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

by Sofia Daniel

  If I played things right, Templar Academy could be a fresh start. A place where I could focus on my dreams of setting up my own dress label and leave behind a world of crime.

  I turned around and groped for a light switch. I found a dimmer instead. After twisting on the lights, they illuminated a circular room decorated in ivory and silver furnishings. A double bed took pride of place with a tall, quilted headboard.

  My mouth dropped open. The room was spectacular. I turned around to find a large white desk settled between two tall windows that offered a view of a landscaped garden with fairy lights that reflected on a pond adorned with lily pads.

  Giddy warmth flooded my chest. I pulled out my phone and stared at the screen, wondering if I should call Mother and thank her for this wonderful gift.

  After changing my SIM card, I clicked the icon that speed-dialed her number, but she didn’t pick up. I thought about calling her from my old number, but it would go straight to voicemail. She’d blocked me shortly after she had kicked me out for getting Billy Hancock arrested.

  I threw myself face-down on a mattress that felt like clouds. The faint scent of lavender wafted out from the sheets. This was my own personal paradise, and I wouldn’t do a thing to spoil it.

  And if Elizabeth and her lapdog, Kendrick, tried to run me out of the academy, they’d soon find that they had messed with the wrong person.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning, the ring of a church bell reverberated in my ears, pulling me out of an easily forgotten dream. Between the soft, feather comforter and a mattress topper of the same material, I had slept like I’d been hugged by clouds.

  So, this was what it felt to be unencumbered. To sleep without the constant dread of the police raiding the basement, without Sammy snoring in my ear, or his erection poking into my ass.

  Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, just like in a fairytale. This was a long way from the hard beds and shrill bells of the juvenile detention center.

  If this was how all the students slept, it was no wonder they’d gotten the fantastic grades old Mr. Burgh had mentioned.

  I reached out and checked my phone — six o’clock. Way too early, considering breakfast ended at eight-thirty. Then I closed my eyes, ready to doze until the last minute. It wasn’t like I had any homework.

  About an hour later, a sharp rap on the door broke me out of my slumber.

  Mrs. Campbell’s voice said, “Miss Hancock?”

  If I ignored her, she would go away.

  The handle turned, and I sat upright, clutching the sheet to my bare chest. “What?”

  The older woman bustled inside, followed by two younger women who wore the black-and-white uniforms of domestic staff. Each carried bundles of clothing.

  “Good morning, my dear! I’ve brought your supplies. The headmaster says we should kit you out with everything.” She placed a thin box on the desk.

  My eyes bulged. “Is that a laptop?”

  “Of course.” She stepped back. “How else will you complete your homework?”

  Another pair of women stepped into the room, each holding bags of books. One of them slung a leather satchel over her shoulder. My mouth gaped open. How had they organized everything so quickly?

  I shook my head, not quite believing my eyes. In Disney cartoons, it was usually a group of innocent animals that provided the beleaguered heroine with goodies.

  Right now, four strange women were filling my drawers and shelves with clothes and books and other school supplies, while a fifth directed their actions like a conductor.

  Mrs. Campbells’ gaze flicked over my bare shoulders. “I’ll arrange the appropriate nightwear. Which do you prefer, gowns or pajamas?”

  “Silk teddies,” the word slipped from my lips before I could stop them.

  Pursing her lips, she turned to one of her assistants. “Go to the stores and fetch four nightgowns—two summer-weight and two winter weight—in Miss Hancock’s size, please.”

  The woman scurried away. Moments later, the others finished and left my room with Mrs. Campbell on their heels. The clock tower rang, signifying it was seven. There was no way I could get back to sleep after that hive of activity. I swung my legs out of bed and pulled open the underwear drawer.

  Everything was virginal white. From the cotton knickers that looked more like gym shorts, to the sports bras. They’d even supplied me with sanitary towels about as thick as my duvet.

  Blowing out a breath, I pushed my platinum strands off my face. I needed a weekend job to buy some essentials. Maybe Mrs. Campbell would let me work in the kitchens.

  A soft knock on the door broke me out of my thoughts. It was probably the assistant with the nightgowns. I dipped into the pristine, white bathroom, slipped on a dressing gown, and rushed to the door.

  A black boy with straightened hair stood in the hallway, already dressed in his uniform. Like the trio I had met the night before, he wore a tartan waistcoat under his blazer. I thought that indicated that a student was older, but this guy looked about fourteen compared to Orlando and the twins.

  “Lilah Hancock?” he asked in a voice posher than the royal family’s.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Gideon Adewale. Mrs. Campbell suggested we should get acquainted.”

  “Are you doing Fashion and Textiles, too?” I asked.

  His lips thinned and turned downward in a grimace of disgust. “Hardly.”

  Irritation fizzled across my skin. “Then why did she send you here?”

  He raised his nose in the air. “I consider myself an expert in elocution. Your accent might be suitable for the slums of South London, but here in Templar Academy and at prestigious universities, speaking like that will have you at a disadvantage.”

  “Speaking like what?” I snapped.

  He opened his mouth to elaborate, and I slammed the door in his face. He could stick those lessons up his ass. I wasn’t Eliza Doolittle, and this wasn’t My Fair Lady. The moment I tried to be someone else was the moment I felt ashamed of who I was.

  After a nice, long soak in the bath, I pulled on the uniform and adorned my face with what little makeup I had in my bag. Mrs. Campbell had left my class schedule for the week on my desk along with a map of the school.

  My three subjects—Fashion and Textiles, Art and Design, and Business Studies—were there, along with other items such as elocution lessons, physical education, and workshop time. The last two looked interesting, but no way was I letting that arrogant dickhead, Gideon, teach me to speak English.

  By the time I had dressed, braided my hair, and packed my school bag, I had missed breakfast and only managed to snag a swig of orange juice and a slice of cold toast.

  It took a while to decipher the map, as I had to walk to the main entrance to orient myself.

  My first lesson of the day was Fashion and Textiles, and my heart thrummed with excitement at the thought of meeting someone who had worked for Dior. I couldn’t begin to imagine the techniques she could teach me.

  The textiles workshop was located up in the attic, which was only accessible via a tightly-wound, wrought iron staircase. My feet clanged with every step, and I tried not to wonder why it wobbled as I ascended.

  A haughty voice filled the air. “You need to suck your stomach in if you don’t want to look like you’re carrying quadruplets.”

  I rolled my eyes. What a bitch.

  “But I’ve just had breakfast,” said a much quieter voice.

  I reached the top of the stairs, turned the corner, and found a group of girls standing at attention on both sides of the hallway.

  Elizabeth Liddell stood in the middle like a drill sergeant, eyeing the other girls’ bodies. My gaze raked over all their figures, but I couldn’t find the one who supposedly looked pregnant.

  “And you,” Elizabeth turned to an immaculate-looking girl with the most gorgeous, flame-red hair. “How many times have I told you to use a dark rinse?”

  The girl dipped her head. “It
always fades after a few washes.”

  My jaw dropped. What the hell kind of power did this Elizabeth have over the other girls to make them second-guess their looks? I continued toward the girls with my hands curled into fists.

  Elizabeth turned around and swept her malevolent gaze up and down my body. I raised my brows, waiting for her to comment. We had nearly the same figure, except my boobs were C cups compared to her Bs.

  She wrinkled her delicate nose. “Good morning. I seem to have forgotten your name.”

  “Lilah.” I swept my head up and down in an exaggerated evaluation of her figure. Then I turned my lips down, unimpressed. “What was yours again?”

  As her cheeks pinked, I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it. It was a saying we would shout at each other in junior school and one that had stuck with me to this day.

  Obviously, there wasn’t an equivalent phrase wherever Elizabeth had studied. Probably at home with a bunch of coddling nannies.

  “I remember now.” She spun around and addressed the other girls. “This is Lilah Hand-Cock.”

  A few of them clapped their hands over their mouths to suppress giggles.

  I shook my head. “Hancock. There’s no ‘d’ in my last name.”

  “That’s not what Orlando and Maxwell told me this morning.” She gave me the kind of smirk I itched to punch off her face.

  “Really?” I asked through clenched teeth.

  “They said you took them to a storage cupboard and gave them handjobs before dinner. Maxwell said you were a pro. The best he’d ever had.”

  Gasps filled the air.

  Annoyance flickered across my belly. What a stupid, fucking liar. The worst part was that I’d walked in with them and sat with those boys at dinner.

  Even sadder was that if Elizabeth had convinced the girls they lacked in beauty, they’d probably believe the worst of a stranger. Especially one who spoke with a working-class, south London accent.

  I took a leaf out of Sammy’s book and decided to brazen it out.

  Tilting my head to the side, I said, “Strange you should say that.”

  She smirked. “You’re not denying it?”

  “Because when I was rubbing them off to a knee-trembling climax, they asked me if my blow jobs were any better than yours.”

  “No!” The girl with the flame-red hair staggered back into the wall. Amusement sparkled in her green eyes, making the corner of my lips turn up.

  “Yes.” I turned to face my audience and flicked my head toward Elizabeth. “No matter how much this one slobbers and spits over their cocks, she can’t get the job right. The poor guys had to turn to a complete stranger because Lizard-Breath couldn’t satisfy them.”

  More gasps filled the air. Someone close to the door at the end of the hallway shrieked.

  Sheesh. One night at Templar Academy and I’d regressed into a ten-year-old. What was this, storytime at primary school? Would we sit around in a circle with our legs crossed, drinking our milk through blue straws?

  Narrowing her eyes, Elizabeth snarled, “Lizard breath?”

  “It’s only fair that I should comment on your lack of oral skills and hygiene. You did call me Hand-Cock.”

  “Listen, you cheap whore—”

  “What’s the meaning of all this noise?” said a red-haired woman wearing a black, tailored suit. Its skirt flared out at the bottom, Morticia Addams style. “Get inside and pull out your notebooks, or there’ll be no machine time.”

  All thoughts of Elizabeth melted away. This was the woman who had worked at Dior, and she was about to teach us fashion and textiles!

  Chapter 7

  Catherine Martin was a fashion goddess. She spent the first hour of the lesson talking about how she had studied at the London College of Fashion, then apprenticed with Vivienne Westwood and worked with Tom Ford before getting her dream job at Dior.

  From the dates in her story, I guessed she was about fifty or sixty, but she looked like a woman in her forties. The only tell-tale were her hands, which had deformed with arthritis and forced her to give up her career.

  Best of all, she had snapped at Elizabeth for texting in class and had even confiscated her phone.

  In the second hour, she showed us fabric samples, stitching techniques, and outlined the curriculum for the next two years. She even invited us all to join her tailoring club, the thought of which filled my heart with joy.

  By the end of the class, I was floating on clouds, but I sank back to the parquet floors the moment I locked eyes with Mrs. Campbell. She stood with her hands on her hips, fixing her hazel-eyed glower on me.

  My feet ground to a halt, and the other girls streamed out of the classroom and walked around me.

  “Enjoy being the academy’s whipping girl,” Elizabeth whispered into my ear as she passed.

  The deputy headmistress pointed in the classroom. “Inside.”

  My brows drew together. I turned around and walked back. Tables of sewing machines lined its walls, and Miss Martin walked around the room, returning her samples to plastic boxes.

  I gulped hard. Was I in trouble for missing breakfast or for slamming the door in Gideon’s face? Neither action warranted the attention or wrath of Mrs. Campbell.

  The deputy head shut the door with a click. “I’ve just had a phone call from the Archbishop of Scotland. He tells me you’re spreading rumors that his daughter has given oral sex to every boy in the academy!”

  All the blood drained from my face. “What?”

  “Well, is it true?” She pointed at a wooden chair, indicating for me to sit.

  Lowering myself into the seat, I thought fast. After everything that had happened the day before—leaving juvenile detention, escaping Crawford, my first plane ride, and my encounter with Maxwell and Orlando—I’d forgotten that Elizabeth’s father was the archbishop as well as the lord who owned the academy.

  My tongue darted out to lick my dry lips. “I said she sucked off Maxwell and Orlando, but that’s because—”

  “My goodness.” The older woman threw her hands up in the air, her tweed jacket straining over her huge boobs. “What on earth would possess you to utter something so profane?”

  “She called me Hand-Cock, and—”

  “So, you struck back with a filthy lie? This is the worst of slander. The archbishop doesn’t need that kind of scandal. The media is hard enough on ecclesiastical professionals.”

  “If I may.” Miss Martin strode across the room, holding a pair of shears.

  The deputy head flicked her hand. “Go ahead.”

  “I overheard the conversation. Elizabeth Liddell accused Lilah Hancock of manually pleasuring two boys in a cupboard, and Miss Hancock retaliated by saying she’d only done so because Miss Liddell’s oral skills were sub-par.”

  Mrs. Campbell sucked in a breath through her teeth. “Miss Liddell started this?”

  “Yes.” Miss Martin picked up a scrap of purple velvet that had fallen to the floor. “And Miss Liddell also spent several minutes disparaging the physical attributes of her classmates.”

  Deflating, Mrs. Campbell turned to me. “Go to your next class.”

  I wanted to stay and demand to know what the deputy head would do about Elizabeth’s transgressions against other girls, but common sense told me it would backfire. Everyone was probably nervous around Elizabeth because she would one day inherit the academy. She had the power to fire anyone.

  At lunch, Maxwell and Orlando returned to the table they shared with Elizabeth and Kendrick, while a group of younger girls occupied the table we had used the night before. The trio of boys glanced up. Dismissing me, they turned their attention back to Elizabeth.

  My heart sank to the bottom of my diaphragm. They had both been so keen the night before. Until now, I hadn’t even believed they had told Elizabeth I’d given them a handjob. The story had clearly been a spoilt brat’s desperate attempt to gain the upper hand. But now, I wasn’t so sure.

&nbs
p; Part of me wanted to storm over there and demand answers, but common sense dictated that boys that fickle didn’t deserve an ounce of my attention. Especially those whose gorgeousness was only eclipsed by their egos.

  Ignoring the stares of students sitting at round tables, I glanced around for somewhere to sit. There was a space in a table of six, where a group of girls from the Textiles class sat. I stole over to them, smiling at the flame-haired girl.

  “Is this seat taken?” I asked.

  The red-haired girl beamed. “Sure—”

  “Maeve made a mistake,” said a girl with a long, pointed jaw and a bushy mane of tawny hair. “You can’t sit here,”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Elizabeth just declared you the whipping girl.”

  “So?”

  Maeve turned to me, her green eyes dimmed with sorrow. “It means you’ve committed an act so heinous that no one’s going to talk to you. Any pranks or bullying against you won’t be reported or defended.”

  “What?” I’d heard of organized crime, but never organized bullying.

  She raised a shoulder. “It’s the school’s unofficial form of social control.”

  I glanced at the head table. Mr. Burgh hadn’t yet arrived, but Mrs. Campbell sat in her seat, chatting with a man with the same red hair and bushy beard as Mr. McGarr.

  Turning back to the girls, I asked, “Do the staff know about this?”

  “Go away, or you’ll turn us all into whipping girls,” snapped a dark-haired girl.

  “Whatever.” I turned to another table with a free seat.

  The two boys sitting on either side of the empty space held onto the back of the chair, making sure I couldn’t pull it out.

  I shook my head. What was wrong with these people? In Richley, no one had that kind of power unless they were willing to back it up with thugs, weapons, or money. I doubted that Elizabeth would pay to keep everyone in line.

  My stomach rumbled, and I searched around the dining room for signs of friendly or at least indifferent-looking faces. All I found was a sea of hostility. Student after student preventing me from taking a space.