Black Knight (Royal Elite Book 4)

by Rina Kent

  That time of my life used to be so full and then, in a moment, it became empty.

  “Let’s go get a room, Kimmy.” Ronan smiles mischievously at me.

  I hit his side jokingly.

  But I can’t help wondering how my relationship with him would be if I’d known him as long as I’ve known the others.

  Ronan only joined the four horsemen in our previous school. Maybe he, too, would’ve distanced himself if he’d known me since our childhood.

  “Everyone take their seats.” Mrs Stone’s voice comes from behind us and I push away from Ronan to settle at the front of the class. Usually, Elsa or one of her foster siblings would be here with me, but now, it’s just me. Ronan is out since he prefers to sit at the back and sleep in peace.

  As I settle in, a movement catches in my peripheral vision.

  Xander.

  He’s by the window, in front of Cole, who’s telling him something in his ear while clutching a book.

  He doesn’t seem to be listening since his entire concentration is on me. It’s blank, though, as if he’s not really looking at me.

  But he is.

  I can feel his gaze, not on my skin or on my face, but deep in my soul. It’s invading me and touching parts he has no business touching.

  I turn around and flop into my seat, fighting my heated cheeks. Just why the hell did I have to be in the same class with the four horsemen during my last year in RES?

  I was almost surviving without having to see Xander’s face in every damn class.

  Mrs Stone is speaking about a test, but I can’t for the life of me concentrate on what she’s saying. My mind keeps flickering to the back tables, where I feel someone watching me.

  My nape prickles with unwanted attention and I squirm in my seat as if that will make the discomfort go away.

  Something hits my arm before a crumpled piece of paper falls beside me. Letting my hair cover my eyes, I peek behind me to be greeted by Ronan’s grin.

  He’s sitting right beside Xander, where the latter is clenching his pencil in a death grip. Ronan stretches both legs in front of him, twirling a black pen between his index and middle finger. He motions at the paper with his brows.

  I throw a fleeting glance at Xander, but he’s focused on Mrs Stone. His expression is neutral, but his shoulders are rigid. Why the hell is he so tense?

  After retrieving the paper, I unfold it discreetly. It’s a scribble in Ronan’s messy handwriting with a smiley emoji at the top.

  ‘Give the world a middle finger with a smile.’

  I stare back at him and he winks. My lips instinctively curve in a smile.

  Xander’s harsh gaze slides from Ronan to me and then stays there.

  On me.

  It doesn’t waver nor does he attempt to look away. He’s trying to intimidate me so I’ll be the one to cut off eye contact and cower down like I do every time he’s in my vicinity.

  If looks could slice me open, Xander’s would be the sharpest blade right now.

  But there’s something he’s forgetting. His war doesn’t scare me anymore. It can’t be worse than the fog or Kir’s disappointed gaze or the fear in his little eyes when he thought I’d leave him alone.

  So I continue smiling. At Ronan, not at Xander.

  I flip off those who slowly broke me, who turned me into this pathetic shell of a person.

  Those who took pleasure in igniting my breaking point and watched me as I fell.

  Those who threw me under the bus instead of pulling me to safety.

  Those who fed the fog and allowed it to rule my life.

  I follow Ronan’s advice and give the world the middle finger.

  3

  Xander

  There’s a certain company in loneliness.

  Yes, that sounds crazy, and yes, I still stand by it. This could be due to the coffee, er…vodka coffee I just had, but who cares?

  The empty house sure doesn’t.

  The people inside it are only paid by my father to keep their mouths shut. He makes them sign NDAs that would cost them their lives and three generations of their families sold on the black market.

  People keep their mouths shut when they’re stuffed with the queen’s bills.

  At least, those my father surrounds himself with do.

  Our cook didn’t blink an eye when I made a coffee and poured alcohol instead of water. He just nodded and went about his business.

  I stand by the huge French window, sipping my coffee and placing a hand in my pocket. You know, like a good upper-middle-class boy with decent grades, a popularity vote under his belt, and a pretty wonderful life.

  Everything is laid out before me for the taking – the huge garden, the German cars in the garage, the high positions.

  All of it is there.

  And yet, it isn’t.

  Is it okay to take what you need when you don’t have what you want?

  The answer to that is yes, logically speaking, but I’ve been gradually losing that part due to my vodka.

  And yes, I do answer my own hypothetical questions. Cole’s philosophy shit is starting to rub off on me.

  “What are you doing here? Don’t you have practice?”

  I slowly close my eyes, inhaling deeply, before I turn around to face the only family I have left.

  The one I wish had disappeared instead of Mum twelve years ago.

  My father stands in the middle of the living area, which is filled with renaissance paintings and weird fucking art that he pays hundreds of thousands for at auctions.

  Lewis Knight is a man of power in this country, one of the hotshot ministers who not only regulates the economy but also controls it. He’s – wait for it – Secretary of State for Business, Energy, and Industrial Strategy. Phew, I know, that’s a long title, but it goes with his ‘duties’, as he calls them.

  You know, like a typical politician.

  He’s in his mid-forties with a medium build and thick dark hair that he keeps styled as if he has daily dates with the queen herself. A three-piece suit flatters his frame and gives him a majesty that everyone praises in the media.

  He’s one of the popular ones, my father. Spoiler alert, that’s why I get the popularity vote, too. That shit is genetic.

  He’s also friends with the ‘IT’ crowd, the first line of the conservative party, who are doing some internal war to crush the upcoming elections and rule the country once again. After more than ten years of consecutive wins, let’s just say it got boring.

  A permanent scowl lodges between his thick brows while he looks me up and down as if he objects to my jeans and T-shirt. I should always look presentable, even at home. You never know when those reporters will come to do a field visit.

  For as long as I can remember, Dad has always had that look when his gaze falls on me; permanent disapproval of sorts. He’s never approved of me or my existence.

  Deep down, he wishes Mum would’ve taken me with her that day. Both of us do a fantastic job ignoring that reality.

  If we could turn back time, he’d push me into her car or I would sneak and hide in her boot.

  “So?” he insists. “Practice.”

  “We don’t have one today.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we need to rest before our next game.”

  He narrows his eyes the slightest bit, then schools his expression. He’s pragmatic that way, my father, suspicious by nature, too. Perhaps that’s why he’s a successful politician. I have no doubt he’ll call the school and make sure my words are accurate.

  His fatherhood game is just that, a fucking game. He likes to be in control and to think he has me under his thumb where he can press anytime.

  “I need you on your best behaviour, Xander. I don’t have to remind you that –”

  “The elections are coming.” I cut him off and take a sip of my alcohol – I mean, coffee.

  “Why, yes.” He advances towards me but isn’t too close to smell it on me. I didn’t know he would be here t
his early or else I wouldn’t have drunk in front of him. He keeps me on a leash without a reason – he’d lock me in a cage if he found out about my coffee preferences. “If you remember that, act accordingly, boy.”

  “I’m not a boy.” I grind my molars.

  “Then stop acting like one. Remember, the purpose of the football games and Royal Elite is only to establish an image. Don’t lose yourself in it.”

  Of course, even the one thing I enjoy, playing football, is only a means to an end for dear old Dad.

  “I don’t have to remind you of the consequences, do I?” He raises his eyebrows in challenge.

  “I know. There will be no Harvard.” I’m tempted to chug the entire coffee in one go, but that will give away its contents, so I just take a sip – a long one.

  It’s not that I’m that keen on Harvard, but it’s in the United States and that will keep me years away from this shithole of an empty house and the other house across the street.

  I need to get out of here at any cost. My grades aren’t that excellent for a scholarship, so I need the money only Daddy dearest can provide. As soon as I get on my feet, I’m throwing it straight back at his face.

  “Correct. Remember that.” He fixes his tie, staring down his nose at me, even though we’re about the same height. That condescending look, the complete coldness, the absolute disregard for human emotions in those brown eyes is the reason why my mother left.

  And the reason I’ve never made peace with this man since.

  The reason why we’re strangers living under the same roof.

  Lewis Knight might be the nation’s saviour, but he’s my worst enemy.

  As soon as Dad leaves, small feet pad on the wood and an automatic smile crosses my lips. I push the alcohol away – and yes, I’ve given up calling it coffee – and chew on some mint gum.

  I always have a pack of it on me. Cole is starting to be suspicious and will soon call me on my shit and make Coach give me the ‘talk’, but hopefully, I’ll be out of this place by then.

  “Xaaaan!” A small body crushes into my legs in a tight hug. His face hides in my jeans as he nuzzles his nose against them.

  “Hey, little man.”

  He pushes away from me, pouting and pointing a thumb at himself. “I’m no little man.”

  “Right.” I crouch before Kirian, wiping a smudge of chocolate off his nose. “You’re Superman.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s right.”

  “Give me a fist.” I place mine in front of his and he blows it.

  It’s always amazing to have this little man around, even if his presence constantly pushes me back to unwanted fucking thoughts.

  “Can I have brownies, Xan?” he stares up at me with puppy eyes.

  I rub my forefinger against my thumb where there’s still some chocolate I wiped off his nose. “Are you telling me you didn’t have some?”

  “No?”

  “What did I say about lying?”

  “It’s a white lie. Kimmy says that’s okay sometimes. Adults do it all the time.”

  “Well, your sister is wrong. Lying is bad; don’t do it.”

  “Fine, I had some when Mari was baking, but it was a tiny bit, promise. Can I have brownies, please? Pleaaase?”

  I take his hand in mine. “Fine.”

  “Yes!”

  I help him up on the stool, his short feet dangling with excitement. “Where’s your cape, Superman?”

  “Kimmy put it to wash.”

  I cut a piece of brownie and place it on a plate. Kir’s eyes widen with thrill as he watches my every movement.

  Neither Dad nor I eat brownies, but I always ask the cook to have pieces ready for this little guy.

  The moment I slide the plate in front of him, he dives in, instantly smearing his cheeks with chocolate. No matter how old he gets, Kir will always have no willpower when it comes to his brownies.

  “Where is she now?”

  I regret the question as soon as I ask it. If it were anyone else but Kir, it would’ve been a fucking disaster.

  For a long time, I’ve been in total control of the questions I should ask and the ones I shouldn’t. I always have to keep that image I’ve spent years perfecting.

  It could be because of the amount of alcohol I’ve been consuming lately.

  Or the way she’s been getting on my fucking nerves since yesterday; the way she talked back, the way she smiled at Ronan as if he’s her fucking world.

  Kimberly Reed is that rock in my shoe. It’s not harmful, but it’s annoying as fuck.

  “At school,” Kir speaks through a mouthful of brownies.

  She shouldn’t be at fucking school. She has no club activities to speak of and we don’t have practice, so she couldn’t have stayed to watch the football team.

  Unless…

  I retrieve my phone and check my messages.

  There are several from my group chat with my three fucker friends.

  Ronan: On a scale from one to ten, how many girls do you think I can fuck before my father marries me off like a whore for sale?

  Aiden: Depends on whether they mean a fuck or not.

  Ronan: Fuck off, King.

  Ronan: Anyone else?

  Cole: A hundred.

  Ronan: Now we’re talking.

  Cole: You’ll remember none of them, though.

  Ronan: Fiiiine! I’ll just settle with one.

  He attaches a selfie with Kimberly by his side. He has an arm on her shoulder like he did yesterday, but this time, his lips are on her cheek as she laughs at the camera.

  Her eyes are closed slightly, leaving only a slit of those green irises that I want to think they appear like snot but are in fact the most mesmerising green I’ve ever seen.

  Strands of her hair fly across her face, causing the green ones to stick to her small nose and full cheeks. Her teeth show with her laughter. I wish it was forced, or for show, as she does in her mother’s exhibitions.

  I know Kimberly’s fake smiles. I’ve learnt them. I have them engraved in a dark corner in my heart, the one with her name written all over it.

  This isn’t one of her fake laughs. She’s genuinely happy, enjoying herself in what looks to be a normal grocery store. Only Ronan would snap a selfie in the grocery store like some fucking commoner.

  Another text comes from him.

  Ronan: I’m having a new challenge. I’ll only fuck one girl and then, maybe my father will marry me off to her. Kimmy’s dad is a big shot, too. Earl Edgar would approve.

  I type before I realise what I’m doing.

  Xander: I’m going to fucking kill you, Ron.

  I delete the text before my impulsive side makes me hit send.

  Fuck him and the way he’s baiting me. It’s not working and it never will.

  Cole: And she can make your cake bunny fantasy come true.

  Ronan: Fuck yes, I took her to that section and she didn’t stop smiling. Next time, I’m going to have her try them on.

  Aiden: When Reed visited Elsa last week, she wore those bunny ears girls put on their heads.

  Give me a fucking break. Even Aiden is onto this shit? Shouldn’t he not care as usual?

  I make the screen go black so that I don’t say something I’ll most likely regret. They can see I’ve read the messages, but fuck them, basically.

  Fuck all of them.

  “Your sister doesn’t have school,” I tell Kir with a smile.

  If she thinks she can play around without the guilt trip of leaving her brother behind, then she has another thing coming.

  He pauses chewing, looking up at me through his eyelashes. “But she said she does. That’s why Paul picked me up.” His lower lip trembles. “I hate it when our driver picks me up. The other kids have their parents do it.”

  Well, fuck.

  I might want her to suffer, but not at the expense of Kirian.

  Besides, his case hits so close to home. I often rode with Aiden and Cole when we were kids. Neither of our parents cared enough t
o come pick us up personally, except for maybe Cole’s mother.

  “Didn’t I tell you to call me when no one is there to pick you up?” I fetch another slice of brownie and slide it in front of him.

  He lifts a shoulder. “Kimmy says I shouldn’t bother you.”

  “We have bro code, remember? Next time, call me.”

  His eyes light up as he finally dives into the chocolate. “You’ll really be there?”

  “Always.”

  “What does always mean?”

  “It means, I’ll be there until the end of time whenever you need me.”

  Even if I move out and never return here again, Kirian will always be with me. A part I’ll never try to shake off like all the rest.

  He drops the piece of cake to his plate and stares at it, head bowed. “Kimmy also said that and then…”

  “Then what?”

  He shakes his head, his chin quivering. “I’m not supposed to tell.”

  I lean over until only a small space separates his hand from mine. “What happened, Kir? You can tell me. As our bro code says, you can tell me anything.”

  He lifts his eyes before focusing back on the brownies on his plate. “She promised that it won’t repeat.”

  “Repeat what?”

  His lower lip trembles again. It’s his tell of when he’s about to cry. She used to be the same when we were kids. It always happened before she started bawling.

  Kirian is a lively kid and doesn’t cry, so the fact he’s fighting it right now should mean it’s something serious. Is it about their parents, or what exactly?

  “Sir.” Our butler, Ahmed, stands in his elegance at the doorway. He’s a short man with olive skin and light brown eyes. His forehead has that dark crease due to the five-times-a-day prayer. Even I know better than to disturb him during his prayers’ time. Oh, and on Eid days—Muslim celebrations—he brings us the best kebabs from his family.

  But that’s not why he’s the only tolerable presence in our staff. It’s because he practically raised me when neither of my parents found time to.

  “Miss Reed is here for her brother,” he says with a slight Middle Eastern accent.

  Fuck.