Cruel King: A Royal Elite Book

by Kent, Rina

  My cheeks heat until I feel like I’m thrown into a pit of flames. He had to bring out the most embarrassing moment of my life.

  “Lapse of judgement.” I lift my chin. “Believe me, it won’t happen again.”

  His fingers clasp around my wrist and he strings me along towards him. I try to twist and pull, but that only makes his grip harsher.

  “Let me go,” I grit out, hating all the audience that has stopped to see the show.

  My cheeks flame with hot, flashing anger at being manhandled in public. Way to ruin my top-notch invisible reputation.

  “Meet me after school,” he whispers in that deep, slightly husky voice.

  It’s not a request, it’s a flat out order. He must be so used to people falling at his feet.

  “Why would I want to do that?” I give up trying to remove my wrist and glare up at him.

  He taps my nose twice. “Wait for me at the car park after practice.”

  “No.”

  “Be there, princess.”

  He must still see defiance written all over my face. Instead of cowering away, his eyes shine with mischievousness and something so similar to ‘Challenge accepted’.

  When he speaks this time, it’s loud enough for everyone surrounding us to hear.

  “Don’t worry. This time I won’t make you beg for it.” He smirks. “For long.”

  Scorching heat climbs up my neck and to my face, bathing me in red hot embarrassment mixed with blinding anger.

  He offers a smug grin that says, ‘I always win’ before he taps my nose again and walks in the opposite direction. Everyone goes out of their way to let him go through as if they actually believe he’s the king or some shit.

  I stand like a red ball, watching his retreating back with stupefaction as one of the other seniors joins him and soon enough, half of the football team are waltzing alongside him toward the locker room.

  Everyone continue gawking at me as if I’m a world wonder — or a mass murderer, I can’t be so sure with some of the girls’ glares.

  “Slut,” one of them hisses as she brushes past me.

  The anger that should be directed at her or her minions that said similar insults is burning in the opposite direction.

  The locker room and the wanker in it.

  King wants me to meet him after school?

  I’ll be meeting him after school, all right, but he’ll be wishing he never issued his royal decree.

  6

  Levi

  You could’ve escaped the battle, but you asked for a bloody war.

  * * *

  Coach yells at the front lines, his voice reverberating over the pitch like he’s a general at war. Or maybe he’s the strategist.

  The royal blue baseball cap with RES’s golden crown covers his bald head.

  He rolls his notes into what resembles a bat that he doesn’t hesitate to strike the slacking players with.

  We just finished our first practice game for the season. The main team lost against the second-year team. Two to nill.

  Two to fucking nill.

  The negative energy radiating off Coach Larson is like a black halo over my mood.

  The two teams stand in straight lines opposite one another as Coach paces between us.

  The second team wear neon yellow over the team’s jersey while my team have the official royal blue jerseys and white shorts.

  “Ladies,” Larson snarls, his small eyes and bushy brows give him a meaner, harsher look. “Is this how we’re starting the season after last year’s defeat?”

  “No, Sir,” all of us yell.

  “I didn’t hear you, girls.”

  “No, Sir!” we bellow.

  He nods as he continues his back and forth with his hands crossed behind his back. The paper bat hits his spine with every move. “The school might put you on a pedestal, but that’s only because you’re getting Royal Elite’s name out there. The moment you stop benefitting the board, the team is gone.”

  A few murmurs break amongst the players, but they know better than to interrupt Coach.

  “What did you think? Your parents pay for your education, not sports. Royal Elite is all about academics. The only reason they indulge with a few sports teams is because they want to promote that the school isn’t all about nerdy, snobbish teenagers. Are we or are we not going to prove to them that we breathe football?”

  “We are!”

  “Are we or are we not going to win the schools’ championship this year?”

  “We are!”

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “We. Are!”

  “Captain.” Coach stops in front of me with a dark look.

  He doesn’t approve of the way I’m leading the team since the finals’ loss in July, but he also knows I’m the reason they’re in check. He might be the strategist, but I’m the leader of the troops on the field. Besides, he trusts I won’t allow anything to screw this up. We both want that championship.

  “I need results.”

  “You will get them, Sir.”

  Still standing in front of me, he points at Daniel, one of the benching players. “Good game, Sterling. You held the fort.”

  He smirks in that cocky way that half sports’ players have.

  Coach moves to Chris who’s standing beside me and gives him a harsh glare. “Vans. You’re out of the startup line next game.” He throws a look over his shoulder at the opposite team. “Astor, you’re in. Show me what you got, boy.”

  “Yes, Coach!” Ronan grins like a goofball.

  Coach Larson heads into the locker with his assistant coaches and the medical trainer trailing after him.

  Chris lunges forward, to start a scene with Coach, no doubt.

  I stand in his way, blocking his path. He’s like a bull, eyes black and jaw clenching. I hit my shoulder against his and shake my head.

  “Fuck this, King!” He spits out. “I won’t give up my position for a second year.”

  “Maybe you should’ve played better, huh?” Ronan waggles his eyebrows.

  My gaze meets my cousin Aiden’s bored one and I say in a levelled tone, “Take him away.”

  “Naw.” Ronan jumps in place, ducking on his own. “Come at me, bro.”

  “Ronan,” I warn. He’s treating it as fun and games, but Chris is volatile as shit right now.

  And most of the time, really.

  Aiden clutches Ronan’s arm while Xander pushes him from the other side.

  “Just to be clear,” Xander, a striker and a little wanker, throws over his shoulder. “This has been long overdue, Chris. You don’t deserve a place on the team since the summer.”

  Aiden offers me a knowing look before he, Xander, Ronan, and Cole stalk to the locker rooms.

  They’re nicknamed the four horsemen because whenever they’re on the field, they bring conquest, war, famine, and eventually death.

  I call them the four fuckers.

  Aiden, Xander, and Cole snatched their positions from the seniors. Ronan is the last to join.

  The rest of the second-year players follow Aiden and his band of thieves. I might be the captain, but if they had to choose, they’ll probably take the ‘young’ King’s side.

  Chris continues lunging forward like a train losing its course. Zach and Alex, two seniors, try to pull him back, but it’s like he’s on RedBull — or fucking drugs judging from his performance.

  I swing my fist and punch him in the chest. He stops with stupefaction written all over his face. The rest of the senior players and the freshmen watch for my reaction, unblinking.

  “What the fuck was that for?” Chris spits out.

  “For losing your place.”

  “It was Coach, he —”

  I get in his face. “Did Coach play with your legs? Did he let Aiden score the first and lose the ball to Xander so he can score the second? Did he leave the defence like a pathetic deserted land?”

  “Well, no, but —”

  “No buts, Chris.” I point a finger a
t his chest. “You’ve been playing like shit since the quarterfinal game and during summer camp. If you don’t snatch your place back from Ronan, you’re out. For. Fucking. Good. I don’t need half-wits on my team.”

  He opens his mouth to say something, but I’m not listening anymore. The rest of the players part as I make my way to the showers.

  Christopher and I are friends. Maybe not exactly friends, but colleagues. We both liked the high of alcohol, cigarettes and girls.

  We’ve been rebels against our last names and families.

  I loathe my uncle and he hates his uptight father who’s the metropolitan police’s deputy commissioner. Chris and I found each other on detention when we were juniors and bonded.

  If there’s trouble, we shit all over it. Both of us live for that disapproving look on our guardians’ faces.

  We even bet on whether his father or my uncle will pay the largest cheque to the school to cover all the trouble we cause year in and year out.

  But Chris has been spiralling out of control. He’s been a knee too deep in the excitement part, he doesn’t even play decently anymore.

  Football isn’t only a game for me. It’s not a high of the moment and a pumping of adrenaline. It isn’t the roaring of the crowd or the chants.

  It’s a state of mind.

  It’s the only fucking thing I own in a life that’s shackled by Uncle’s chains.

  Football is the only thing I’m doing for myself and no one will fucking take it away from me.

  For that, I need to take care of a certain princess problem that’s two months overdue.

  Aiden and his band of thieves walk with me to the car park, all chatting about the upcoming game. Or more like, Ronan and Xander are bickering while Aiden and Cole shake their heads at them.

  Chris left without even going into the locker room. Half the reason why I unleashed on him in front of everyone is because I know he holds grudges. Here’s to hoping he’ll release it on the pitch by finally sobering up and snatching his place back.

  “I’m telling you, fuckers, I want hookers on my birthday.” Ronan taps his chest. “That’s the least you can do for all the parties I throw you all year round.”

  Xander throws a jab to his side. “And what, you want one that comes out from the cake, too?”

  “Fuck yeah.” His eyes twinkle. “All in bunny uniform, s’il te plait.”

  “Bestiality alert.” Cole deadpans.

  “Fuck off, Cole.” Ronan glares. “Don’t kill the fantasy.”

  “Okay, hold on. Let me get this straight. So we’re getting hookers sent to… a House of Lords’ member. Like hello, hookers house, can you send some bunny strippers to Earl Astor’s mansion?” Xan laughs. “You realise they might send us the police or… I don’t know some MI6 agents?”

  “Chill, arsehole. We’ll do it in the summer house.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Test time. My best friend will hire hookers for me. Raise your hand, but don’t push… I know you all want to.”

  He turns in our direction to find all of us staring. Except for Xan and Cole who are laughing.

  “Come on, anyone? Cake bunny hookers are my fucking fantasy.”

  “And we have to make your fantasies come true because...” Aiden trails off with a poker face.

  “Because I would’ve made your fantasies come true in return!” Ronan pauses. “Wait no. That didn’t come out right. I have some disturbing images right now.”

  Xan waggles his eyebrows. “Like?”

  “Like Cole and Aiden’s kinky shit. I’m not making that rubbish happen.” He pauses. “Back to my fantasy. It’s completely doable. Anyone?”

  Aiden shakes his head. “Pass.”

  “Besides,” Cole recovers from his fit of laughter. “You do realise that none of us is old enough to hire hookers.”

  “Captain is.” Ronan meets my gaze with puppy eyes.

  “Stop looking at me like that or you’ll be the only cake bunny hooker on your birthday.”

  The guys burst out laughing, both Xander and Cole teasing Ronan who’s sulking and swearing that he’s not throwing any parties for us anymore.

  Aiden falls back in step with me, letting his friends trudge ahead. “I heard you punched Vans.”

  Except for his friends and me, everyone is a last name to Aiden. He doesn’t even bother to learn people’s names.

  “Why?” I ask. “You’re going to tell your daddy about it?”

  Aiden raises an eyebrow. “Do you honestly think Jonathan needs me to tell him anything that happens in this school?”

  I scoff.

  He probably has paparazzi on us or some shit. Jonathan King owns this school — and probably everyone in it.

  There was a coffee shop that Aiden and I frequented a lot. What did Jonathan do? He bought the fucking thing.

  But hey, he didn’t do it blindly just because he’s a control freak and wants to cage us from every corner. No. That’s not how the tycoon of King Entreprises works.

  He studied the place like hell first and only took over the thing when he knew that it’d be two hundred per cent profitable.

  Oh, and yeah, he abso-fucking-lutely sent his harem of lawyers and PR team to intimidate the owners into selling.

  “You’re playing with fire, Lev.” Aiden’s words bring me back to the present.

  I stop and face him so we’re toe-to-toe. Only I have a few inches on him. “Yeah?”

  “One miss.” He raises an index finger. “Whether it’s alcohol, fights, or any disaster, and you’re done for with my daddy. It’s checkmate.”

  My jaw clenches so hard, my teeth hurt. I want to pummel Aiden into the wall and punch that smug look off his face.

  Before I can act on the impulse and give Uncle the trouble he’s been pining for, Ronan’s high-pitched voice breaks the tension. “Oh. Shit.”

  Cole winces as he throws me a look over his shoulder.

  “What is it?” I walk ahead of Aiden and stop short in front of my black Jaguar.

  On the windshield, there’s something written in white paint.

  ‘Run along, King. You don’t need to beg for it.’

  7

  Astrid

  I was forgotten until you said my name.

  * * *

  My muscles lock as I make my way down the marble, sweeping stairs. I’ve been living here for more than two years, but it still doesn’t feel like home.

  Itʼs a tower and Iʼm trapped.

  Nope. Not like Rapunzel or even Disney’s Tangled. This is the real-life version.

  Since Mumʼs death, Iʼve been nicknamed by the press as Cliffordʼs Hidden Princess. Because Dad hid me away for a whole fifteen years even though he and Mum were married for some time and I’m not an illegitimate child.

  Since the public revelation, I started to think that I might truly be a hidden, forgotten princess. Locked up in this mansion.

  One more year.

  With that splash of hope, I take a deep breath and cross the grandiose lounge area with gold-rimmed chesterfields and high platform ceilings.

  I peek through the dining area where my ‘family’ is having breakfast.

  “Morning,” I blurt, already heading to the exit. “I’m leaving for school.”

  “Astrid.” Dad’s calm but non-negotiable tone stops me in my tracks. “Come eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Sit down and eat.”

  I wince at the harshness in his command and my shoulders slump. With careful steps, I cross the gigantic dining room with its flawless marble flooring and stone fireplace. A few of the kitchen staff stand in waiting like an episode from freaking Downtown Abbey.

  I smile at Sarah, the head cook, but it must’ve come out as a grimace judging from the deep frown on her blond brows.

  At least I have a friendly face around. It helps that she makes me the most delicious chocolate smoothies and cheesecake.

  I flop on the chair at the tail of the table — which is the farthest seat from Dad and his
wife’s. Not meeting their gazes, I start gulping down raw jam and the cheesecake. I scarcely taste anything. The sooner I’m done with breakfast, the faster I’m out of here.

  “Honey, slow down.” My stepmother’s fake caring tone ruins my gluttonous mood. “Don’t worry. The food isn’t going anywhere.”

  I gulp the mouthful of cheesecake, finally tasting the smooth texture, and cut her a glare across the table.

  Victoria has an elegant aura about her. It’s in everything she wears or says. Even her tone is a flashback from a period film. Her blonde hair is gathered in a neat French twist. She’s wearing a straight high couture dress that must’ve caused a third country’s budget. A dainty necklace surrounds her smooth neckline and the matching earrings dangle from her ears. She keeps bragging that Dad got her the jewellery set for her birthday.

  Gag.

  She’s everything a lord’s wife should be. It’s like she was made straight from a manual.

  Victoria might look ten years younger than her actual age due to the facelifts and the aristocratic name, but she’s nothing like Mum.

  My mother was proud of her tattoos and her artistic streak. She was a free spirit meant to fly, not to be trapped in a mansion like Victoria. But then again, maybe that’s why Dad chose her over my mum.

  Since I came here, Victoria made it her job to throw jabs about my origins. If I eat fast, it’s because Mum kept me hungry. If I refuse the expensive gowns, it’s because I’m used to scraps. If I breathe, it’s only because I’m leeching off Dad’s name.

  “It’s different here, honey,” Victoria’s lips pull in a conservative smile as she does with the reporters. “You don’t have to worry about food.”

  “I never had to worry about food before either,” I say after swallowing another mouthful of Sarah’s cheesecake.

  Screw Victoria for insinuating that Mum didn’t take care of me. She was both my mother and my father rolled into one.

  I admired her for raising me on her own and being everything I needed.

  When I first showed interest in sketching, Mum stayed up all night modelling for me. When I was having a bad day, she’d take me on long drives, just the two of us.