Contents
Copyright and Legal Information
Other Titles
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Acknowledgements
Copyright and Legal Information
Copyright © Rachel M Raithby
Publish date Jan 11th 2020
All rights reserved.
Cover & Interior Images by Rob Smith
Formatting by Kat Smith
CreationInspire
Editing by
Hot Tree Editing
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the copyright owners.
Other Titles
THE NEW DAWN NOVELS
(YA Fantasy)
Winter Wolf
Wolf Dancer
Wolf Sight
Lost Wolf
Wolf Clash
Wolf Queen (coming May 2020)
THE DEADWOOD HUNTER SERIES
(Adult PNR)
Lexia
Whispers of Darkness
Holocaust
Betrayal
Surrender
STANDALONE
ADULT NOVELLAS
(Fantasy)
The Beast Within (Woodland Creek)
Deaths Echo (The Complex)
ALBANY NIGHTINGALE DUET
(High-School Bully Romance)
The Destruction of Rose
The Resurrection of Us (March 2020)
Dedication
To Helen.
Who helped me find my voice.
Thank you for all you’ve done
Reader Group & Newsletter
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Note to Readers
This book has been written with the spelling and language that reflects the characters,
It contains some spelling, euphemisms and slang that form a part of the British spoken word.
Prologue
I had my first kiss at age thirteen. It was during the one and only summer I spent with my grandparents in New York City on the Upper East Side… a summer I remember anyway. When I was four, my parents left New York to fly across the pond and set up home in London. My memories before London are hazy, flickers of a story I can’t remember living.
On the summer of my thirteenth year, my parents went on a luxury cruise, and I was put on a plane and sent to the grandparents I barely knew. Sure, they sent cards and a ridiculous amount of money for my birthday and Christmas each year, but I didn’t know them. I can recall maybe two phone conversations with them over my entire childhood.
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting when I arrived, but it certainly wasn’t being put in my own suite at one of the hotels my grandparents owned and more or less being left to fend for myself. With room service on tap and my own personal slave, I wasn’t going to starve, and the first few days of ordering her around and having her organize trips and drivers and whatever else my immature thirteen-year-old brain could think up was fun. But then it wasn’t, and I was left with over three weeks of nothing but mindless boredom.
It was on the third day into my boredom, when I was contemplating attempting to book myself a flight home to my friends, that I met him—Ashton Cole. My first real crush and the boy I’d have my first kiss with. You know, the real kind, with tongue and these feelings that rush through your body and make you want to do irresponsible, crazy things. I bumped into him while trying to read a street sign and got knocked on my arse. He took pity on the poor British tourist and offered to show me around, and from then on, we were inseparable.
Three weeks were spent with Ash. We hung at his apartment in Brooklyn, and he came to my hotel room where we’d order huge amounts of food and stuff ourselves silly. I spent days beside him in Central Park watching clouds pass by while talking about all kinds of things. We played video games and visited New York’s tourist spots, and then on my last week, he rolled over and leant on his elbow above me as I lay on the grass. I remember my heart kicking up speed as his cinnamon-dusted eyes gazed down at me. He didn’t say a word, but I knew what he wanted. It was written right there on his face for me to see. The kiss was sweet and perfect and something I’ve never really forgotten. Of course, the kisses got better, less messy and unskilled. But the flutter in my chest, the catch of our breaths; none of it ever really compared after Ash.
Ashton Cole ruined me for all the other boys to come, and in my head, I pictured him ruined too. But I should have known better than to think there was a boy in New York comparing me to others over the years. I should have told my stupid heart to shut up as his emails became less and less frequent, until there was none. But as I grew older, I convinced myself he didn’t matter. I became wrapped up in other boys and social status. I became a person Ash wouldn’t recognize.
I became the queen of St. Paul’s Grammar.
Becoming the queen took hard work and a lot of scheming. Staying the queen was even harder. My pursuit of a kiss was more for status than the flutter of my heart, and I’d convinced myself it was all that mattered. I was on top. I had a privileged, blessed life unfolding before me. I thought I was invincible. I thought my reign was set in stone. I never realized how fragile it all was until I fell from grace.
When my world tore apart, I recalled my summer with my grandparents. Longing for its simplicity. But it wasn’t until I set eyes on Ash again that I realized he’d never left my mind at all. I’d buried him, but not erased him. And for just a second as I walked on feet that seemed to float, with a heart that fluttered again, I thought life could turn around as fast as it had burned.
But it turned out Ashton Cole had changed too. Only he still wore his crown, while mine… it’s twisted and bent. Never to be worn again.
Chapter 1
“Oh my God, did you see Lyla’s outfit at the party?”
“I swear, I’ve seen charity shops sell better.”
“How’d she get in anyway?”
“It’s Eric’s fault. He kissed her like… once and she suddenly thinks she’s one of us.”
“I heard the kiss was a dare.”
“No way!”
“Rose, is that true? Rose?”
&nbs
p; Their voices are nothing but white noise in my mind, the catty nonsense they’re spouting not enthralling enough to pull me from my thoughts. My interaction with my father this morning plays over and over in my mind. The hug, the kiss on my cheek. The way he stared at me for a moment too long with regret in his dark brown eyes.
“I love you, sweetie,” he’d said as if I’d need to remember. When I can’t remember the last time he actually said those three words to begin with. The whole interaction felt so… final. But it can’t be final. We live together. He’s my father. Right?
“Hello? Rose!”
I snap my gaze to Stephanie’s as her hand waves in front of my face.
“Rude much,” I snap, glaring.
She glares back. “Erm, we were talking to you.” Her eyebrows rise expectantly as if she assumes I’m going to apologize for flaking.
I’m queen around here, bitch, I think as I study the group of girls around me. They aren’t my friends really, more like my underlings. Only Clare gets that privilege, but she’s not here today; she already messaged me this morning to say she’s sick. I’m kinda annoyed really because I could have done with discussing my father’s weird interaction with her.
Stephanie is still staring at me, waiting. Doesn’t she know I apologize to no one? I’m on top. She bows to my feet.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had anything interesting to say,” I reply, my tone so polite it cuts.
The others snigger as her gaze drops, and for a second, I think she might cry. Regret surges through me, but it doesn’t stay long enough to really sink in. I worked hard to get where I am. I was once like Stephanie, wishing to be the queen, but wishing gets you nowhere. It takes cunning and patience, and either one of two things—the current queen passes down her mantle as she moves on to better things, or the crown’s ripped from her head, the blood of her dreams splattered around her. And Stephanie… she’s got a long way to go if she thinks she’ll be able to steal my throne from me.
The bell chimes the start of classes and I turn away without another word, striding through the school’s halls to my first lesson of the day. I don’t look to see if Stephanie and the others are following; it’s a certainty, and together, we enter class with the envy or hate of those around us.
“Morning, babe,” Luke says as he slips into the seat beside me, his hand landing on my bare knee. “Where’s Clare?”
“She’s sick,” I reply, looking sweetly into his eyes, ignoring the fact his hand is making its way up my leg and under the hem of my skirt.
“My gain.” He grins.
“Perv,” I answer, leaning in for a kiss.
“Miss Keeley, Mr. Brooksbank, do I need to separate you?”
Luke chuckles as he releases my lips, and I sigh as I plaster an innocent smile on my face.
“No, Mr. Davies.”
The class begins and I struggle to hold my concentration. Luke’s hand makes it to the edge of my knickers three times before I snap. “I swear to God, Luke, I’m going to break your fingers if you don’t give it a rest.”
“You weren’t complaining last night,” he murmurs softly.
My thighs clench automatically at the remembered pleasure Luke’s fingers and mouth tore from my body. But I shake it off, keeping my face the epitome of demure. “Time and a place, Luke. I’ve a reputation to keep. I’m a good girl, remember.”
“If you say so.” He smirks but goes back to pretending to work.
I return my attention back to the math equations in front of me, but instead of concentrating on numbers, I find my father’s face entering my mind again. The other thing that’s bothering me is the fact my mother wasn’t present at all. Nor was Emily our housekeeper. I should have asked him why Mother wasn’t there, but I was so enthralled with having his attention—attention that began to dwindle a year ago—That I didn’t give it enough thought.
The speaker system crackles through the air, the old-fashioned set-up screeching as my name is announced.
“Principal’s office? What have you done, Rose? Has the headmaster found out just how much you like my fingers deep up your cunt?” Luke whispers.
I screw up my face. “Don’t be so vile, Luke.” If his last name wasn’t Brooksbank and his family wasn’t wealthy and important, I’d have told him to get lost months ago.
“Off you go, Miss Keeley,” Mr. Davis instructs.
Packing my things into my bag, my mind races. I have no idea what this is about. People generally don’t get called out in the middle of class unless they’ve done something wrong, and I never do anything wrong. Well, I don’t get caught doing anything wrong anyway. I’m on top of most of my classes, and I have a near 100 percent attendance. There isn’t a reason why I’d need to go to the principal’s office.
“Hey,” Luke whispers, taking my hand and squeezing. “It’s probably something stupid, like asking you to organize this year’s fundraiser or something.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. But I’m already organizing that….
Leaving the classroom, I walk toward the office with my father’s face haunting my mind. Something is wrong. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. It’s instinct. The body’s way of warning you something terrible is coming so you can turn and run. But I don’t run. Humans rarely do. We head straight into the doom beckoning us forward, fully aware it’s coming. Yet when it strikes, we are no better prepared. Instincts suck. We just end up suffering before the real crisis hits.
“Miss Keeley,” the receptionist says as I approach. “There is a car waiting for you outside. There’s a family emergency you must attend.”
Emergency? “What type of emergency?” I ask as ringing starts in my head.
“I’m not sure. Your mother said it was quite urgent and you needed to leave right away. Best be off,” she finishes when I’ve made no attempt to move, flicking her hand toward the ornate double doors, which lead outside.
Following her instructions without a word, I push through the heavy wooden doors into the gloomy day. Summer has nearly ended, school only just beginning for another year, but this is England, and our weather never really gets the message. It’s as dark and dreary as winter and likely to start raining soon.
I don’t recognize the driver as I slip into the back of the idling black sedan.
“Miss Keeley?” he says as I close the door behind me. He’s far younger than our normal driver and not the familiar friendly face I was hoping for.
“Where’s George?” I ask.
“Your mother has sent for you,” he answers instead.
“So why didn’t she send George?” I snap.
“I only know what I’m told, miss.”
“Fine.” I sigh, buckling my seat belt. “So you have no idea what this is about?”
“No, miss,” he replies, but I’ve played this game long enough to know when someone is lying. Not that questioning him is going to help. I’ll have to wait for the twenty-five-minute drive to be over and ask my mother myself.
Maybe Father’s ill? Maybe that’s why he said I love you….
I swallow the sudden anxiety threatening to make me sick and slide a cool, calm, mask onto my face. Being yourself isn’t always the best thing. Sometimes it’s easier to be someone else. To slip on a persona the world sees and bury your true emotions deep, deep down. So far down, in fact, you often forget they were there to begin with.
As the driver pulls to a stop outside of my Victorian-era home, it looks its usual regal white self. It has three stories and a cute porch over an emerald green door. The top floor boasts a small balcony, which comes out over the large bay windows on the lower levels. The small garden out front is as pristine and pruned as my eyebrows. Nothing looks out of sorts or unusual, and it’s only when I walk through the wrought iron gate and up the stone porch steps, past the oval-shaped hedges in sparking white pots that I hear the arguing inside the house.
Arguing isn’t unusual in my house. But the way my mother throws her words with a pitch of hyst
eria is. There are no polite remarks with the intent to cut, no hushed disagreements being thrown without raising their voices; it’s is an all-out war. It’s screaming and yelling, and as I walk into my home and witness my parents going at each other like they’ve never done before, I have absolutely no idea what to say or do.
Frozen, I wait for one of them to notice me, the door wide open at my back. This is what my mother notices first, not me, shocked and confused, but the open door allowing her craziness out into the world.
“Rose, close the door,” she snaps as if I’m stupid. “Whatever are you thinking?”
I glance back at the open door in confusion. What am I thinking? What am I thinking!?
Marching the two paces back, I slam the door as hard as I can before spinning around to glare at my mother. “What am I thinking? Well, I’m not sure, Mother. Maybe what the hell I’m doing here instead of in school and why it seems you’ve called me out to witness the two of you lose your shit.”
“Language,” she mutters.
I stare in disbelief. Language… really?
“You called her out of school?” my father demands.
“Of course, I did. Surely you didn’t expect me to leave her here with you?” my mother replies as if his question is stupid.
“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” I yell.
“Nothing, sweetie,” my father replies, attempting to smile.
Scoffing, my mother adds, “We’re moving to New York, Rose. Go pack your things.”
Pack… New York…. I’m so confused I can’t form words.
“Neither of you are going to New York.” My father cuts in. “I told you I’ve handled it. There may be a small scandal, but nothing that won’t blow over, and we can go along as we always have.”
“What with you manipulating and stealing your way through some more of our friends?”
Stealing…?
“He deserved what he got for fucking my wife,” my father shouts.
I suck in an audible breath and both my parents look at me as if they’ve just remembered I’m here. “Y- You’ve what?” I stammer, staring wide-eyed at my mother. The mother who does nothing but drum into me how perfect and ladylike I must be when she’s been sleeping with another man. “Who?” I ask when I’m not sure I really want to know.
The Destruction of Rose: A High School Bully Romance (Albany Nightingale Duet Book 1) Page 1