Cruel Games: A Reverse Harem High School Bully Romance (Knights of Templar Academy Book 1)

by Sofia Daniel

  Sweat beaded on my brow, and my throat made several convulsing spasms. These two people could be my last chance before Sammy’s friends broke into the house to find me. But if they’d already surrounded the house as Mother had implied, they might abduct me right under Miss Reddy and the headmaster’s noses.

  I leaned against the white wall of the sewing room and looked at the ceiling for inspiration. Bloody hell was I in a pickle. A pickle in the middle of a cheese, ham, and piccalilli sandwich.

  “Miss Hancock?”

  The lack of confidence in Miss Reddy’s voice made my stomach drop. She sounded like someone about to leave. A shuddering breath escaped my lips. My chances of escaping Sammy’s house unscathed were probably better with witnesses. Especially credible, well-dressed people like a social worker and the headmaster of a prestigious academy.

  “Delilah?” shouted a man with a Scottish accent.

  I frowned. Very few people knew me by that name. Perhaps the social worker had given it to him when she’d completed my application.

  “Are you there?” he asked.

  “Yes!” the word slipped from my lips of their own volition.

  I pulled myself to my feet and scrambled out of the sewing room and into the hallway. As I crouched at the top of the stairs, I peered through the stained-glass windows. Miss Reddy’s petite form stood next to a hunched figure who held open the letterbox.

  “Is that Mr. Burgh?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” the Scottish man replied. “Will you let us in for a chat?”

  “Umm…” I bit down on my lip, dashed to our bedroom, a sumptuous room with an iron four-poster draped with curtains of the most gorgeous, burgundy silk. I grabbed the canister of illegal pepper spray stashed under my side of the mattress and darted back into the upstairs landing. “Hold on a second.”

  Mr. Burgh straightened out into a tall, gangly-looking figure.

  There probably wasn’t enough time to pack, and I doubted that anything in my wardrobe would be suitable for a school in Scotland. It was time to leave before Sammy’s friends surrounded the house—if they hadn’t done so already.

  As I galloped down the stairs, the splintering of a window frame made my steps falter. Someone was breaking into the house, and I didn’t need a fancy education to guess who. I pressed down on the pepper spray nozzle, and it gave a reassuring hiss. If anyone laid a finger on me, I would show no mercy.

  The letterbox swung open again, this time by Ms. Reddy. “Miss Hancock?”

  “Coming!” I reached the bottom of the stairs, unlatched the front door and flung it open.

  Mr. Burgh was a middle-aged man with startling, sapphire eyes that made mine look like seawater. His silver hair hung back in gentle waves, complemented by a Sean Connery beard cropped close to his angular face. His handsome features morphed from elation to horror as his gaze swung from me to something over my shoulder.

  Spinning around, I sprayed a cloud of pepper spray into the face of an approaching man. He’d covered his face with a balaclava, but those broad shoulders and loping gait could only belong to Crawford, one of Sammy’s best friends.

  He ground to a skidding stop and roared, “Fucking hell!”

  Miss Reddy screamed and clapped a hand over her mouth.

  The headmaster wrapped a large hand around my bicep and yanked me out of the house.

  “I have no idea what’s going on,” he said. “But this is no safe environment for an up-and-coming young lady. You must accompany me to Templar Academy at once!”

  Chapter 3

  Crawford ripped off his balaclava and thrashed about blindly. If you were surrounded by a rival gang on a boozy Friday night gone wrong, Crawford was the kind of bloke would wade through the crowds to fight in your corner. Alone and with eyefuls of pepper spray, he was kind of helpless.

  As Mr. Burgh dragged me through the threshold of the house, I ducked one of Crawford’s massive arms. “Sorry.”

  “B-bloody bitch!” he snarled.

  With Ms. Reddy in the lead, we rushed through the gangway between the his-and her’s BMWs, toward the social worker’s little red Vauxhall Corsa. I glanced around the headmaster’s thin frame at the rest of Beddington Road.

  To our left, the old lady who lived at number ten watered the miniature roses on her window boxes, and to our right, a black guy with short dreads delivered an Amazon box to the family at number eighteen.

  By the time I’d turned around to check on Crawford, Mr. Burgh had opened the Corsa’s back door and shoved me inside. I landed with a welcome thud. The headmaster flung his own door open and apparated into the front passenger seat.

  Ms. Reddy started the engine and tore down Beddington Road at top speed, leaving the rest of us to scramble with our seat belts. “What the bloody hell was that?”

  I twisted around in my seat to find Crawford between the BMWs rubbing his eyes. “Sammy’s one-man revenge squad.”

  “You’re coming with me to Templar Academy,” said the headmaster, sounding like James Bond—the Scottish version—facing down a villain.

  My brows rose. Who did he think he was, my dad?

  “What are your options, Delilah?” he continued. “You’ve gotten in with the wrong crowd and offended the wrong people. Not to mention assaulting a man with a knife.”

  Irritation prickled my skin. Until the punch in the face, Sammy had been a decent boyfriend. And he sold weed, not the hard stuff that got people killed.

  The wrong crowd was people like my shitty stepfather. I tapped at the tender skin around my cheekbone and sighed. And now, I guess I could add Sammy to the ‘wrong crowd’ list.

  The car passed the Velvet Lounge, which had only just reopened after the gas leak that killed Alice, Steph, Kate, and Leah. A lump formed in my throat. I couldn’t even stay for the memorial. Mr. Burgh was partly right. There was nothing for me in Richley. And Mother wouldn’t have me back. Even if she did, Billy was getting out of prison in mere weeks.

  Sammy had set his loyal watchdog to grab me, and most of my friends were Sammy’s as well. They’d all take his side. No one liked snitches. And they considered those who called nine-nine-nine and leaving the door to a cannabis farm open the worst of betrayers.

  Blowing out a long breath, I said a mental goodbye to the town center’s pubs and clubs—all the places Sammy and I had enjoyed together.

  Ms. Reddy stopped the car outside Richley station. “It was wonderful to meet you, Mr. Burgh. Please keep us updated on Lilah’s progress.” She turned around and gave me a dazzling smile. “Good luck at Templar Academy!”

  “Thanks.” I opened the door and stepped out onto the street.

  The old me would have kicked up a little more of a fuss, but experience told me that the rest of Sammy’s friends would visit sometime this evening.

  Mr. Burgh thanked the social worker and stepped out of the car. He swung his arm out in that ‘after you’ motion the gents used on TV, and we walked into the station.

  The scent of Burger King wafting in from the concession made my mouth water, and I eyed the display of juicy-looking burgers in the window. The food at the juvenile detention center had been one step up from slop. Barely edible and devoid of taste.

  “Where are we going?” I stared up into his bearded face.

  “Gatwick Airport first. Then we’ll fly the rest of the journey.”

  Swallowing hard, I dropped my gaze to my feet. This would be my first trip on a plane. Mother and Billy went to Benidorm all the time when I was little, choosing to leave me with Mrs. Roundtree, a childminder who fed me nothing but strawberry jam sandwiches. They’d return all tanned and relaxed and full of good humor.

  I really didn’t mind being left out. Mrs. Roundtree’s house and garden were overrun with kids and not oversized dogs like the ones Billy kept. Those times I spent with the woman were a welcome holiday for me, too.

  Mr. Burgh bought our tickets at the machine, and then we boarded a sleek, Gatwick Express train that sped us through the co
untryside toward the airport.

  I chose a table seat, and he sat opposite, his long fingers tapping on a discarded copy of The Metro, one of those free papers crammed with more adverts than actual news.

  “How was the juvenile detention center?” he asked in a low voice.

  I raised a shoulder, thinking about the sheer number of fights that broke out despite the regimental structure of the day. “Rough. Like how I imagine a girl’s boarding school.”

  His silver brows drew together. “My academy has a mixture of male and female students, and everyone comports themselves like ladies and gentlemen. Our disciplinary systems will iron out any rough behaviors.”

  I raised my brows. “You realize I only went in the car to escape that bloke?”

  “Aren’t you coming with me?”

  “Haven’t decided yet.” I folded my arms across my chest and stared at the concrete industrial estates whizzing past out of the window.

  Beyond them were few high-rise buildings from when Richley tried to break away from London and become a city. Just from its name, Templar Academy sounded dull and full of snobs.

  Mr. Burgh leaned across the table. “Where else will you go if not with me?”

  “Kingston has good schools, same with Bromley, Croydon, and Sutton.”

  “All of which are within driving distance of Richley!” he hissed.

  I reared back and scowled into his dazzling, blue eyes. The old man was getting unusually riled up for someone he’d only just met.

  “Delilah,” he said.

  “Lilah,” I snapped. “No one calls me that.”

  “Very well,” he said between clenched teeth. “Lilah. London isn’t safe for you.”

  “How did you find out about me?”

  The annoyance slid off his face, and he tilted his head to the side. “Pardon?”

  “I mean, with all the juvenile delinquents out there, why did you pick me?” I leaned forward and gave him a saucy wink. “It was my mugshot, wasn’t it?”

  Mr. Burgh’s face went slack, as though I’d turned the air blue with a barrage of swear words. He stared at me with a level of disbelief that sent ants crawling through my brain.

  What the fuck was his problem? It had only been a joke. What was he, religious?

  I turned back to the window and watched the train pass the M25 motorway that formed the border of Richley. Swathes of green countryside stretched out into infinity, illuminated by an afternoon sun that hung halfway toward the horizon. I peered at the stunned old man and tried not to shrink into my seat. It wasn’t like I needed the approval of a stranger.

  The train stopped at another station, and a group of people with suitcases boarded.

  After several moments of silence, Mr. Burgh said, “Your mother contacted me soon after your arrest, saying she was worried for your life.”

  My mouth dropped open. Mother and I had barely spoken since Billy’s arrest. She’d kicked me out, left me to the mercies of foster care, hadn’t intervened when I’d reported one of the foster dads for coming to my room at night, and hadn’t said a word when I’d moved in with a twenty-five-year-old Sammy at the age of fifteen. Why the hell did she care for my welfare now?

  “What did she say?” I whispered.

  “That girls like you end up in one of five ways. Dead, imprisoned, battered, hooked on drugs, or prostitutes.”

  Angry heat rose to my cheeks. I might have been punched in the face by my ex, enjoyed the odd joint, and spent a few days in a juvenile detention center, but neither of them knew me. Mother could hardly talk, considering she snorted coke and stayed with Billy Hancock even when he slapped her about.

  I wasn’t anything like her. The moment Sammy had done the same to me, I’d lashed out.

  “When I’m eighteen, I’ll go to the London College of Fashion. I’ve got the grades. As and Bs in my GCSEs.” These were the exams kids did at age sixteen. I’d done the best out of everyone in the school, thanks to those evenings spent revising in the sewing room while Sammy went out with the lads.

  “Grade A in Art and Design, Business Studies, and Design and Technology.” Mr. Burgh counted off my results on his long fingers. “Bs in the other subjects. If you had studied at my academy, you would have achieved A-stars.”

  “So?”

  “What do you want to do with your life?” he asked.

  “Start my own fashion label.”

  His gaze raked my leather jacket and machine-embroidered tank top. My lips tightened. It wasn’t as if the police had allowed me to wear my best when they’d dragged me out of Sammy’s place on suspicion of attempted murder.

  Mr. Burgh pinched the bridge of his nose. “We have a well-equipped Fashion and Textiles department, run by Miss. Benson, who retired from Dior. She also runs the after-school tailoring club. Will you at least come to the academy and meet her?”

  I straightened. What did I have to lose? It wasn’t as if I had a home or a source of income anymore. If they were all dickheads, I still had enough time and money to return to London. “Alright. I’ll take a look.”

  Chapter 4

  A plane ride later, we reached Glasgow, which was significantly colder than London. I stopped off at the airport store and bought a new SIM card, in case anyone wanted to track my movement.

  Outside the airport, a red-headed man with a bushy, auburn beard picked us up in a jeep. He reminded me of a better-fed version of Groundskeeper Willie with round, ruddy cheeks.

  “Mr. McGarr,” said the headmaster. “May I introduce you to Miss Hancock, who has come to join us from London.”

  His thick brows rose, and he encased my hand in his meaty paw and pumped it up and down. “London?” The rest of what he said was gibberish to my unaccustomed ears, but the last words he said was, “Good to meet ye, lass!”

  “Thanks,” I said, my stomach fluttering with butterflies. “It’s good to meet you, too.”

  The headmaster, who I suspected was thoroughly fed up with my company, sat in front with Mr. McGarr and launched into an enthusiastic conversation about the grounds. I could barely understand a word the men said, as Mr. Burgh’s accent thickened to match the other man’s.

  I slumped in the leather back seat, thinking we’d stop at Glasgow town center, as I had pictured Templar Academy being in the middle of the action or at least on the outskirts. Instead, Mr. McGarr sped through highways, which bisected a craggy mountain landscape that would have looked amazing on a calendar or a TV screen.

  After several minutes, my stomach churned. Where in the holy highlands were these two strange men taking me? I leaned forward and said, “Excuse me?”

  “Miss Hancock.” The headmaster reverted to plain English. “Do not interrupt the conversations of your elders.”

  The red-haired man sent me a friendly wink through the rearview mirror like I was the naughtiest girl in the Kingdom of Naughty.

  Ignoring him, I glowered at the back of Mr. Burgh’s silver head. “Where are we going?”

  “To the academy,” he enunciated his words the way some people did when giving directions to lost and bewildered tourists.

  “How far is this academy from Glasgow?” I asked.

  “Eighty miles, more or less,” said Mr. McGarr. After listening to the man speak for so long, my brain had started to parse his words.

  “Right.” Clenching my teeth, I stared into my lap. I only had myself to blame for assuming the academy was accessible by public transport. If Mother had paid for my place, she would probably tell them to hold me there until I turned eighteen.

  Over an hour later, the jeep turned into a series of increasingly smaller highways until we reached a one-track road bordered by tall hedgerows. We passed through a gatehouse consisting of two squat buildings like something out of Downton Abbey. Behind them stood a row of oaks on either side of the road that boarded us like soldiers forming a saber arch at a wedding.

  My heart sped up. This was really… fancy.

  I had to blink several times to make sure I
hadn’t fallen asleep and dreamed up a Disney cartoon. With its manicured gardens, limestone exterior, and rounded towers topped by tall spires, the castle we approached looked like something out of a fairytale.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mr. Burgh turned around, his blue eyes twinkling. “After the great fire in 1904, a French architect rebuilt the castle in the style of a chateau.”

  “Aye,” added Mr. McGarr. “They modeled the gardens after Versailles. This is our French oasis within the heart of Scotland.”

  As the jeep pulled into the courtyard outside the castle, my eyes roved the tall, paneled windows, the gorgeous clocktower, and the enormous, arched entrance. Above it were floor-to-ceiling windows behind a balcony carved of stone. I wasn’t ashamed to admit it, but the place was so breathtaking, a gasp slipped from my lips.

  Tears stung the backs of my eyes, and my throat thickened. After years of pretending I didn’t exist, Mother had arranged all this… For me?

  Mr. McGarr stopped the jeep outside the castle’s wooden, double doors. My heart pounded a rapid beat, and my throat dried as though I’d accidentally swallowed blotting powder. What had Mother been thinking? I didn’t belong in a fairytale palace stuffed with kids born with silver spoons up their asses.

  The headmaster stepped out of the vehicle and opened my door, letting in cool, juniper-scented air. “Out you get.”

  Inhaling a deep, fortifying breath, I unfastened my seatbelt and swung both legs out of the car, just like I’d read in an article about how to exit a limousine. My feet landed on gravel, and I straightened.

  With a shouted goodbye, Mr. McGarr drove off down a track that led further into the grounds, leaving my back exposed.

  “Nervous?” The headmaster’s silver brows rose.

  “No.” It was all I could muster up in such unfamiliar territory. “Where are all the students, then?”

  He gave me an unusually warm smile and gestured for me to walk with him. “The front of the building is out of bounds during the week.”