Pride

Seven Sins Academy: Year One PRIDE CAIT AMBROSE Seven Sins Academy: Year One PRIDE Copyright © 2023 by Cait Ambrose www.caitambrose.com All Rights Reserved. This publication or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored, distributed, or transmitted in any form—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise—except in the case of brief quotations for review purposes. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons alive or deceased, places, or events is coincidental. Cover by JoY Author Design Studio Created with Vellum 1 Gabrielle “Hey, Foster! Wait up.” The call came as I had taken the first step out of the school doors, toward freedom, my graduation cap tucked under my arm, and my heart thundering against the inside of my ribcage. Ignore him. Just ignore him and keep walking. That was the thing with bullies, right? If you ignored them long enough, they went away. Yeah, whoever had thought that shit up was a liar. No amount of ignoring Timothy Malone had ever made him give up or go away. It only seemed to make him happier when I ignored him. “Foster,” Timothy sang behind me. I took the front steps two at a time. “Oh, Fosterrrrr.” A snigger followed the call. Why? Why did he have to do this now? For fuck’s sake, he was meant to be with his parents on graduation day. I’d figured I could dip out of school before Timothy or any of his cronies caught up with me. I reached the final step. A strong, tan hand caught my forearm and jerked me back. My cap flopped to the concrete, and I pivoted on my sneaker, struggling to stay upright. Timothy’s classically handsome face filled my vision. He gave me that prom king, ivory white smile. “Foster,” he said, “I know you’re not trying to leave without saying goodbye.” “Let me go.” Wasn’t he tired of doing this? I was tired of putting up with it. Any amount of fighting back had only landed me in trouble with the teachers at school. Mr. Malone, Timothy’s corrupt-ass father, was the mayor of our small town. The Malones owned Sorrow’s Hill. And that meant Timothy owned the school and everyone in it, principal and teachers included. “Let you go?” Timothy laughed. “Let you go? Now, Foster, why would I do that?” Foster wasn’t my name. Foster was the nickname he’d given me when I’d arrived in my freshman year at Sorrow’s Hill High. Because, and this was the sheer level of intelligence and creativity Timothy possessed, I was a foster kid. That meant the name Gabrielle had practically been stricken from my birth certificate. It had been a legitimate shock that my real name had appeared underneath my picture in the yearbook. I tried pulling my arm out of his grasp. For once, Timothy wasn’t flanked by two of his jock buddies or several of the popular girls who orbited him like he was the sun. If I could break free and run off, he wouldn’t chase me down—there were parties to get to, congratulations to receive on his mediocre result and a football scholarship to one of the best schools in the state. Glory awaited. “Foster,” he said, “I heard an interesting rumor about you.” I swallowed, trying to tug myself free. I scanned the trees that flanked the walkway leading out toward the parking lot. For a second, I got the briefest impression of someone… there, someone watching us. “Give it up, Timothy.” He froze, his fingers biting into my arm. “What did you say to me?” His words were soft and dangerous. Anger burrowed through my gut, and I glared up at him, resenting his existence more than usual. “I said give it up. You’re never going to see me again after today. Give it a rest for once.” Timothy tugged me toward him, lifting my arm high so my graduation gown sleeve fell back, exposing my tan skin underneath. “Gabrielle Hernandez.” My heart skipped a beat. What was he doing? “Gabrielle Hernandez, the foster kid. The crazy foster kid.” His earthy cologne filled my nostrils. A sick sense of desire mingled with my fear, and I hated every second of it. “Let me go, you psycho.” “I know everything,” he whispered. Ice dropped down my spine. The sounds of birds chirping in the trees, the rush of the pleasant breeze and the blue sky above, cloudless today, for once, disappeared. My focus was entirely on his face, on his lips, which were parted into a wicked grin. “Today’s your eighteenth birthday,” he said. “And so?” I tried to channel my foster mother’s words. “Remember, Gabby, Eleanor Roosevelt said no one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” The warmth of those words gave me strength. Without my foster mother, Marnie, I would’ve snapped long ago. “Today’s the day,” he said. “Right? It’s the day.” “It’s nothing to you.” I glared up at him, defiant. He let out an almost maniacal laugh. I couldn’t pull myself out of his grip without wrenching my arm out of its socket. Whether I liked it or not, this guy was a lot stronger than me. I could kick him, and I could scream and hope someone would come and help me, but other than that, my options were limited. Maybe this is what you deserve. I fought against that evil voice inside my head—it had broken me down more than Timothy’s words ever could. “Today’s the day your parents died,” he said. I refused to react. I made myself blank, my usual spunk hidden for a minute. Nothing. Think of nothing. Timothy tilted his head this way and that. “I heard a rumor that you killed them yourself,” he said, “but you were only, what, like, six-years-old or something?” Pain erupted in my chest, radiating upward toward my throat. I swallowed, but the lump of emotion caught there wouldn’t budge. Nothing happened. Ignore it. “But then, I found out that you