Like You Hurt: A Standalone Enemies to Lovers Romance (Devilbend Dynasty Book 2) Read online

  Like You Hurt

  Devilbend Dynasty: Book Two

  Kaydence Snow

  Copyright © 2020 by Katarina Smythe

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. The events described are fictitious; any similarities to actual events and persons are coincidental.

  Cover design by Sara Eirew

  Editing by Kirstin Andrews

  kaydencesnow.com

  Created with Vellum

  For the girls

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Note from the author

  More Devilbend Dynasty!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Kaydence Snow

  Chapter One

  Donna

  Mom was sitting at the breakfast nook alone, the delectable spread in front of her way more than four people could realistically eat. Dad must’ve been away for work again, and if Harlow wasn’t up yet, she wouldn’t be eating breakfast. Looked as if it was just us two.

  Magda marched in from the kitchen, a fresh pot of coffee in hand. “Good morning, beautiful, smart girl. How you want your eggs this morning?” The woman had worked for my family since before I was born, but her heavy Eastern European accent persisted.

  I smiled. “Poached, please.”

  She set the coffee on the table and patted my arm as she passed.

  “Morning, sweetheart.” Mom flashed me her perfect teeth before returning her attention to the iPad next to her bowl of granola. She was impeccable in a linen shirt dress and a full face of makeup, not a hair out of place—all before 8:00 a.m.

  “Morning, Mom. You look nice. Big client?” I smoothed the front of my skirt as I sat down, running my fingers down the gray-and-teal tartan pleats. Emily Mead Interiors was in high demand, and if Mom was going to meet with someone herself instead of sending one of the designers she employed, it was probably someone high-profile.

  “Thank you.” She gave me another bright smile. “Yes, a potential new client, demanding to meet with me personally.”

  “Celebrity,” we said at the same time, rolling our eyes.

  I grabbed a piece of toast and started spreading mashed avocado onto it as Mom scrolled through her tablet again. A bird chirped outside, the California sun shining brightly through the open French doors.

  Everything, down to the weather, was pristine and neat.

  I couldn’t wait to put on a pair of scuffed boots and feel them stick to the filthy floors . . .

  I shook my head. I had to focus. Get through the day. It was only one day.

  Magda returned with my poached eggs as I was crumbling some feta onto the avocado.

  “I have my dinner with my friends tonight. Will you and your sister be OK alone?” Mom took a sip of her coffee.

  I smiled around a bite of gourmet breakfast, wiping the corner of my mouth with the starched napkin. “Yes. I have some extra-credit homework to finish, and Harlow will be fine.”

  My sister, younger by exactly eleven months, would be glued to her computer. Friday nights were her gaming nights—nothing but her bladder could drag her away from the keyboard.

  “Good. I won’t be late.”

  She never was. Not that it mattered. I was eighteen and Harlow was seventeen. We were more than capable of taking care of ourselves—despite being raised with a permanent staff, managed by Magda, making sure we never wanted for anything. We may have been obscenely rich, but my parents had made sure we weren’t spoiled. They’d instilled the value of hard work in us from an early age. We were Meads—nothing short of excellence was acceptable.

  But everyone had to let loose once in a while. Dad had the frequent extensions to his business trips so he could play golf. Mom had her fortnightly boozy dinners with her friends, ensuring she was fast asleep by midnight. Harlow had her computer games.

  I had my thing too. I’d be going there tonight. Just thinking about it made a rush of adrenaline shoot down my spine, like rough hands on bare skin.

  Shifting in my seat, I pushed the thought away once again. No one could know about that. They wouldn’t understand.

  I just had to get through one more day at school, one more afternoon of homework, one more day of being driven, determined, perfect Donna Mead.

  And then I could spend all night being whoever the fuck I wanted.

  I took another bite of toast to hide my smile.

  Harlow appeared downstairs just as I finished eating. Her Fulton Academy uniform was as perfectly neat and ironed as mine, but her knee-high socks were still pooled around her ankles, and it looked as if she hadn’t bothered to brush her hair before tying it up. Her long blonde ponytail hung just past her shoulder blades.

  My hair was a little lighter than hers, ashier, and I kept it maintained in a short, sharp style with monthly visits to the salon. It was closer to Mom’s color, although she put lowlights in hers.

  “There’s my baby girl.” Mom beamed at her youngest child, and Harlow gave her a sleepy smile back as she poured coffee into her travel mug. “Sit down and eat some breakfast.”

  Harlow grunted, and I answered for her. “We have to get going to pick up Mena.”

  Mom frowned. She liked that we were picking up our cousin, but it was warring with her typical-mom need to shove food down our throats. But I knew Harlow couldn’t stomach anything solid until lunchtime—especially when she stayed up half the night doing god knew what on her computer.

  Screwing the lid onto her travel mug, Harlow leaned down and gave our mother a kiss on the cheek. The big white headphones hanging around her neck were blaring some EDM shit that became audible as she got close. “Love you,” she croaked.

  I cringed internally. Had she been to bed at all?

  Hoping to distract our mom from how tired my sister looked, I leaned over and gave her a kiss too. “Love you, Mom. Good luck with the delusion of grandeur.”

  She laughed as we headed for the garage. “Is it delusion if the majority of the country knows their name? Have a good day, girls.”

  Magda wordlessly pressed a granola bar into my hand as I passed the kitchen, shooting a meaningful look in Harlow’s direction. I gave her a withering smile. I’d try, but no promises.

  With a yawn, Harlow dropped into the back seat of my pearlescent white BMW 8, while I smoothed my skirt down and stepped in more carefully to avoid creases.

  The garage door silently slid open in front of us, revealing a pair of long legs clad in the same knee-high so
cks my sister and I were both wearing—white with a teal stripe at the top. Next came a flash of creamy brown-skinned thigh, the skirt length flirting with inappropriate, followed by the top half of the most fabulous bitch I knew.

  Our friend Amaya Ellis-Lahari lived one street over and rode to school with us almost every day, even though she had her own car. Us girls liked to stick together. She and Harlow had offered to take turns driving, but I shot that down. I liked to be in control of where I was going and how fast.

  Amaya was scrolling through her phone in the middle of the driveway, arms crossed and hip cocked, her designer backpack slung over one shoulder. I started the car and revved the engine, but she completely ignored me, running a hand through her long black hair.

  With a smirk, I disengaged the handbrake and revved the engine again, then lurched forward and slammed on the brakes just inches away from Amaya’s ridiculously long legs.

  She didn’t even flinch.

  I laughed, and she looked at me over the top of her sunglasses and gave me the finger.

  After taking her time to shoot off a text, she leisurely slid into the passenger seat. “Meads.”

  “Hey, girl.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek as Harlow grunted from the back. As I took off, my sister jammed the headphones over her ears and closed her eyes. Amaya buried her nose in her phone, and I put on some Billie Eilish.

  This part of the journey was spent in relative silence, all of us trying to wake up and get ready for the day—especially Harlow.

  We drove out of the estates area and took the main road through downtown Devilbend. The homes got smaller, the yards more cramped and untidy. Eventually we pulled up outside of a big, run-down apartment building.

  Mena walked up the cracked concrete path and jumped into the back seat.

  “Morning!”

  Her bright greeting made me smile. That girl had been through some horrific shit at her last school—which is why my parents were paying for her to go to Fulton with us now—but it hadn’t made her bitter or angry. Mena was the kind of person whose inner beauty oozed out of her pores, her energy infectious.

  We chatted and sang along to “You Should See Me in a Crown” as I drove us to school. Even Harlow perked up and took her headphones off, the massive coffee she’d finished finally doing its job.

  I retraced our path through downtown, passed the turnoff to our neighborhood, and drove up the winding tree-lined road toward Fulton Academy.

  Every other day, we got up half an hour early and drove in the exact opposite direction of school to pick up Mena, because she needed someone to show her she was worth it—that she belonged with us. The other days, she took the bus to our house, and we still drove in together.

  I parked in a spot near the front. Even with the student parking lot almost full, everyone knew not to park in my spot.

  Glancing in the mirror, I checked my makeup and smoothed an errant strand of hair back into place. Surreptitiously, I checked on Harlow at the same time. She’d retied her hair while we drove, and as we got out of the car, I was pleased to see her socks were pulled up and her shirt tucked in.

  We all knew the strict uniform rules, and my sister wasn’t an idiot, but I couldn’t help but make sure everything was in place. I didn’t want any of my girls getting in trouble needlessly.

  Walking in through the grand front doors of one of the most prestigious high schools in California—if not the country—I kept my gaze trained forward. Amaya was at my side, Harlow and Mena joking and carrying on behind us. I envied how oblivious they were to all the people watching us, some wishing they had the guts to talk to us, others hoping I’d fall on my ass.

  Perfection was fucking exhausting, but it was all I knew.

  There was only one thing that could completely take my mind off it. The buzz of conversation around us reminded me faintly of another kind of buzz—the kind I’d be feeling reverberate through my body tonight.

  Shit, I really needed this. It was the third time that morning I’d had to push the thought away. I had three AP classes on Fridays, and I needed to focus.

  I got through my busy morning without incident and repressed a yawn as I shoved books into my locker at lunch.

  “Cafeteria? Or you wanna head out to eat?” Amaya leaned on the locker next to mine.

  Harlow appeared next to her. “Can we just do caf? I’m starving.”

  “That’s because you didn’t eat breakfast after staying up all night.” I was kicking myself for not shoving the granola bar under her nose earlier.

  “I second the caf.” Mena nudged my shoulder and smiled before unloading her own books in her locker.

  Mena had ulterior motives. She couldn’t afford to eat out all the time and didn’t like us constantly paying for her, so she always preferred the cafeteria—the option already paid for as part of tuition.

  I rolled my eyes, and they landed on an unfamiliar face.

  The guy walking toward us in the busy hallway was tall, his brown hair kind of wavy and messy on top but with a precise fade-cut underneath. The gray pants and white shirt of the uniform fit his frame perfectly—probably tailored, just like all the other uniforms on all the other spoiled rich kids in this place. His teal tie hung perfectly in place, but his blazer was draped over the books he had tucked against his hip.

  I leaned back on the locker and watched him as he passed, his free hand tucked into his pocket, his face blank.

  He didn’t look at anyone. He didn’t have that uncertain, worried demeanor that almost always marked a new kid obsessing over where they would fit in at a new school. Which told me he didn’t give a shit about his place here, or maybe he was just putting up a brave front, a hard exterior to mask his nervousness.

  His gray eyes flicked to the side and connected with mine for the briefest of moments. I didn’t smile like half the basic bitches in the hall with hearts in their eyes. I didn’t frown or show my confusion either. I didn’t react at all, watching him with as steady and cool a gaze as he was me.

  He stopped at a locker near the end of the corridor. Only seniors had their locker in this hall, so that was at least one piece of the puzzle.

  “Who is that?” I asked, keeping my gaze locked on him. I may have been bad with names—something I was working on—but I never forgot a face. I certainly wouldn’t have forgotten those piercing eyes, the strong jaw.

  How had I gone all morning without knowing there was a new senior at Fulton? I hated not knowing things.

  I wasn’t delusional. Of course I couldn’t control everything, but knowing as much as possible allowed me to be prepared for all scenarios. I had a spreadsheet with the names of each student at Fulton Academy, the names of their parents and what they did for work, any dirt we had on them, and any other pertinent information that was useful—or could be in the future. The girls were the only ones who had access to it, or even knew about it.

  Information made the world go round. So did networking.

  “That must be the new guy.” Harlow shrugged. “Not in any of my classes, but I heard whispers.”

  “And you’re only mentioning this now?” I glared at her, but she flipped me off with a sweet smile, and I couldn’t resist smiling back. She entertained my need to know everything, and I distracted our parents from her weird online activities and less than impressive grades.

  “He wasn’t in any of my morning classes either.” Mena looked at him over her shoulder. “I think I would’ve noticed that level of hotness.”

  “You have a boyfriend.” Harlow laughed and smacked her.

  “So? I’m only human. I can look.”

  “Amaya.” I cut across their banter. Amaya would’ve already texted me if she’d known about this.

  “Already on it.” She was typing furiously on her phone.

  New guy closed his locker and walked out of the hallway, heading in the opposite direction of the cafeteria. I didn’t like having him out of my sight, but I chased after no man, and I certainly didn’t change my plans
for any.

  Looping my arm through Amaya’s so she could continue to text, I led the way into the bright, bustling cafeteria.

  Tall windows lined one wall, letting in natural light, with several French doors providing access to a courtyard for alfresco dining. Along with the various seating scattered throughout the space, a lounge area in the back corner housed an assortment of comfy couches and low tables. The full-service food counter was closer to a buffet than a school lunch line and included an espresso station—complete with a full-time barista.

  We waited until we were seated at our usual table, trays of sushi and berry parfaits in front of us, before Amaya leaned in to deliver her information.

  “His name is Hendrix Hawthorn. He started at Fulton today but spent most of the morning in the office—something about paperwork—which is why no one’s seen him much yet. He moved here from the East Coast, but I can’t seem to get any info on where exactly he transferred from.”

  Her fingers tightened around her chopsticks. Amaya liked the lack of information about as much as I did.

  “I wonder if he has any friends here,” Mena mused. I left the comment alone for now. I needed to know more about him before I decided how close we would become.

  “Hey, girls.” Nicola joined us at our table, her bleach-blonde hair bouncing at her shoulders. She was nice enough, and her mom was a household name due to her film career—as well as a client of Emily Mead Interiors—so she hung around us at school. But she wasn’t a part of my core group. Harlow, Amaya, and Mena were my soul-deep friends.