Outcast: A Reverse Harem High School Bully Romance (Kings of Mercia Academy Book 1)

by Sofia Daniel

  Two of Charlotte’s doppelgängers, Alice and Patricia, spent their time vying for Edward’s attention. He seemed to be dating them both and noticed the conflict it caused the two friends but didn’t care. Blake didn’t have any favorites and would flirt with every girl, especially Charlotte and Wendy, the girl who had pretended to befriend me on my first day.

  One lunchtime, I’d just sent Mom another text, when I noticed Henry jerk his arm away from Charlotte’s touch. I whispered to Rita, “Why doesn’t Henry like girls? Is he gay?”

  “I heard a few of the others talk about it,” she whispered back. “Some say he’s in love with Blake, and others say he’s insecure about being the least handsome in the group.”

  I glanced at the head table and met his startling green eyes. He blinked with surprise, then his blank expression sharpened into one of interest. A jolt of excitement shot through my heart and traveled down to my core. Henry had the looks of the sexiest kind of football player. Tall, broad, and heavily muscled without being too bulky. While Blake and Edward might be facially outstanding, Henry was still more handsome than any other boy in the school.

  “I don’t think he’s insecure about his looks,” I muttered.

  “Others say he’s careful of gold diggers,” Rita whispered. “He’s the only son of the Bourneville family and stands to inherit the department stores and all their properties in London. That’s why so many of the girls want to get close to him.”

  “What do you think about Bourneville?”

  She glanced down at her plate of mushroom risotto. “They’re all terrible people.”

  “That’s for sure,” I muttered.

  Up at the head table, Blake whispered into Wendy’s ear. She giggled and slipped her hand under the table. Blake stared right at me and raised his brows in challenge. It was the kind of look that said, ‘Don’t you wish that was your hand down there?’ Heat rushed to my face and spread down my neck and into my chest. I should have pulled my gaze away, shouldn’t have played his game, but the gravity in his eyes held me mesmerized. My nipples tightened, and I shuddered as the intense warmth traveled south. His lips tweaked into a smile, and I almost growled. Damn him!

  I dipped my head and plunged the tines of my fork into my spaghetti carbonara. Why did I waste so much time analyzing the love lives of those jerks? I needed to pay them back for the bloody clothes, not obsess over them and their bitches.

  “You’re planning something, aren’t you?” asked Rita.

  “Why do you ask?” I replied.

  “Trust me. Fighting back will only escalate the bullying. Ignore them, and they’ll get bored eventually and leave you alone.”

  “But what’s the alternative?” I stared into my friend’s dark brown eyes. Getting to eat real food in the dining room had filled out the hollowness of her cheeks, and the absence of negative attention on her had eased her skittishness. She’d spent her time hiding from the world, trying not to be noticed, and submitting to the bullies, but that hadn’t helped her to thrive at Mercia Academy. “I can’t just allow them to walk all over me.”

  She sipped her water. “I know it’s hard, but they’ll get bored eventually and move onto someone else.”

  “Why should they bully people at all?” I glared at the head table.

  Blake leaned across and said something to Edward, who turned to stare in our direction. Edward said something back, and Blake rose from his seat.

  “Oh, no,” Rita slid further down her chair. “He’s coming over.”

  I sat up and clenched my fork as though it was my only means of protection. As Blake stepped down off the podium, a hush spread across the dining room, broken only by the activation of multiple camera apps. I clenched my jaw. Whatever he said or did, I couldn’t react and give these people more crap to post on the Mercia-Net. Blake walked across the room like he was in a grand ball about to ask the girl in the enchanted dress to dance. One of his brows rose, and a crooked smile curved his lips. It was obviously something he’d practiced in front of the mirror.

  My breaths became shallow, and I glanced down at his empty hands. He’d come unarmed, but a jug of water sat in the middle of my table, something he could upend over my head. And I hadn’t finished my carbonara, which he could use as a weapon of humiliation.

  Rita made a pained noise in her throat and curled her shoulders, trying to make herself look small. As much as I wanted to tell her to sit up and stop giving the bullies the reactions they craved, I couldn’t. Doing so would only draw more attention to Rita and make her return to eating sandwiches in her room. Instead, I rolled my eyes and faked a yawn.

  After what felt like an eternity, Blake reached our table, pulled out a chair, spun it around, and straddled it. He turned to my friend. “Hello, Rita,” he said in that deep, smoky voice. “It’s nice to see you dining with us.”

  She dipped her head and wrapped her arms around her chest.

  “What do you want?” I snapped.

  “I couldn’t help but notice you looking at us. At me, in particular.”

  “Can’t a girl admire the paintings on the wall without being accused of lechery?” I drawled.

  Blake leaned close, filling my nostrils with the intoxicating scent of sandalwood. “If there is anything you need,” he said in a low voice. “Anything, I’m at your service.”

  The rumble in his voice started a tremor between my legs, and I imagined what kind of services a guy like Blake might be able to provide. On my first day, he’d placed his hand on the small of my back and set my libido on fire, then when he’d pulled me into his side, I had become so giddy with desire I might have let him do anything to me in my room. I inhaled a deep breath and let it out in a long whoosh.

  Blake’s eyes flashed, and his gaze dropped to my lips. “Is there anything you want?”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice breathy.

  He leaned close. “Tell me.”

  I squeezed my legs together, blanked my mind, and put on my best irritated voice. “How about you go back to your table and stop interrupting my meal? My pasta’s getting cold, and there’s apple pie for dessert. I’d like to finish up so I can do my prep.”

  He had the nerve to flinch at my words. I blinked hard at the reaction. Was he so insecure that a rejection could affect him so much? Or was the flinch a ploy to lull me into thinking he was vulnerable?

  Charlotte sauntered over with her hands on her hips. “What are you doing with the trollop, Blake? Everyone knows she’s a gold-digging whore.”

  Blake straightened. “Trying to ascertain why she keeps looking at us.”

  “Actually,” I said in a voice loud enough to carry. “I was curious.”

  “About what?” Charlotte snapped.

  I tilted my head. “Does Charlotte have bad breath? She keeps wrinkling her nose.”

  Her cheeks turned bright red, and she rushed to the next table and grabbed their water jug. Before she could twist around and enact her plan, I leaped out of my seat, snatched my water jug and flung its contents into her face. I miscalculated somewhat, and water splattered over the front of her shirt, revealing a thick, red bra that looked more like a harness.

  Titillated laughter filled the room. I stood back and admired my work. It was good to see her humbled for once.

  “You bitch!” she screeched.

  I raised a shoulder. “Sorry, you looked like you needed cooling down.”

  Charlotte threw the water in my direction, but I jumped out of the way, letting it hit my pasta.

  “Give up on your stupid campaign.” I placed the jug back on the table. “You’re an annoying little mouse who can’t muster up the style or originality to become a mean girl.”

  “Y-you trollop!”

  “Says the girl looking like a contestant for a wet T-shirt contest,” I snapped. “Does the guild of hookers make red bras your size, or did you have to order it specially?”

  The dining hall erupted into laughter, and the best part was that I knew multiple spectators had
recorded Charlotte’s humiliation and would upload it on the Mercia-Net.

  Chapter 7

  Rita was right. The bullies escalated. Two mornings later, I was washing my hair in the shower, when my scalp felt like it had been doused with acid. Corrosive liquid seeped down my temple and into the seams of my eyelids. I screamed, “Rita!”

  There was no response. She was usually dressed and out of the door by first bell. I was on my own. A rush of icy panic shot through my veins, and I stuck my face under the spray of water. Before I could wash the liquid out of my eyes, the stream dribbled to a halt.

  A gasping sob escaped my throat. I’d threatened to throw ink in their eyes, and now, they meant to blind me! I scrambled out of the bath and groped around for the sink with trembling hands, breathing hard to stay calm. Panicking would only make me lose my sight. When my fingers met porcelain, I turned on the taps, pooled the warm water into my cupped hands, and splashed it onto my eyes. My scalp burned, and foul liquid poured down my shoulders and chest and back, but I ignored it. I had to protect my eyes.

  Moments later, the tap spluttered, and the water stopped. All the breath left my lungs in a scream. What did I do next? My wet hair slapped me across the cheek and burned my skin. I had to cover it up. I rushed blindly to the right side of the bathroom, where we hung towels on a heated rail, and wrapped the nearest one I could find around my hair. I used another towel to dab at the sensitive skin on my face, then I groped around for a robe and threw it on.

  By the time I stepped out of the bathroom, my face had dried, but my vision blurred.

  A male voice huffed out a laugh.

  I groped around for a weapon, but my hands only skimmed an empty table. “Who is that?”

  He laughed again.

  “I-I’m calling the police,” I said. “This is assault.”

  Footsteps trod across the wooden floor, then the door slammed shut. I screamed and rushed after him, but he turned the key in the lock. The bastard, whoever he was, had trapped me so the liquid could take effect and eventually burn out my eyes. They’d gone too far. They needed to die.

  I banged on the door. “Someone, help me!”

  Footsteps shuffled outside in the hallway, most likely the bullies standing around to gloat, but I had to keep calling for help, even if it meant giving them what they wanted. My eyes were too important.

  I slammed my fist on the wood over and over again, screaming, crying, pleading for someone to open the door and help me.

  “What’s wrong?” shouted a male voice. It sounded like Blake, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “There’s something in my eye. Open the door. I need to get to the infirmary.”

  He paused, presumably to laugh. “Have you tried washing it out?”

  “They’ve turned off the water.”

  “There’s plenty in the toilet bowl.”

  My nostrils flared. This was their plan all along. To make me so desperate for water, I’d plunge my hands into the toilet to wash my face. There was no point in continuing the conversation. They had trapped me, and I had only one option left if I wanted to save my sight.

  Pipes coughed and spluttered, and a stream of water gushed out of the taps. Relief burst through me like a geyser, and I rushed back into the bathroom, stood at the sink, and gathered the precious liquid between my cupped hands. The soothing water washed the tampered shampoo off my face, making me cry out my relief. When my vision cleared, I climbed back into the shower. Cold water streamed out, making me gasp, but I turned around, tilted my head back and let it wash away the doctored shampoo.

  Tears gathered in my eyes, providing them with much needed relief, and I let out gasping sobs. How could they go so far? I hadn’t done anything that warranted such a violent retaliation. These people were truly sick! Rita’s words returned to the forefront of my mind. She’d told me things would get worse, but I’d thought they’d focus on more humiliation, not maiming.

  I stood under the stream of cold water until my teeth chattered, and I’d lost all the sensation in my fingers and toes. Whatever they’d put in my shampoo had gone, but my eyes felt like they’d been rubbed with steel wool. I shut off the water, climbed out of the shower, and reached for a towel. There were none on the rack, none on the door hook, and none on the floor. A whimper reverberated in my throat. Someone must have come in while I was showering and stolen all the towels.

  A cold rage surged through my veins. I hated them. Hated them with a passion. These people were truly evil, and the worst part was that there was nobody to stop them. I wrapped my arms around my middle and shivered. What was I going to do now?

  The door leading to the hallway clicked shut, and I rushed out of the bathroom. The edges around my vision blurred, but I could see that no-one was in the room, and they hadn’t left a towel for me, either. There was only one thing I could do: pull the sheets off my bed and use them to dry myself off.

  It took an hour for sensation to return to my fingers, and I dried my hair as best as I could, put on my regulation sweatshirt and track pants, then tried the door. It opened. The hallway was deserted. I’d already missed the first period, and I expected everyone was in class. I eased myself down the stairs, walked through the hallway, and knocked on the housemaster’s door.

  “Enter,” said a deep voice.

  I stepped inside. Mr. Jenkins sat behind his desk, looking through a pile of papers. His thick mane of silvery hair flopped over his face. When I cleared my throat, he glanced up and frowned. “What can I do for you, Miss…?”

  “Hobson,” I rasped out through a throat raw from screaming. Couldn’t he even remember me from when Blake had introduced us on our first day?

  “Ah. The American.” There was no contempt in his voice, and he gestured at the chair in front of his desk. “Do take a seat.” The older man leaned forward, waiting for me to talk.

  I coughed. “Someone put something in my shampoo this morning and shut off the water in my room.”

  His brows drew together. “Are you sure? Students don’t have access to the plumbing.”

  “That’s what happened,” I replied.

  “Do you know who might have done this?”

  “Edward Mercia, Blake Simpson-West, Charlotte Underwood, and their friends.”

  Mr. Jenkins slumped back into his seat. “If Mr. Mercia is involved, there isn’t much I can do about it, I’m afraid.”

  “What?” The word was more gasp than speech. I widened my eyes, trying to get a better look at the housemaster’s expression. From the sag of his posture, he seemed defeated. There was no amusement or defiance in his eyes, just the kind of apathy a person developed in the face of an overwhelming situation they couldn’t control. “Mercia threatened my life yesterday. Now it looks like he’ll stoop to any level to make me leave.”

  The housemaster glanced away. “I’m sorry, but his family practically owns the school.”

  “Mercia Academy is a charity.”

  “Which exists because of the benevolence of the Duke of Mercia’s estate. Without it, where would we hold lessons?” He reached for a stack of papers and pretended to sort them. “You may speak with the headmaster, but he’ll give you the same answer.”

  “So, Edward Mercia is free to do as he pleases?” I spat. “Even terrorize and maim?”

  Mr. Jenkins dipped his head. “There is always one authority he can’t easily influence.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “Who?”

  “God.”

  Shooting out of my seat, I yelled, “So, I should pray for a thunderbolt to strike him dead?” Angry blotches appeared on the man’s face, and he opened his mouth to utter a rebuke, but I cut him off and headed out of the door. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll know not to come here the next time they try to kill me.”

  I slammed the door and stormed through the downstairs hallway. Mr. Jenkins was right about one thing. There was another authority that wouldn’t be as ineffective as him: the police. I took the stairs two at a time, rushed down my hallway
and opened the door. Someone had made the bed. When I stepped into the bathroom, all the towels were back on the rack. I threw open the shower curtain to find the tampered shampoo was replaced by an unfamiliar British brand.

  All the determination drained out of me in a wave of helplessness that made my legs buckle. I sat on the edge of the bath and rested my hands in my head. The bastards had even stolen my evidence.

  I stayed in the bathroom, numb, hoarse and impotent with rage for hours. How could I report something that didn’t look like it had happened? My vision had cleared, and the redness in my eyes faded into an innocuous pink. Whatever they’d put in the shampoo hadn’t actually been as harmful as I’d thought. If I retaliated by throwing hot soup into their faces, I’d be the one facing charges. I shook my head. Splashing people with water was acceptable but scalding them was taking things too far.

  At lunchtime, Rita stepped into the room and pushed the bathroom door ajar. “Why weren’t you in classes this—?” She clapped her hands over her mouth. “You’ve been crying. What’s wrong?”

  Everything spilled out in a rush of emotion. Rita sat next to me on the rim of the bathtub and wrapped her thin arms around my back, giving me a measure of comfort. She listened to everything without any reminder that she’d warned me about the bullies’ viciousness.

  It was the psychological aspect of the trick that had hurt most. Turning off the water to heighten my panic, then leaving me to pound at the door for their amusement, only to take away the towels when they finally granted me cold water. If they hadn’t mistimed the return of the plumbing, they might have caught me washing my face in the toilet. I hadn’t thought them capable of such cruelty.

  She took my hand and guided me out of the bathroom and to the bed. “What are you going to do?”