Deposed (Kings of Mercia Academy Book 3)

by Sofia Daniel

  He padded inside, clasping his hands at his stomach. Gone were the usual smiles and confident posture, replaced by the vulnerable expression I’d only glimpsed last term during the times I had deliberately ignored him.

  “Is there anything you need?” he asked. “Water, juice, something hot?”

  I rubbed the front of my throat. “Water, please.”

  He gave me a sharp nod and bolted out of the room. My shoulders sagged. After everything he had done for me, why did I make him so uncomfortable?

  I wasn’t sure how much time passed, but when he returned with the glass of water, my eyelids felt so heavy, I just wanted to close my eyes and sleep for however long it would take my body to heal from Mr. Carbuncle’s attacks. Blake placed the glass to my lips, and I let the cool liquid spill onto my tongue and wash away the dry, bitter taste.

  “I’m sorry for the part I played in…” He waved his hand at me. “This.”

  “You weren’t the one who told them my location. That was Charlotte.”

  His face twisted. “If we hadn’t pushed you so far in the first term, you wouldn’t have gone after us, and Charlotte wouldn’t have set her brother onto you.”

  “Mr. Carbuncle did this.”

  “And who bribed him to open the door of your room so we could tamper with your things? It was us. Carbuncle would never have paid you much notice if we hadn’t been so hell-bent on toying with you.”

  I stared down at my hands folded over my lap. It was true. They had hurt me. I had hurt them back, and now I was hurt again. But this time, it was even worse than before.

  Blake slid his fingers over mine. “Everything that happened last term… the public disgrace, that stint in rehab, and the fallout from this term… I realize now that I brought it all onto myself.”

  “Are you saying I deserved the beating Mr. Carbuncle gave me?”

  “No! Never,” his voice was rough. “I’m saying that none of this would have happened if we’d just left you alone. Sorry just isn’t enough.”

  Tears gathered in my eyes and clouded my vision. I continued staring at our entwined hands, not knowing how to respond. Despite the painkiller and sedative, a deep ache formed in my heart and spread up to my throat, which felt raw from screaming. The memories of Mr. Carbuncle’s fists and feet and groping hands were too fresh for me to say I forgave anyone, but this was the heartfelt apology I had been seeking all of last term.

  Blake drew back, taking away the warmth of his touch. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

  I blinked and raised my head, making the tears drop onto the champagne-colored quilt. “Please, don’t go… I want you to stay with me.”

  He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath so deep, his entire chest expanded. “Emilia, do you know what you’re saying?” he asked in a single exhale. “Because—”

  “I wouldn’t be able to sleep without you at my side.”

  His gaze darted to the sleeping pills on the bedside, but he didn’t comment. “Alright.” He licked his lips. “B-but I don’t wear pajama tops.”

  “That’s fine.”

  He walked around the bed and peeled off his clothes. If I wasn’t feeling so groggy, I might have enjoyed the show, but a wave of fatigue had just washed over me, causing my eyes to droop. I sank further into the pillows and mattress. A yawn built up in the back of my throat, but my jaws were too stiff to open.

  The other side of the bed shifted. Blake climbed in and lay beside me on his back, his arms at his side, and his expression unnaturally neutral.

  “Do I look that hideous?” I asked.

  “No,” he said without looking at me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I…” A breath huffed out of his nostrils. “I don’t know what to do.” His pupils rotated to the corner of his eyes. “Don’t laugh.”

  I don’t know why. It was me who was drugged and who’d had the shit kicked out of me by Carbuncle, but a lump of pity formed in the back of my throat. Blake, the incorrigible flirt and consummate man-whore didn’t know what to do with a girl he wasn’t about to fuck. Blake, who lived in a palace, was the one acting intimidated in the presence of a girl who probably looked like the elephant man.

  “Let me lie on your shoulder?” I asked.

  He nodded and stretched out his left arm.

  I eased myself off Nurse Priya’s nest of pillows and laid my head on Blake’s shoulder. He was warm and firm and smelled of camphor and spice.

  “Do you need more water?” he asked.

  My eyes fluttered closed. “I’ll have something to drink later.”

  He gave me another kiss on the forehead. “You know… it’s alright to cry.”

  Warmth filled my heart, radiated throughout my chest, and released the knot of resentment I had held whenever I thought of the part Blake played during Edward and Charlotte’s campaign against me in the first term. I clasped his shoulder and squeezed.

  “Thank you, Blake.”

  Chapter 17

  Blake was already out of bed and halfway to the door by the time I awoke within Nurse Priya’s nest of pillows. Up ahead, and through the curtains of the four-poster bed, someone outside the room turned the door handle. Before the door swung more than two feet open, Blake jammed one side of his body against it, causing whoever stood behind the door to huff with indignation.

  “Master Blake.” A man’s clipped tones cut through the fog in my mind. He spoke with the haughtiness I’d only ever heard from people who worked in high-class establishments but acted like they could condescend to people who didn’t meet their standards. A tray protruded through the gap in the door. “I was informed you were back in residence, and—”

  “Breakfast? I’ll take that, thank you.” Blocking the door with his foot, Blake wrapped his hands around the tray and pulled it out of the man’s hands.

  “Will the young lady require something to eat?” asked the man, who I assumed was a palace servant.

  “There’s plenty here for two. Thank you.” Blake said the last two words with the tone most used to tell others to fuck off.

  I rubbed my fingers over my brow, and the entire left side of my face throbbed. Everything returned in a painful rush. Waking up in agony. Mr. Carbuncle’s attacks. That harrowing chase through the darkened balconies. A fog lifted from my mind, taking with it the effects of last night’s morphine and codeine, bringing forth a collision of aches and pains. A groan slipped from my lips.

  Blake flung his weight against the door and turned a lock. “Emilia!”

  I reached for the pill bottles on the side table, but the movement felt like a giant fist slamming into my ribs. I flinched. Through the side of my mouth that wasn’t swollen, I asked, “Painkillers, please?”

  Blake set down the tray on a side table with a clink of china and silverware, rushed to my side, and handed me a glass of orange juice. He disappeared behind the curtain of the four-poster again and returned with one of the prescription bottles. With hands that shook, Blake unscrewed the bottle, placed a pill between my lips, and brought the glass to the good side of my mouth.

  Cold, sweet liquid trickled on my tongue, drenching my dry mouth. It gathered in the back of my throat, dislodging the tablet from where it had stuck, allowing me to gulp the mixture down.

  A breath of relief escaped my lungs. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take long to work. “Thanks.”

  “Are you hungry?” he murmured.

  “Not really,” I slouched back into my nest of pillows. “But I suppose I’d better eat something so the painkiller doesn’t hurt my stomach.”

  Blake turned in the direction of the side table, where he had left the breakfast tray. “There’s porridge… And scrambled eggs. Those are soft, aren’t they?”

  I reached out, ignored the pain radiating through my ribs, and placed my fingertips on his forearm. “Thank you.”

  “What for?” He turned around, chocolate-brown eyes wide. His messy, black hair flopped over his face, framing his beautiful, high cheek-boned features t
o perfection.

  “For taking care of me.”

  I thought Blake would smile and say something flirty, but he just stared back with dark, haunted eyes and nodded. He walked back to the tray with his broad shoulders slumped and his head hung low.

  Sadness, tinged with a little guilt, washed over me. I dipped my chin to my tightening chest and let out a weary breath. Blake should be feeling proud, not disturbed. He had warned me not to go, then followed me all the way to London and rescued me from a terrible fate, yet he acted like he’d put the bruises on my face and body.

  Moments later, he returned with the whole tray and placed it over my lap. Its tall, splayed legs meant that the base of the tray hovered several inches over my body, giving me enough space to turn if I needed it. Whoever had prepared his breakfast had laden it with more than a single person could eat. A bowl of fruit salad, porridge, a full English breakfast, and a rack of toast sat on that tray, along with a small pot of tea, a cup and saucer, a milk jug, butter, marmalade, silverware and condiments.

  “Help yourself to anything,” he stepped away and wrapped his arms around his bare chest.

  “Sit with me,” I said.

  Blake pulled up a velvet cocktail chair and brought it to my bedside. While I picked at the porridge, he worked his way through every other dish on that tray. As he ate, he stole nervous glances, looking like he wanted to say something. Each time I met his gaze, he would turn back to his food without speaking. There was only so much I could keep down with a stomach that felt like it had been caved in with a battering ram, and when I declared myself finished, Blake left the tray outside and shut the door.

  Enough time had passed that the painkiller melted away the bulk of the pain, taking with it a layer of tension. I let my gaze wander around. It reminded me of one of those hotel rooms made up to look like a palace, except this was the real thing. Heavy, champagne-colored silk curtains hung from the four-poster, giving me a glimpse of alabaster walls and the cream carpet I had seen the previous night. Most of the furniture were carved ornamental pieces with gilded bronze handles and ornaments.

  The only thing that looked vaguely out of place was a black-and-white photo on the wall, depicting a dark-haired, high cheek-boned woman who could easily have been a model. She stood next to a pale, nondescript man with a curled mustache.

  “Are those your parents?” I asked.

  Blake returned to the bedside chair and gave me a wan smile. His gaze lingered over the swollen side of my face, which made my fingers twitch to explore the damage. I didn’t in case it brought the pain back.

  “Yes,” he replied. “That’s my mother and father on their wedding day.”

  I eyed her ivory dress with its 1980’s shoulder pads and a plunging neckline that dipped down to her sternum. “She’s not wearing a wedding dress.”

  “They married in Chelsea Town Hall. Bridal wear was optional.”

  “Oh. Were they married for long?”

  He glanced down into his clasped hands. “Until the beginning of my second year.”

  I would have said I was sorry, but some divorces were actually beneficial. For example, Dad didn’t realize he had a drug problem until the moment he discovered Mom left and had taken me with her.

  “My father’s mental state deteriorated when my mother befriended the prince.”

  I swallowed. During our supposed captivity, Henry had mentioned something about Blake’s promiscuous mother driving his father to drink. I kept silent, not wanting to probe. Since the man had died in an alcohol-related car accident, I let it up to Blake to decide if he wanted to continue on the subject.

  He rested his forearms on his knees and blew hair out of his eyes through the side of his mouth. “My father described her as the kind of woman who drives men wild but not away. She’s a free spirit, I suppose, but he couldn’t see that until it was too late.”

  “I’m… sorry.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “I’m not,” he said in a tight voice. “He pinned all his hopes on the one woman who would never stay faithful. And even when she divorced him and married the prince, he couldn’t move on. A man should be dignified about these things, but he fell apart in front of the nation.”

  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.