes. Now it’s just second nature to me.

I know that Henrietta watches her recorded, Brazilian soaps until midnight, fawning over her favorite bad-boy characters like a fangirl at a Shawn Mendes concert. I know she checks on Carmen before she goes to bed, holding a rosary while praying in her granddaughter’s room, thinking she’s fast asleep—when most nights the depressed, fidgety girl has to use a couple of Ambien pills to do so.

I know Elle goes out like



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