Kings of Mercia Academy 1-4: The Complete Bully Romance

by Sofia Daniel

  I chewed my lip. It seemed a little uncharitable to judge someone harshly for being heartbroken, but I held my silence. I’d never seen Dad drunk or high on drugs, or if I had, I couldn’t remember, since Mom took me away when I was five. If Blake’s family had stayed together until he was twelve or thirteen, he must have witnessed some ugly, scarring scenes.

  “I was at school when the worst of it happened. Every time he got into a drunken brawl, it would be emblazoned on the front pages of the tabloids. He lost everything. His wealth, his health, his reputation, and when the palace couldn’t do anything else to stop him from self-destruction, he lost his life.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” I reached out for his hand. “Do you remember what he was like before things went wrong?”

  “It’s hard to tell,” he said with a rueful smile. “He was always controlling, and if she didn’t listen to him, he’d resort to violence. I don’t blame Mother for leaving, although I wished she had done it sooner.”

  I winced and gave his hand a squeeze. One evening with the likes of Mr. Carbuncle was enough for a lifetime. It was hard to imagine being in that situation for years.

  Blake shook his head. “Before I went away to the academy, he would tell me never to get married. That it was the death of all men. I’d probably been too young and wrapped up in myself to notice the cracks in their relationship until I saw evidence of it in the paper.”

  “Were you friends with Edward and Henry in your first year?”

  He smiled. “I got close to Edward when he lost his mother. Our housemaster asked me to drop by his room after prep to keep him company. That was around the time the papers published pictures of Mother and the prince. Maybe he saw the writing on the wall and thought we might need to support each other during the years.”

  “What about Henry?”

  “He was more Edward’s friend than mine at first. They both had sports in common. But Henry came through for me a year later, when the papers printed pictures of my mother… in a compromising position with the prince while she was still married to my father. The three of us would fight anyone who dared call her a trollop.”

  My head snapped up. “That’s why you never joined in on the name-calling.”

  He squeezed his eyes shut. “I should have stopped them. I’m so sorry.”

  I shook my head. “How can I hold a grudge against you after what you did for me?”

  “If I’d gotten there sooner—”

  “They might have knocked you out and held you for ransom, too. Then who would have saved us?”

  Someone knocked on the door, and Blake rushed to answer it before they turned the doorknob. It was a woman who spoke in hushed tones, asking if she could come in to vacuum. The man from breakfast was with her, demanding to be let in to check the room.

  I closed my eyes and sighed. What were they looking for? Drugs? I didn’t understand how Blake could tolerate so many interfering busybodies. When Blake tried slamming the door on them, they didn’t budge. I rolled my eyes. If whatever they were looking for was a big deal, they would have brought one of the armed detectives.

  While Blake bickered with the servants, I studied the picture of his mother and father. His mother stared ahead at the camera, striking a fierce pose, while his father cast her an adoring look that said he was lucky to have married someone so stunning. My heart sank at the thought of how tragically the relationship had worked out. Eventually, Blake told the servants to fuck off, which worked, and they backed away and let him lock the door.

  He strolled back with a sheepish grin. My gaze lingered over his strong biceps, prominent pecs with dusky nipples, and tight eight-pack. He didn’t have the same bulk of Henry or even Edward, but his muscles rippled tantalizingly with every breath. Instead of sitting back on the chair, he joined me in the bed. I lay on his chest, breathing in his spicy, sandalwood scent and ran my fingertips over the tight ridges of his abdominal muscles.

  “I would think that after your mother’s infidelity, you wouldn’t be interested in sharing me with anyone.”

  The corner of his lip curled into a smile. “The others each have their reasons for wanting to share a girl, so I can’t speak for them. But if I was going to pin everything on one woman, I’d rather have one I shared with my best friends. Henry and Edward are the two people I love most in the world.”

  “Are they both bisexual?”

  “Edward’s mostly straight, although he likes to watch. Henry… He’s never expressed an interest in anyone else until you.”

  “Are you and Henry a couple?”

  He paused. “Best friends with benefits.”

  My hand, which had been rubbing up and down Blake’s abs bumped his silk-covered erection.

  Blake chuckled. “Sorry about that. It has a mind of its own.”

  A tiny laugh bubbled up in my chest. “I’m not complaining.”

  Someone rattled the door. Blake raised his head. “Bugger off!”

  A mechanism turned, and an elegant woman stepped into the room, her dark eyes blazing. Flanking her were two burly men who were either bodyguards or plain-clothed detectives. From the black hair swept in a messy chignon, dark skin, high cheekbones, and full lips, she could only be one person. Blake’s mother.

  “Boy,” she snapped. “I’ve just had to take a helicopter from Balmoral because eight different members of staff have called my husband with news that my son is hiding a battered girl in his room. What the hell is going on?”

  Chapter 18

  Mrs. Simpson-West strode to the end of the bed, clad in a teal, one-piece suit I suspected was backless. She wore it with a pearl necklace and a matching tuxedo-style jacket. In real life and up close, the woman was stunning. She combined the slender figure of a young Bianca Jagger with the curves of Mata Hari. Dark, olive skin stretched over sharp, prominent cheekbones that set off huge, ebony eyes framed by long, dark lashes. The only visible scrap of makeup on her face was blood-red lipstick on her full, sensual lips. Long, loose curls hung down from the front of her chignon, framing her face to dramatic effect.

  Rolling back to my nest of pillows, I turned my gaze to Blake, not wanting to continue gaping at his mother.

  Blake sat up and scowled. “You could have called.”

  “And missed another one of your antics? Does Henry know of your new proclivity for battering women, or will he read about it in another article of the Sunday Correspondent?”

  I bit down on my lip. Did she really think Blake was in a relationship with Henry just because she saw the pictures of them together?

  Blake’s nostrils flared. “Saturday.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What did you say?”

  “It’s the Saturday Correspondent, Mother,” he spat the last word like an insult.

  I pushed myself up. “Ummmm…”

  Mrs. Simpson-West’s eyes softened. “Yes, dear?”

  “I don’t know how to address you.”

  “Lucia.” She gave me a tight smile.

  “The Duchess of Surrey,” said a middle-aged man in a black uniform who I suspected was the servant who had tried twice to enter the room. “Or Ma’am.”

  My insides cringed. The English said the word a little differently to Americans, and I didn’t want to offend her by pronouncing it wrong. And I didn’t want to ask if I needed to call her Lady Lucia in front of the servants and detectives. Blake’s silk pajamas covered my body, but everyone could see what had become of my face.

  I gave myself a mental slap. None of this mattered. If I didn’t speak up for Blake, he’d probably get sent to rehab or have to suffer some other unnecessary penance. “I got abducted by two men last night, and Blake risked his life to save me.”

  Confusion twisted her elegant features, and she turned to Blake and crossed her arms. I caught sight of her white knuckles, pursed lips, and narrowed eyes and guessed that she was about to ask why he had risked his life for someone he didn’t know.

  Actually, Mrs. Simpson-West looked the type to object
to Blake bringing a stray to the palace, so I blurted out, “I’m not a stranger. My name’s Emilia Hobson. I’m—”

  “Rudolph Trommel’s new stepdaughter,” she said.

  “Yes.” My brows drew together. Did she know Rudolph, or had Blake spoken to his mother about me? “And I’m Blake’s classmate.”

  “And the girl who accompanies me to Narcotics Anonymous meetings,” added Blake.

  All traces of irritation melted away from Mrs. Simpson-West’s face. “Who did this to you?”

  “Peter Underwood, the son of the recently resigned Secretary of State for the Supreme Court, and Ernest Carbuncle, the school janitor.”

  “Are they in custody yet?”

  “Only Mr. Underwood the younger,” replied Blake. “Carbuncle’s still at large.”

  Mrs. Simpson-West twisted around and addressed a female servant who had held a jug of water on a tray as a pretext to enter Blake’s room to eavesdrop. The woman nodded and scurried away.

  I glanced at Blake, who shrugged. It looked like he didn’t know what his mother was planning, either. She strode up to a young detective, who was built a little like Henry, and spoke to him in soft, flirtatious tones. This time, when I turned to Blake, he scowled. Hadn’t Henry told me that the prince had found Mrs. Simpson-West in bed with the chauffeur?

  A moment later, the female servant entered and gave Blake’s mother a jar. She sashayed around to the bed, dropped it on the bedside table, and examined the labels of my painkillers and sleeping pills. “This is a fast-acting bruise salve, mixed by one of the foremost herbal scientists in the country. I can vouch for its efficacy.”

  My stomach churned with a mixture of apprehension and revulsion. Why would she still need bruise salve if Blake’s father had died four years ago? Blake’s body stiffened at my side, and I couldn’t meet his gaze. In the back of my mind, I wondered if he had made the same speculations about his mother’s relationship with the prince.

  I gazed into Mrs. Simpson-West’s face but couldn’t find a single bruise. “Th-thank you.”

  She swept out of the room in a cloud of Coco Chanel, taking away her entourage of detectives and nosy servants. As she stepped out of the door, she cast Blake a withering look. “And for God’s sake, don’t let Henry know about your little indiscretion unless you want to end up with a face like Emilia’s!”

  My mouth dropped open, and I exchanged a shocked glance with Blake, who rolled his eyes. Did she really think Henry would strike a friend?

  The door clicked shut, and my tongue darted out to moisten the undamaged side of my lips. “Blake, do you—”

  “Are you thirsty?” He shot out of bed and raced around to the side table, where the female servant had left a jug of water and two glasses. His gaze flickered to the clock. “It’s noon. Time for your painkiller.”

  My shoulders drooped, and I settled into the nest of pillows. If he didn’t want to talk about his mother’s need for bruise salve, I wouldn’t bring up the subject.

  The door slammed open, and Henry and Edward burst into the room. As soon as their gazes caught mine, their bodies, and expressions, froze.

  My heart sank, and I pulled the silk sheet up around my neck. “Is it that bad?”

  “Surprising.” Edward enunciated each syllable as though careful not to say the wrong thing. “Blake told us this morning. We came as soon as we could but got delayed at security.” He stretched his lips into a bland smile, but it did nothing to hide the pain etched on his features.

  I glanced at Henry, who gaped as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. After stepping further into the room, he shut the door but didn’t move any closer than the foot from the bed. His skin had turned white, and his chest rose and fell like bellows. It was much like the time in the dining room when Coates had twisted Blake in a wrist lock, except this time, there was no one to punch in the face.

  Edward walked over to my side of the bed, gave me a peck on the unbruised side of my mouth, and stroked my temple as though I might crumble. His stormy, blue eyes glistened with unshed tears, and he leaned down and kissed me again.

  “Thank heavens Blake found you in time.” His voice was breathy, like he was trying to hold his emotions down. “I don’t know what I would do if—” He shook his head and lowered himself into the bedside chair.

  “The doctor prescribed an effective painkiller.” I reached out a hand and curled it around Edward’s. “As long as I take it every four hours, I’ll be comfortable.”

  He pressed his lips together and nodded. “How are you cop—”

  “You should have seen Blake last night.” I couldn’t face rehashing last night or facing my feelings. Talking about what Mr. Carbuncle had done and how helpless I had felt would only make me feel worse. It was far easier to recount Blake’s heroic rescue. “He climbed over all the balconies, searching through all the windows for me with his flashlight.”

  Blake slipped into bed next to me and rubbed the back of his neck. “My smartphone flash.”

  I curled my fingers around Blake’s. “Then he punched a hole through the window and pulled me out.”

  He shook his head. “Emilia climbed out by herself. I only helped her land on her feet.”

  “Then he carried me on piggyback and sprinted through the balconies with Mr. Carbuncle at our heels.”

  Blake stared back at me with his brows furrowed. “You missed the part where I jumped over those barriers.”

  I huffed a laugh. Lightning bolts of pain wrapped around my ribs, making me groan and clutch at my sides.

  Henry punched his fist into his palm. “Those bastards. If I ever get my hands on Carbuncle, he’ll be eating his meals through a straw and shitting through a colostomy bag.”

  “Language,” said Edward. He brought my hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to my knuckles. “How did you know where to find Emilia?”

  I blinked several times and stared at Blake, who gazed at Henry with furrowed brows. That was something I had also wondered about before the painkillers had dulled my thoughts.

  Blake explained how he had arrived at Chelsea Heights to find a group of girls in party clothes wandering around the top floor and searching through the fire exits. I supposed those were the interns who had ridden in the back of Tom’s van. As soon as he discovered there was no number sixteen, he approached the girls, working out that the invitation had been a trap. While the reporters were liaising with the police, Blake knocked on doors until he found someone who recognized him from the papers and was willing to let him in to search the balconies.

  All throughout the explanation, Henry stood at the foot of the bed, staring at me with anguish in his green eyes. I couldn’t tell if he would burst into tears, fall onto his knees, or smash the room up. He was clearly the most disturbed of the triumvirate and doing the worst job of holding back his feelings.

  A soft knock reverberated on the door, and Henry broke away to see who wanted to come in. He opened it to reveal Nurse Priya, dressed in her navy blue uniform.

  “Miss Hobson?” she said. “I’m here to check your dressings.”

  “Right.” Blake rolled out of bed and stood in his silk pajama bottoms.

  Nurse Priya turned her head and sucked in her cheeks while Blake padded to a mahogany closet and found a robe. He moved onto the dresser, where he pulled out another set of silk pajamas and placed them on the end of the bed before leaving with Henry and Edward.

  I pushed my hands onto the mattress and swung out of bed, but a band of agony wrapped around my entire torso and made my muscles seize. Nurse Priya rushed forward and supported my body. When my feet hit the soft carpet, every single bruise screamed with protest, making me hiss through my teeth.

  In Blake’s luxurious, marble bathroom, things became worse. An unfeasibly large, purple-black eye stretched across my entire left socket, the start of the bridge of my nose, and ended at my cheekbone. I was lucky he hadn’t broken my nose with the force of his punch. Most of the swelling concentrated in the area under the e
ye, but the rest of the left side of my face puffed and pulled the swollen part of my upper lip down into a permanent expression of melancholy. I looked as though I had developed an oversized jowl.

  Dark fingermarks marred my neck from where Mr. Carbuncle had strangled me, and red streaks covered the rest of the skin. The bastard’s fingernails had also dug into my flesh, leaving crescent-shaped scabs. If he had held onto my neck for much longer, I would have—I turned from the mirror and let out several gasping breaths.

  “Miss Hobson?” asked the nurse.

  “I’m fine.” The words came out in a gasp. “Just shocked.”

  “I can perform a bed bath if you’re not yet comfortable with seeing the rest of your body,” she said.

  I gulped. Was she saying that because of what she had seen last night as she put me into the gown, or because of how I had reacted to the sight of my face? “I-I can manage.”

  When Nurse Priya took off the bandages and revealed my purple skin, I hissed through my teeth and jerked away from the mirror. These bruises must have happened when Charlotte’s brother had dragged me down the stairs. I don’t remember Mr. Carbuncle hitting me so many times and in so many places that the bruises would have covered me everywhere.

  She showed me the kind of tepid water best suited for the early days of bruising and advised me not to turn the shower onto the hottest settings for another two days unless I wanted even more burst blood vessels. I thanked her and climbed into the shower, letting the cool water run over my skin. Everything felt too sore and too raw to apply shower gel, so I didn’t stay long and winced as I dried myself off.

  The nurse redressed my wounds, helped me into Blake’s silk pajamas, and back into the nest of pillows. Just before she left, I asked, “Mrs. Simpson-West said I should use her bruise ointment. What do you think?”

  “Wait a few days before applying it, as some of its ingredients might aggravate your open wounds. But it should be fine to rub a small amount on your face four times a day.”