“What’s the matter, Royal? You moping ’cause nobody wants to play with you?”

I stop walking. The barking laughter of Daniel Delacorte has me slowly swiveling to face him.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite hear you,” I say coldly. “Wanna repeat that? To my fist this time?”

He stumbles over his own feet, because the menace in my voice is unmistakable. The hallway is crowded with kids getting out of their after-class electives. Music students, debate team, the cheer squad, the science club.

I advance with purpose, adrenaline spiking in my veins. I got in one punch with this jerkwad before, but only one. My brothers dragged me away before I could do any more damage.

Today, no one is stopping me. The pack of animals that makes up the student body of Astor Park smells the blood in the air.

Delacorte shifts to the side, not fully facing me, but wary of having his back to me. I’m not the kind of guy to stab someone in the back, I want to tell him. That’s your deal.

But Delacorte thinks differently. He’s screwed-up in the head, preys on people he thinks are weaker than him.

Anger radiates off his lean frame. He doesn’t like to be confronted with his cowardice. Daddy gets him off, after all. That’s fine, but Daddy’s not here right now, is he?

“Is everything about violence for you, Royal? You think your fists can solve your problems?”

I smirk. “At least I don’t use drugs to solve my problems. Chicks don’t want you, so you drug ’em. That’s your MO, right?”

“Ella wanted it.”

“I don’t like her name coming out of your mouth.” I step forward. “You should forget her name.”

“Or what? Are we dueling to the death?” He spreads his arms out in invitation for the audience to laugh with him, but either they hate him or they’re afraid of me, because there’s not so much as a titter in response.

“No. I think you’re a waste of space. You’re taking up oxygen that could be better spent coming out of someone’s ass. I can’t kill you—stupid legal reasons and all—but I can hurt you. I can make every waking moment of your life miserable,” I say matter-of-factly. “You should leave school, dude. No one wants you here.”

His breath comes in shallow pants. “It’s you no one wants,” he jeers.

He looks to the crowd again for support, but their bright-eyed interest is in potential bloodshed. They move closer, pushing Daniel forward.

The coward inside of him snaps. He throws his phone at me, the plastic casing striking my forehead. The students gasp. Something warm and coppery trickles down, clouding my vision, coating my lips.

I could punch him. That’d be easy. But I want him to really hurt. I want us both to hurt. So I grab him by the shoulders and slam my forehead against his.

My blood paints his face, and I grin with satisfaction. “Your face looks prettier already. Let’s see what other magic I can make for you.” Then I slap him, hard.

He flushes with anger, more at the disdain in my touch than the actual pain. A slap is a girl’s weapon, not a blow exchanged between guys. My open palm makes a smacking sound when I slap him again. Daniel backs away, but he can’t get far from me—his retreat is halted by the lockers.

Grinning, I step in and slap him again. He blocks me with his hand, leaving his entire left side open. I deliver two strikes to the left side of his face before backing away.

“Hit me,” he screams. “Hit me. Use your fist!”

My smile widens. “You don’t deserve my fists. I use fists on a man.”

I smack him again and this time it’s hard enough that his skin splits. Blood pools around the wound, but that doesn’t satisfy my lust for revenge. I clap a hand against one ear and then the other. Weakly, he tries to defend himself.

Daniel purses his lips, gathering up saliva. I feint to the left to avoid the stream of spittle that spills out. Disgusted, I grab his hair and shove his face into the locker. “When Ella gets back, she’s not gonna want to see trash like you around, so either leave or start practicing your invisibility skills because I don’t want to see or hear from you again.”

I don’t wait for an answer—I slam his forehead into the metal locker and let go.

He tips over, one hundred and seventy pounds of douchebag collapsing on the floor like a discarded toy.

I turn to find Wade standing there behind me. “Thought you didn’t care,” he murmurs.

The grin I give him must be feral because everyone but Wade and his stoic shadow, Hunter, takes a step back.

Leaning down, I swipe Daniel’s phone off the floor, then roll him over and pick up his limp hand. I press the thumb against the home button and then key in my dad’s number.

“Callum Royal,” he answers impatiently.

“Hey, Dad. You’re gonna need to come to school.”

“Reed? What number are you calling from?” he demands.

“Daniel Delacorte’s phone. Judge Delacorte’s son. You should bring your checkbook. I beat him up pretty good. He asked for it, though, literally,” I say cheerfully.

I hang up and swipe a hand across my face as the blood from the cut drips down into my eye. Stepping over Daniel’s body, I drawl, “Later, Wade. Hunter.” I give the big, silent lineman a nod.

He returns the gesture with his own chin jerk, and I head outside to get some air.

Dad is frothing at the mouth when he appears in the waiting area outside Headmaster Beringer’s office. He doesn’t comment on my bloody forehead. He just yanks me up by the lapels of my blazer and brings his face close to mine.

“This needs to stop,” he hisses.

I shrug out of his grasp. “Chill out. I haven’t been in a fight in over a year,” I remind him.

“You want a medal for that? A pat on the back? Jesus, Reed, how many times do we have to go through this routine? How many goddamn checks do I need to write before you smarten up?”

I look him square in the eye. “Daniel Delacorte drugged Ella at a party and tried to rape her.”

Dad sucks in a sharp breath.

“Mr. Royal.”

We turn to see Beringer’s secretary standing in the headmaster’s open doorway.

“Mr. Beringer will see you now,” she says primly.

Dad stalks past me, tossing over his shoulder, “Stay here. I’ll deal with this.”