Ruthless (The Privileged of Pembroke High #4) Read online

  Copyright

  Ruthless – The Privileged of Pembroke High

  Copyright © 2021 Ivy Fox

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of all word marks, products, brands, TV shows, movies, music, bands, and celebrities mentioned in this work of fiction.

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  Table of 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

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Ruthless Playlist

  The Privileged of Pembroke High - Part 4

  Listen to the full playlist on Spotify

  “Intro” by The XX

  “Lost Boy” by Ruth B

  “Daddy Issues” by The Neighbourhood

  “IDFC” by Blackbear

  “Jealous Traits” by Softheart feat. Guccihighwaters and Vowl

  “Tempt My Trouble” by Bishop Briggs

  “Crystalised” by The XX

  “Lane Boy” by Twenty One Pilots

  “Girls Your Age” by Transviolet

  “My Sweet Prince” by Placebo

  “Atlas” by Shannon Saunders

  “I hate you, I love you” by Gnash feat. Olivia O’Brien

  “Stone Cold” by Demi Lovato

  “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys

  “Linger” by The Cranberries

  “Oceans” by Seafret

  “The Heart Wants What It Wants” by Selena Gomez

  “Cellophane” by FKA twigs

  “Sweater Weather” by The Neighbourhood

  “Say Something” by A Great Big World

  “Bittersweet Tragedy” by Dollhouse

  Caution

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you to the readers who purchased Ruthless and are anxious to continue with The Privileged of Pembroke High saga.

  This is Elle’s love story, the youngest of the Grayson clan.

  As always, whenever I feel the subject matter of one of my books might touch on some sensitive issues, I like to make my readers aware so they aren’t taken off guard.

  If you’ve read Holland’s trilogy, then you know there will be mentions of emotional, physical, or sexual abuse, even if I kept most of those scenes off-page.

  If you haven’t read any of the previous books in this series, please be aware there will be spoilers.

  I would also like to bring to your attention that this isn’t your typical boy/girl romance. There will be guy-on-guy love scenes in this duet, so if that isn’t your kink, turn back now.

  If two guys and one girl getting it on is not your jam, no worries. That’s the beauty of books. There is always something out there for all of us. I also have plenty of M/F reads in my backlist if you want to check them out.

  I just wanted to make sure my readers knew what they were getting into before they get too invested.

  Having said that, this book still is, in its whole, very much a love story—however unconventional it may be—so if you’re still on the fence, read reviews and get feedback before giving it a go.

  Sincerely,

  Ivy

  “To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.”

  ― Federico García Lorca

  Chapter 1

  Elle

  The Early Years

  I feel the sweat trickle down my neck, my cheeks beginning to flush profusely with equal parts frustration and anxiety.

  Why is he here?

  He never comes to these things.

  So why tonight of all nights did he decide to show up?

  Argh!!!

  I continue to do my best to follow the routine, trying hard not to trip and fall on my face and end up making a mockery of tonight’s performance. But unfortunately, each move I make becomes more rigid and less graceful than the one I just performed. Through my peripheral vision, I see Kim Carothers’ lips twitch in amusement once I’ve lost my footing, and it takes everything in me not to flip her off or push her, so she falls flat on her ass in front of her uppity mommy and daddy. The only thing that stops me from doing just that is my father’s unexpected presence here tonight. If I lose my temper in front of all these people, then the minute we get home, he’ll have a field day with me.

  So instead of acting on my instincts, I do the next best thing and throw Kim my ‘WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM, BIATCH’ slant of the eye. She might not be all that smart considering her pea-sized brain, but she gets my pissed-off glower well enough to go about her business and keep her snarky-ass smile out of my sight.

  Still, the prissy brat is right.

  We’ve spent months rehearsing these steps for our Thanksgiving recital, and me messing them up after so many long hours of hard work—not to mention the hefty private lesson fees—is hardly the result this audience expects from their precious young ballerinas.

  Especially him.

  I mentally shake off the unnerving feeling his presence always seems to conjure and try to put all my focus on the song playing, hoping it will serve as the distraction I need to center myself. I do a demi plié before the required dégagé that will push me to the front row of the pink, leotard-wearing girls and steady my breathing while my body takes control.

  To my relief, after a few grueling minutes, I feel the tactic working. The melodic tune taps into my autopilot reflexes and begins to command my limbs to follow the steps they’ve rehearsed so many times before. I feel my body repeat each coupé and grand battement to its expected perfection, mimicking the rest of the girls on the stage.

  I keep my head held high, making a point of looking nowhere in particular, going to great pains not to seek out where my father is seated. I don’t need the visual reminder of his disapproving scowl—thank you very much.

  Not that it matters.

  I don’t have to actually set my eyes on him to feel his harsh gaze scrutinize every little thing I do. It’s his go-to glower announcing that I’m coming up short of his high standards. His animosity and disappointment are something my brothers and I are well-versed in. No matter how hard we try, we all know that
anything we do will never measure up to the great Judge Grayson’s high standards. To him, we are nothing but necessary nuisances brought into this world for his own agenda, to give him the aura of a great family man and further his prestige, when in reality, he’s the monster who poisons our home.

  I try to focus on the whispered mantra ringing in my ears, right along with the high note of the piano, making sure it pushes my mind away from any thoughts of my father.

  Concentrate.

  You’ve danced this piece a hundred times before.

  You can do this, Elle.

  Don’t let him rattle you.

  You’ve got this.

  A soothing calm begins to wash over me, and I feel the fluid turns and sway of my body as it does what it was meant to. To the untrained eye, I probably look as if every arabesque is as easy to me as breathing.

  However, I don’t have any grand illusions that my performance is a work of art. Every gentle shift of my feet or agile dip should not be construed as proof of my natural ability for dance. No way in hell was I born to be a ballerina. I know each and every flawless pirouette is a product of hours of brutal training, not a god-given talent afforded to me. I’m no child prodigy when it comes to ballet, that’s for damn sure. Nor do I have much love for it. In fact, it bores the bejesus out of me. I find it tedious and way too much work for the end result.

  The only reason I suffer through it and keep up the pretense that dance is in my blood is because it makes her happy.

  Putting a smile on my mother’s face is all I care about, and dancing does just that.

  Unlike me, Mom loves everything about ballet. She instantly becomes mesmerized by the classical music and its deep rich melody that, in her mind, was somehow designed purely to coax out each choreographed step from a dancer—every harmony orchestrated for this very purpose. For her, each tune spun or written note was solely created with the idea in mind that one day a ballerina would give the song life just by jumping into the air with all the faith in the world that her dancing partner would be there to catch her when she fell.

  My mother is a hopeless romantic like that. She succumbs to a starry-eyed daydream every time she watches one of my recitals, even more so when she takes me on occasion to watch a grand performance at the American Ballet Theatre in Lincoln Center. Probably the only time she ever sees a man who is gentle with his partner, as well as the hero who sweeps her off her feet, is on stage. A man who lifts his love up in the air for her to shine and then wraps his arms lovingly around her, protecting his beloved from all the evils she may encounter.

  In real life, though, I hardly think my mother has many examples of men who can be that altruistic or heroic. Aside from my brothers and my best friend, I don’t think I have many examples of them either, and it’s not like I haven’t been looking for more. I guess I’m just not as foolishly sentimental as my mother. If I’m being completely honest, I think all boys suck major butt. I don’t get their appeal. Not yet anyway. Mom says that will change when I’m older, but I doubt it very much. Maybe it’s because I’m the only girl in a family full of unruly smelly boys, or maybe it’s because I see how he treats her.

  I might be young, but I know enough. I know what I want and what I don’t want, and my mother’s life is a perfect example of what I should stay clear from. I will never give anyone the power to make me feel less than, much like my father insists on doing to my mother. It’s bad enough the Judge tries to mess with our heads the same way he messes with hers. When I grow up, no way will I let any man play with my sanity the way my father loves tearing hers apart.

  I really wish she was strong enough to fight him, though.

  If I ever get married—which I hardly think will ever happen—I wouldn’t want to settle for a husband who took pleasure in witnessing my pain. Because that’s exactly what my father does—he relishes in my mother’s anguish, just as much as he enjoys seeing me and my brothers squirm for him, too. It’s sickening how he likes to play mind games with all of us like we are his favorite sport—one where the trophy is only given to the person who can inflict the most misery. If that’s the challenge, then my father makes an exaggerated effort to win every time.

  The minute I’m old enough to get out of the manor, I’ll never let a man dictate my happiness again.

  Although, if I ever do fall into the trap that is the institution of marriage, there’s only one boy that comes to mind, who is up to the task of making me happy, and that’s my best friend, Chad. Not only does he always smell nice and look pretty—sometimes even prettier than me—he’s the only one who understands me. He doesn’t make fun of or belittle me like my father does my mom. He doesn’t make me feel unseen or unheard. He laughs with me, not at me. He’s my best friend, and if I have to have someone by my side for the rest of my life, then who better than the person I feel comfortable sharing all my secrets with.

  I doubt Mom tells her secrets to the Judge. I wouldn’t either if I were her.

  I don’t get why she doesn’t divorce him once and for all. I mean, it’s not like it’s unheard of nowadays. We’re not stuck in the eighteen hundreds where a woman would be marginalized because she gave her husband his walking papers. Half of the kids in my class have parents who are divorced, and they say it’s great.

  Two Christmases.

  Two summer vacations.

  Two birthday parties.

  It’s a win-win for everyone involved.

  However, in our case, I’d be happy not to have two of anything, really. I’d settle for living with Mom and my pain-in-the-ass older brothers and skip any time we’d have to spend with our father. Just the idea of having to live alone with him makes my stomach queasy, and I’m hard as nails.

  At least that’s what Rome always says about me.

  Sometimes I don’t feel like I am, though.

  Sometimes—and I hate to admit it—I feel just as fragile and helpless as Mom. Not that I ever show it, though. My father would never let me forget it if I did, and I’m stubborn enough never to give him the satisfaction of seeing me at my lowest.

  But sometimes…

  Just sometimes…

  When I’m alone in my room and hear my mother’s muffled cries coming from her bedroom, I cry, too.

  I know I shouldn’t, since it’s been drilled into us that tears are something that we Graysons must never show. It’s one of dear old dad’s golden rules, and God forbid if we break it.

  Tears are for the weak and feeble-minded, Eleanor.

  Graysons do not cry.

  The only tears we shed are that of our enemies.

  He says a lot of crap like that—especially when Mom is in the room. Every time he goes on one of his rants, her melancholy takes her deeper into a place where neither my brothers nor I can reach.

  My mother is always sad.

  Always so sad.

  She tries hard to hide it from us kids, but we see it. We hear the sobs behind closed doors in the manor. We witness her red, swollen eyes from all the tears she cried before coming into our rooms to tuck us in at night. We see the haunted, broken, and used-up look when she wakes us in the morning and sits with us at breakfast. It’s even worse throughout the day when she takes the pills that are meant to help her.

  At least that’s what she says they are for.

  I’m not sure I really believe her, though.

  When she takes them, her movements are all loopy and sluggish, and she slurs so incoherently that it’s difficult to understand what she’s saying sometimes. She does smile more often than not when she’s on them, so maybe that’s what they are used for. But even her medication-induced grin feels fake to me.

  The only real time I see her genuinely content is when I’m in this pink monstrosity, with my hair pulled up, shimmering pink goo on my lips and cheeks, while elegantly dancing center stage as if my life depends on it. She doesn’t take her medication on the days I perform. She makes sure not to be her zombie-self just for me.
On these precious days, she’s just Mom—happy, joyful, full-of-life Mom.

  So that’s why I do it.

  Why I practice long, excruciating hours to make sure each step is perfect for her. It’s why I suffer in silence when my toenails slash up my skin, hard enough to make my feet bleed. It is the reason I pin up my hair so tight in a bun on the top of my head that my scalp actually feels as if it’s on fire. It’s the reason behind sacrificing not having that one extra scoop of ice cream just so my leotard doesn’t have a little bulge in the front. I do all of this and so much more, just to ensure that, on these days, I have a mother who sees the beauty in life, even if all she sees is me dancing to her favorite melody.

  And him being here for the only occasion when my mother is sincerely happy is infuriating. It makes all those endless sacrifices useless, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear he came here on purpose.

  Who am I kidding?

  Of course, he did.

  My father never does anything without the cruelest of intentions.

  I’m sure he knew full well that showing up to my recital unannounced would not only steal the joy from my mother but would also destroy all my well-drawn plans in bringing her some kind of happiness. Otherwise, what would be the point in coming at all?

  Just thinking about it makes me so mad I could scream bloody murder right now. I’m not even taken aback when I begin to feel the burning rage roll off of me, pricking my skin with that almighty heated feeling I am so well acquainted with.