by Sofia Daniel
Cruel Hearts
Knights of Templar Academy Book Two
Sofia Daniel
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
Chapter 31
From Sofia Daniel
Chapter 1
Sometimes it felt like no matter how far a girl traveled, no matter how much she changed, things always remained the same.
What was it? Three months ago, the police dragged me off in the back of a car on suspicion of attempted murder. Fast forward to now, and I found myself in the same position.
Except I was in Scotland. And I hadn’t killed anyone—yet. Oh, and I sat in the back of a police van. I might have considered that an upgrade if the wretched bastard responsible for my predicament wasn’t sitting next to me and trying to catch my attention.
The van sped down the highway, presumably to the Glasgow police station, the headquarters of the drug squad. I seriously doubted that the small-town police in Templar could handle a cocaine bust. The van didn’t have windows, only a glimpse of the windscreen I caught through the mesh of thick wire and over the shoulders of the two police officers speeding away from the academy.
“Lilah,” Maxwell whispered. At least I thought it was Maxwell. Without the tattoos and piercings, he looked exactly like Kendrick.
I stared down at where the dressing gown someone had shoved over my naked body exposed a bare knee. Apparently, alleged cocaine barons didn’t deserve the dignity of a bra and knickers, even if they were just seventeen.
“Lilah.”
My jaws clenched. Weren’t the police supposed to transport suspects separately? You know, so they didn’t collude on the long journey to the station to get their stories straight?
“Hey.” The asshole scooted across the bench in his boxers.
My hands curled into fists and trembled like they were going to erupt. If my wrists weren’t cuffed together, I would break his pretty nose.
“I know you can hear me.”
My head snapped up. “What the fuck do you want?”
The worry lines on his face smoothed out. As if he’d been concerned about my welfare. The wanker leaned into my side and parted his lips to speak.
Before he got a chance, I snapped, “Who are you?”
He had the nerve to look hurt. Because deep-down, boys who disguised themselves as their identical twins wanted their victims to look into the heart and see them, not the person they’d masqueraded as for goodness knows how many weeks.
After a moment of soothing his battered ego, he said, “Max.”
I swallowed back the lump in my throat and pushed away the questions surfacing to the forefront of my mind. Like, when did he make the switch-over? Had it been as early as the time ‘Kendrick’ had walked out of Elizabeth’s presentation in disgust? Who had taken me to the chapel and chased after me when I’d raged about Father Neapolitan’s sermon on prostitutes and the Prodigal Son?
This wasn’t the kind of lie I could forgive. It was a premeditated, fundamental falsehood that he and Elizabeth had set up to get me into this exact position. Cuffed, humiliated, and likely expelled from Templar Academy.
I glowered into his gray eyes. “What do you want?”
“Are you alright?”
A laugh bubbled to the back of my throat, harsh and bitter and full of bile. “I’m in the back of a police van on the way to prison. How do you think I’m feeling?”
“Pissed off, I’d imagine.” Straightening, he leaned back against the van’s metal wall. “Elizabeth crossed me, too.”
“Am I supposed to feel bad for you?”
He scowled. The bastard actually thought he and I should commiserate on the scourge that was Elizabeth Liddell. If Maxwell hadn’t boasted about fucking me during the grand backstabbing, he would be clinking champagne with Lizard Breath and her merry knights.
I shook my head. Maxwell probably thought Elizabeth’s last-minute betrayal could be a bonding moment.
“Lilah,” he said. “I’m—”
Something inside me snapped. If this was an apology, it was several weeks too late. Up until we stepped out of the Uber, I might have forgiven him for the lies, but now? After the sex under false pretenses and the drug bust? No way.
I leaned into the bars separating our traveling cell from the front seats of the van, where a police woman chatted with the driver in a low voice.
“Could I change vehicles, please?” I asked.
Bitch could have at least taken off her helmet before she rolled her eyes. Or given me a verbal answer. What the fuck was her problem?
This journey was interminable, but at least what I could see of the scenery was nice. Stars twinkled in the cloudless, black sky, and the moon backlit the craggy mountaintops. Nice and romantic, unlike my current situation.
“I can’t go to prison,” Maxwell moaned.
“But it’s good enough for me?” I snapped.
Maxwell didn’t answer. Probably because anything he said now would be an admission that he had spent the past few weeks in disguise, setting me up for this moment. Everything he said or did as his brother had been designed to have the police drag me away from the academy in disgrace.
The worst part was that it had been completely unnecessary. Elizabeth or one of her sycophantic knights could have snuck into my room, planted the cocaine, called the cops, and sat back to watch the mayhem. But they’d designed this for maximum carnage. They had wanted me to fall in love with ‘Kendrick’, only to find out that he was my betrayer.
Scratch that. The worst part of the plan was to dredge up past history and share my location with those who had genuine grievances against me. Like my stepfather and ex-boyfriend, both of whom I’d gotten arrested for drugs.
I turned to Maxwell, who hunched in his boxers. A little part of me delighted that he hadn’t been allowed the dignity of shoes or a shirt or even pants, but that’s what a person got for strutting out in their underwear to gloat about having shagged a girl before shafting her.
“Was it you who contacted Billy Hancock?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “I didn’t even know those thugs would be at the fashion show.”
A weary breath heaved out of my lungs. Why was I even asking him questions when he’d proven himself the most prolific liar since Pinocchio and Keyser Söze?
“So, what was the plan?” I asked. “Dinner at the Glaswegian then a drug bust?”
He stared into his clasped hands, not offering me a reply.
Realization hit me upside the head like a bushel of rotten fish. “There was no reservation, was there?”
Maxwell remained silent. His lack of response was an admission that every word, without exception, that had slithered from his lips had been a lie.
I couldn’t even get upset. This was one of those situations where a blanket of shock had wrapped around my heart, leaving me to operate on survival instincts and fury.
Right now, I was in the biggest trouble of my life. Dwelling on who shagged who under false pretenses was a waste of time. Someone had planted a fuck-load of cocaine in my wardrobe and convinced the police to raid my room. While I was naked and still in it.
The fact that a bunch of villains from Richley had turned up at the fashion show and the fact that my details were all over the police database wasn’t helping my predicament. I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees.
They’d assign me a duty solicitor, but they were crap. The more times I got arrested, the longer it took the solicitors to get up to speed with my sordid history. And half the time they just bluffed their way through the interviews or stayed silent.
I had no money to hire a criminal lawyer and no knowledge of the good law firms in Scotland. A frustrated breath huffed out of my nostrils. I was screwed. In more than one sense of the word.
A jolt of panic shot through my heart.
Mr. Burgh.
My throat thickened. Someone would have told him by now. Of course, they would. He was the headmaster of the academy, and my grandfather. Trepidation crawled across my skin like an army of armored ants each holding sharp-as-needles trekking poles.
Mother had put him and his late wife through a bunch of scandals—the teenage pregnancy, not revealing the identity of the father, and stealing a precious heirloom from the Templar estate—now I was doing the same.
I imagined Mr. Burgh thought history was repeating itself in glorious technicolor. All I needed was for Maxwell to admit he’d sabotaged the condom to get me pregnant, and this would be the fate Mother faced eighteen years ago.
Shit.
“Lilah.”
I was too lost in my own thoughts to bristle. For the first time in my life, I had a father figure, one I longed to impress. These past few weeks of accompanying Mr. Burgh to the village and having him proudly proclaim his long-lost granddaughter to everyone had been a dream. As had the cozy dinners and fireside chats.
My stomach sank to my feet like a rusty anchor.
This arrest would break Mr. Burgh’s heart.
I had plenty of time to dwell on that fact on the long journey to the police station.
Chapter 2
Thank fuck that the Glasgow cop-shop had a walled-off bay at the back for delivering prisoners. Because it was a Friday night, prime time for police stations, and I would have been mortified if they had dragged me naked, save for a precarious dressing gown, through the hordes of drunks and revelers.
Maxwell was the first to exit, clad in a pair of white boxer briefs that hugged his muscular ass. I might have felt sorry for the guy if he hadn’t caused my downfall. He had to bend over double not to bash his head on the low, metallic ceiling of the van.
“Out you get,” said the policewoman.
The front of my dressing gown gaped open as I bent forward to exit. With my wrists cuffed together and unable to stretch out an arm for balance, I took my sweet time descending the steps.
My bare feet froze against the cold tarmac. It was only a dozen steps, but I cursed the shitty psychological tactics that caused them not to offer me a pair of slippers. We followed Maxwell and the policeman to a heavy, metal door with a huge camera and waited to be buzzed in.
Maxwell got processed first by the duty sergeant, who took down his details and gestured for the policeman to take him for fingerprinting.
“Don’t bother taking my prints,” I muttered. “They’re already in the system.”
“Were you charged?”
“They were dropped.”
“Then the system would have deleted your details.”
My spine straightened. That was good to know.
We stepped into another room where a biometric machine that reminded me of an over-engineered photocopier scanned my entire hand. The policewoman had even told me to turn my head away from the glare. Classy. In good old Richley, they’d taken fingerprints the old-fashioned way. And they hadn’t offered me a wet wipe to remove the ink.
“This way.” She guided me out of the scanner room.
I glanced at the sign that said CUSTODY SUITE, fully expecting to be thrown in a cell to await the duty solicitor. Instead, the policewoman helped to straighten my gown before walking me to a windowless interview room.
This one was designed to incite maximum despair. A charcoal-gray carpet, a thin layer of gray paint over breeze blocks, and polystyrene ceiling tiles. A plastic table stood wedged against a wall with three chairs.
I turned around and gaped at her through the protective helmet, wondering if I’d seen those pristinely applied false eyelashes before. “Don’t I get a solicitor?”
Without a word, she shoved me in the back, making me stumble inside. Then she shut the door and turned the lock.
“What if there’s a fire?” I shouted at the door.
The policewoman said nothing. Not that I expected her to reply.
Since there was a storage heater under the table, I trudged across the room and flung myself into the chair to warm my toes. The gentle heat did nothing to thaw out the chill on my soles, but I bounced on the balls of my feet to get the circulation going.
Just as my feet started to tingle, the door opened and a tall, thin man stood in the doorway. He wore an Aran v-neck sweater over his shirt and tie, an indication that the Glasgow police station wasn’t heated enough for a minor in a dressing gown.
“Good evening, Miss Hancock,” he said in a London accent. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Cromar, and you’re in a wee bit of trouble.”
Right now, I wanted to fold my arms across my chest and affect a posture of casual nonchalance. Like I’d played this cat-and-mouse game so many times with the police that it had become boring. But handcuffs still held my wrists together. Fuck knew why. And it was just me and this super-high-ranking detective, which wasn’t right. The last time I’d been arrested on suspicion of attempted murder, they’d only brought out a detective sergeant and a constable.
“Where’s my brief?” I snapped.
He frowned and stepped into the room. “What makes you think you’re entitled to a duty solicitor?”
“You’ve arrested me, haven’t you? I know my rights.”
Keeping his eyes fixed on mine, DCI Cromar strode to the opposite side of the table. He spun the chair around, straddled it, and placed his forearms on the edge of the backrest. Like he was some kind of superhero.
Unease settled in my stomach like a flock of crash-landing butterflies, and I raised my forearms to my chest to hold the edges of my gown together.
“We’re going to have a wee chat,” he said. “Off the record. And if you give me the information I want, I can make this problem go away.”
“What’s this about?” I asked.
“Why did you return to Scotland? To deal cocaine, or is there another reason?”
Intimidation. An annoyed breath huffed out from my nostrils. Nothing I said right now would be admissible in court, but they were looking for intelligence.
Leaning forward, I met the man’s piggy, brown eyes. “What is this? An attempt to make me snitch so you can make a bigger arrest?”
“You tell me,” he replied.
“Here’s what I can tell you,” I spat. “A bunch of assholes from my academy placed a packet of goodness-knows-what in my wardrobe and called the police.”
His brows rose. “‘Goodness-knows-what’ is the technical term for?”
“I’ll be fucked if I know.” And I’d be fucked if I told him it was cocaine. Even if one of the arresting officers had identified it as such, making an admission was halfway to a confession.
He rocked forward on the chair’s back legs, practically leaning across the table. “What was William Hancock doing in the Glasgow City Chambers?”
I raised a shoulder.
“
Nicola Sturgeon, Iain Livingstone, and Camden Liddell were in attendance,” he said.
“I know the last name is the Archbishop of Scotland, but I don’t know the others.”
DCI Cromar bared his teeth. “Camden Liddell is the Deputy Chief Constable of Police Scotland.”
All the bravado drained out of me along with all the blood in my face. Elizabeth was connected. With a relative so high up in the police, it was no wonder she had been able to dig up dirt about me. This cat-and-mouse-game now felt like the spring had already triggered and trapped me under the bar.
Shifting uncomfortably on the plastic seat, I asked, “Have you finished with me, Detective?”
A muscle ticked on the side of his jaw. “It’s Detective Chief Inspector.”
I gave him my blandest stare. This conversation wasn’t about the cocaine planted in my room. He wanted me to turn informant on a bunch of people who already thirsted for my blood. If I gave evidence against Billy Hancock in court, I may as well order my own coffin.
DCI Cromar stared at me for several moments, and I stared back. This informal chat was over, and I was ready to go to my cell. He eased himself off the chair and strolled to the door, where a different female police officer from the one in the van waited. From the worry lines on the woman’s face, she had fretted about the breakdown in police protocol.
I chewed the inside of my lip. Maybe I could use that to my advantage if the duty solicitor was any good.
The new policewoman led me to the custody suite, a magnolia hallway of heavy, teal doors. She unlocked mine with a set of keys and pushed it open, revealing a room barely large enough to house a cot and a seatless toilet. A woman sat on the cot, staring at the hole in her sagging stockings. She wore a three-layered, denim skirt and a matching bolero that did nothing to cover the red bra showing under her blue camisole top.
