Brutal Blueblood
Becker Gray
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
About Midnight Dynasty
Copyright
Chapter 1
Tanith
Summer before Senior Year—Ibiza
I didn’t belong here.
Below me, the Mediterranean stretched out to the horizon, a dark mirror reflecting the lights of the other yachts and party boats in the harbor. Behind me, Ibiza Town reared up in a rocky clutch of white buildings and twinkling lights. The pale tower of the town’s medieval cathedral pierced the velvety night while tourists crowded into confetti-strewn clubs nearby. Music pulsed into the air, punctuated with laughter and shouts, and the warm evening smelled like salt and spilled champagne.
And I, Tanith Bradford, did not belong here.
I turned and surveyed what I could see of Serafina van Doren’s yacht. Above me was the pool deck—crowded with lithe, inebriated bodies—and below me was the club deck, thrumming with music and flashing with lights.
The deck I’d escaped to was a little quieter, a little tamer, but only barely. Couples and throuples were snuggled into giant chairs and canopied beds, giggling and kissing and more than kissing. Every few seconds, a wet, shrieking partygoer went streaking down the massive inflatable slide off the top of the yacht, catapulting into the warm water below and emerging with a victorious yell. These were people so rich and worldly that a summer in Ibiza was nothing to them. These were people so beautiful they were influencers by default.
And here I was, the scholarship student, the plain girl, the poor girl from a nothing family.
Nobody.
Which was perfectly fine—I’d never needed to be somebody at Pembroke Prep, the elite boarding school I attended. I had plans for my real life, life after school, where I’d not only make my name as New York City’s resident literary tastemaker at Gotham Girl, but I’d help new writers, photographers, and illustrators make their names too. I’d be part of the literati, just as I’d dreamed of being since I had been a girl and learned what publishers and editors did for a living.
I just had to survive one more year at Pembroke Prep. One more year of scraping every last possible networking opportunity and CV enhancer from Pembroke’s vaunted halls. One more year, and then I’d be on to Columbia University and the beginning of my career.
And so, there was only one more year of being hopelessly, stupidly, perversely in love with Owen Montgomery.
Maybe even less if I accepted the Everston Fellowship offer sitting in my inbox right now. It was a fantastic opportunity—maybe even a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—but it was so far away, on the West Coast, over two thousand miles away from the city I truly wanted to live in. And if I were being honest with myself, it felt strange to think about being so far away from my friends and family. Sussex County, New Jersey, wasn’t exactly a short drive to Pembroke Prep in Vermont, but at least it could still be driven. If I were in LA, my noisy but affectionate family would be out of reach for an entire semester.
More importantly, I would miss my friends. And despite the elitist climate of Pembroke, I did have amazing friends.
Serafina, queen of the school and whose family owned the yacht I was standing on; Aurora Lincoln-Ward, a literal princess; and Sloane Lauder, boot-wearing badass extraordinaire. They were why I let Sera convince me to come to Ibiza this summer . . . even though Sloane couldn’t come, and it would just be me reading in the shade while Sera and Aurora sunned themselves on her yacht. And partied. And pretended they weren’t flirting with the Hellfire boys here.
Ah, the Hellfire Club. A not-so-secret club of the richest and cruelest boys at school. The absolute worst part about going to Pembroke Prep.
Also, the prettiest part of Pembroke Prep.
Especially Owen Montgomery.
Stop. Don’t. You’re smarter than that.
Which was exactly why I should say yes to the Everston offer. It would get me away from a certain Hellfire boy, juice up my CV, and, really, it was only a few months away from my friends and family. I could do anything for a few months, right?
I looked into the bright pink cocktail I was holding and decided to take a sip, wincing as it went down. It was strong, too strong, but maybe that was what I was going to need if I were going to successfully make it through this trip without thinking about Owen Montgomery again. And his dark blue eyes, and his full, pouty mouth—a mouth like the statue of a Greek god might have. And his cheekbones, and his hair, which was like BBC period drama hair, and his hands, strong and elegant at the same time . . .
I took another drink, a much bigger one this time, and when I lowered my glass, I saw someone standing at the far edge of the deck, their back against the railing and arms crossed over their chest.
Dark eyes gleamed in the Mediterranean night. They were gleaming at me.
I tried to catch my breath. I shouldn’t have been surprised; of course Owen was here along with the other Hellfire Club soon-to-be seniors: Keaton Constantine, Lennox Lincoln-Ward, Phineas Yates, and Rhys Huntington.
But to see Owen right now, with the sultry breeze toying with his perfect hair, with the ancient hills of Ibiza behind him, with the mingled light of the moon and the raucous party reflected in his eyes—
I realized I was staring and pivoted away, keeping my eyes fixed on the sea below, taking a performatively casual sip of my pink cocktail. I’d spent the last three years honing my theatrical skills around Owen Montgomery: pretending I didn’t notice him, pretending I didn’t hear his cultured, British accent icing up the hallways, pretending I didn’t smell the subtle notes of his Dior cologne whenever he sat in front of me in class.
Citrus and spice, if you were curious.
It was hard
