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

by Sofia Daniel

  I sat up. “What?”

  “It won’t budge.” She twisted again, making a little straining noise in the back of her throat.

  “Let me try.” I swung my legs off the bed and strode to the door. Rita stepped aside, and I tried the knob. “It’s totally jammed.”

  “Right.” She bowed her head. “The war.”

  I closed my eyes for a couple of seconds and opened them, incredulity making my brows crinkle. “A prank war. Can’t they think of anything more mature?”

  Rita walked to her desk drawer and pulled out her smartphone. “We’ll have to call someone.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Mr. Carbuncle, the caretaker.” She placed the phone to her ear and tapped her foot. After several moments, she said, “It’s gone to voicemail.”

  “Ugh.” I called Marissa, who answered in two rings. After explaining the situation to her, she assured me she would continue ringing the headmaster’s office until someone dealt with the problem. My shoulders dropped with relief. She’d still been outraged from the rude treatment she’d received from the headmaster and the students. I’d let her take out her anger on them.

  Less than half an hour later, after I’d showered and dressed, the door opened without a knock. A gorilla-sized janitor with a thick mustache with dirty-blond hair that skimmed the collar of his blue overalls stepped into the room as though we were invisible, tracking in dust with his boots.

  He held the lock in his giant paw and shook his head. “This door is centuries old. I’ll have to take it off its hinges for fixing.”

  “What was wrong with it?” I asked.

  His nailbrush mustache twitched. “One of you girls must have jammed the lock. That’s two demerits each for damaging school property.”

  I glanced at Rita, who cringed. Apparently, even the janitors could dish out punishments. “I locked the door last night, and I didn’t jam it.”

  “If it weren’t you, who did?” he asked.

  “Try Edward Mercia. Or Blake Simpson-West and Henry Bourneville. The three of them declared war on me at dinner.”

  The janitor snorted. “Why would Mr. Edward damage his own property?”

  I pursed my lips. Mr. Edward. That was all I needed to know. He’d probably ordered the janitor to sabotage our lock.

  Mr. Carbuncle ran his tongue along the bristly underside of his mustache. “If I can’t fix the lock, the door will need replacing, and you’ll be billed for the damage. Should I split the invoice fifty-fifty?”

  Rita made a pained warble in the back of her throat.

  I stepped forward. “No. It was me they declared war on, not her.”

  We walked to breakfast, leaving Mr. Carbuncle in our room, who tinkered with the door. The dining room was deserted, likely because we’d missed first period having to wait around for the janitor to arrive. One of the servers placed a full English in front of me, consisting of sausages, pale soggy bacon, beans in a tomato sauce, fried eggs, and blood sausage. My eyes bulged at the sheer amount of food.

  Rita clapped her hand over her mouth and giggled. “You don’t have to eat it all.”

  “Not if I want to fall into a coma.” The breakfast actually tasted great, and after eating my full, I glanced at my schedule. “I have second period free. How about you?”

  “Mine’s free, too,” she replied. “Do you want to study together?”

  “Actually, I was thinking we could take a break. What do people do for fun around here?”

  “There’s the common room.”

  “Are there games?”

  Her brows drew together. “I’ve never been there.”

  With a smile, I pulled her out of her seat, and we headed out of the dining room toward the common room. It would be empty at this time of the morning, and after the day I’d had yesterday, a game of cards or chess would be a relaxing break. The common room turned out to be a wood-paneled space warmed by a roaring fire, narrow windows and a mix of black sofas embroidered with silk thread and matching armchairs arranged around low tables. I whistled. This was really nice.

  A chessboard already lay at a table close to the window with a box of pieces at its side. Rita and I sat at opposite armchairs around the table, and I slid the lid off the box, revealing elegantly carved pieces that could have been a century old. “Do you know how to play?”

  She grinned. “Of course.”

  “You seem very confident about your abilities.” I set out the pieces on the board. “We’ll see who emerges the victor.”

  “Yelverton,” snapped a male voice.

  I glanced up to find Edward striding toward us, flanked by Blake and Charlotte. His cold, blue eyes blazed, and memories of last night’s dream rose to the surface, causing the pulse between my legs to pound. Hot humiliation rose to my cheeks, and I bit down hard on my bottom lip. This wasn’t right. I should be disgusted by him, not excited. I couldn’t let them see my reaction—any of it. I jerked my head away and stared into the chessboard, breathing hard to stave off a full-body flush.

  “Y-yes?” Rita replied.

  “How do you address the future Duke of Mercia?”

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, sir?”

  Shame morphed into anger, and my nostrils flared. Until he inherited his stupid title and actually made something of himself apart from a mindless bully, he didn’t deserve anything except contempt.

  “Give Simpson-West your satchel,” he said in cool tones.

  Without any hesitation, Rita reached down and picked her bag off the ground.

  I clenched my teeth. “What are you—?”

  “Nobody’s talking to you, trollop.” His eyes flashed, and he bared straight, white teeth.

  “Apart from you,” I snapped back. “By your own admission, you’re a nobody.”

  Edward’s lips tightened into a thin line. “You’d better watch yourself, Yank.”

  “Or what?” I asked. “You’ll bore me to death with lame pranks and mindless threats?”

  The scent of burned leather filled the air. Rita clapped her hands over her mouth and smothered a cry. Tears filled her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. I whirled around. Blake stood at the fireplace, dangling her satchel over the flames and scorching the leather.

  I rushed out of my seat, across the room, and snatched the satchel out of his grip. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “It’s all a bit of harmless fun, Hobson.” He waggled his brows. “You ought to try it. Might loosen you up.”

  “I’m game any time you want me to push you in the fire. Because the next time you damage either of our property, I’ll damage you.” With a toss of my hair, I headed back to our table and passed Charlotte as though she didn’t exist.

  Edward let out a weary sigh. “Must you be such a melodramatic trollop?”

  “Must you be such an attention-seeking asshole?” I tried mimicking his bored, English accent, but I sounded more like the evil uncle from the Lion King.

  His lip curled. “Don’t test me.”

  I sat on the armchair. Rita squeaked something, but I was too busy trying not to notice Edward’s deep, blue eyes. If life was fair, they would be red and slitted. “I thought you’d already declared wa—” wetness seeped through my skirt and down my legs.

  I leaped out of my seat and turned around, trying to examine the back of my lower half. “What the fuck did you do?”

  He tilted his head to the side and smirked. “Don’t blame me. Blame Mother Nature.”

  Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “Don’t you have sanitary products in America, trollop? I swear, even the most primitive of women have the sense to stuff rags down their knickers.”

  I pulled the back of my skirt round to my side and snarled at the patch of reddish-brown liquid. The bastards had made it look so realistic. At least with bright red coloring, I could make people believe I’d been pranked.

  Blake stood by the fireplace, grinning with mirth. “Smile for the camera, dear. You’re on the Mercia-Ne
t!”

  I snatched up my satchel and stormed out of the common room. A crowd of people gathered in the hallway jeering, insulting and recording my humiliation.

  “Bloody trollop,” shouted one boy.

  “Ha-ha! Good one, Reeves,” yelled someone else. “The Yank is a bloody trollop.”

  I took the stairs two at a time with Rita at my heels, holding up her charred satchel to hide the shame those idiots had foisted on me. Whatever they’d poured onto the sofa still hadn’t dried, making the backs of my legs sticky and wet. I’d have to shower it off, put on my spare skirt, and tell anyone who wanted to talk about what was posted on the Mercia-Net to fuck off.

  When we reached our room, Mr. Carbuncle still knelt at the doorway, squinting at the lock and adjusting it with a thin screwdriver.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  He shifted a foot to the side, giving me just enough room to pass by his bulk. “I see you’ve soiled yourself. Another demerit.”

  I whirled around, fists clenched. “This is the work of your precious Mr. Edward and his friends.”

  “I doubt that Mr. Edward is capable of changing a woman’s tide,” he muttered.

  A scream of frustration stuck in my throat, and I flung open my case and pulled out one of my spare school skirts. It had the same patch of blood at its back, as did my other skirt, my track pants, regulation leggings, and every other piece of uniform I might have been able to wear instead of my skirt. I closed my eyes. “The stupid, vindictive assholes!”

  “Another demerit for swearing,” mumbled Mr. Carbuncle.

  Rita placed her charred bag on the floor and wrung her hands. “I tried to say something, but you sat down too quickly.”

  I blew out my frustration in a long breath. “You’re not to blame for any of this, all right?”

  She turned her gaze to the satchel, not making any eye contact. “Why don’t we wash your clothes in cold water? That always works for me.”

  The janitor muttered something unintelligible from his position on the floor. I blinked. Blake, Charlotte, and Edward would have carried out their act of sabotage while we were at breakfast. While Mr. Carbuncle had been fixing our door.

  I whirled on the kneeling man. “Who came here while we were gone?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied.

  “All my school skirts and pants were fine last night and this morning when the door was locked. Someone came in while we were at breakfast and tampered with my clothes. Who did it?”

  “I was here all morning and didn’t see a thing,” he said without looking up.

  “You’re aiding and abetting vandalism.” I stuck my finger under his nose. “If you don’t tell me who came in here, I’ll report you.”

  He pulled himself to his feet, mustache quivering like it had a life on its own. “Ungrateful. This whole job took me hours I could have spent not fixing your mistakes. Here. The lock is fixed. Next time, don’t mess around with them.”

  “Drop dead.” I shook my head. If he didn’t let someone in to pour dye on my clothes, then Mr. Edward paid him to perform this act of sabotage. “Just drop dead.”

  He huffed. “Two demerits, and I’ll be happy to tell the headmaster of your conduct.”

  “If you ever get a hold of him.”

  The next class was English Literature, all the way across campus in the teaching block. I wrapped my blazer around my waist and set off. A thousand demerits were better than being accused of not changing my tampon. It was the kind of thing that stained a girl’s reputation for years.

  Our teacher, an elderly woman named Miss Okeley, who wore her hair in a messy bun, took one look at my blazer around my waist. “One demerit, Miss Hobson, for not being properly dressed.”

  Charlotte raised her hand. “Please, Miss Okeley, please don’t punish Hobson for something that wasn’t even her fault!”

  The old woman adjusted her black, academic robes, thin lips twisted with disapproval. “There are no exceptions to the rules, Miss Underwood. All students must wear proper attire unless permitted otherwise.”

  Charlotte stood and clasped her hands to her ample chest. “You see, Miss, poor Hobson is suffering from extremely heavy periods because she had to endure rough sex for money. It completely ruptured her cervix.”

  I drew in a shocked breath through my teeth. Amused gasps filled the room, and Miss Okely clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes swimming with tears. My eyes narrowed. Where were Charlotte’s demerits for saying such outrageous lies in the middle of English Lit? Where was her demerit for slander? Or her demerit for putting realistic fake blood on the back of my skirt?

  Miss Oakley handed me a rolled up newspaper. “You’d better sit on this, Miss Hobson.”

  Snickers spread around the classroom, making my insides want to shrivel up and die.

  “This is no laughing matter,” said the old woman. She turned to me with a kindly smile. “Ten credits for bravery, Miss Hobson, and five to Miss Underwood for defending your friend.”

  I groaned. The old woman had lost her mind if she believed Charlotte’s filthy lie.

  Miss Oakley’s light blue eyes twinkled. “You know, there was a film a few years ago, starring a young woman like you. What was it called?”

  “Pretty Woman,” said someone at the back of the class.

  My shoulders stiffened. Was my teacher calling me a prostitute now?

  “Oh… it was starring Richard Newman.” Miss Oakley’s face broke into a smile of worn, yellowing teeth. “That’s it. Pretty Lady! Keep your chin up, dear. Regardless of your previous circumstances, Mercia Academy will give you a chance for a better life.”

  I sat on the newspaper, hatred simmering like banked coals in my belly, trying not to react to the howls of laughter filling the room. If my hands weren’t already convulsing with rage, I would have given Charlotte the finger… straight in her eye. I stared ahead, focusing on my breaths and willing the rest of the day to fast forward so I could seek out a spare uniform. I’d well and truly received their declaration of war, and I was ready to fight back with every dirty trick in my arsenal.

  Chapter 6

  I couldn’t get the stains out of my skirts and neither could the house matron. For the rest of the week, I had to wear my blazer around my waist and to endure idiots throwing tampons at me while the school outfitters made up some new skirts. Each morning at mid-break, I would rush to the mailboxes in the entrance hall to see if the new skirts and pants had arrived, and each morning, I would find some kind of sanitary product or a note telling me to go home… trollop.

  It was clear that Edward, one of the others in the triumvirate, or Charlotte and her doppelgängers had sabotaged my order. How long did it take to make up a gray skirt? They should have had them in stock. Twice, I called to check, but the snooty woman on the phone said she couldn’t rush the process. Whatever that meant.

  On Tuesday morning, I stepped into the entrance hall to find Edward, Blake, Charlotte and the doppelgängers huddled together around a table close to the mailboxes. As soon as I heard the words bloody yank and trollop, my heart flip-flopped. My package had arrived, and they were doing something to my clothes.

  I strode over, fists clenched. “What’s going on?”

  Edward was the first to turn. His gaze flickered up and down my body, lingering on my B-cup breasts for longer than needed, then he tightened his lips as though to say he found them lacking. My insides writhed with shame, and a prickly heat rose from my chest and up my neck. I sucked in a breath and clenched my teeth, not daring to let him see how badly he’d upset me.

  “What do you want, you bloody trollop?” he asked.

  I flinched. Hearing those words flung at me in that commanding voice stung. I tried not to let the hurt show on my face and walked around him, acting like he didn’t exist. “Is that my package?”

  “Not everything revolves around you, Trollop.” Charlotte twisted her body, hiding something behind her back.

  I rushe
d forward, but Blake snatched the package out of reach, making me clamber after him with a snarl. “Give that to me!”

  “With pleasure, my dear.” He stepped back, holding it above his head, face split into a mischievous grin, chocolate-brown eyes sparkling with challenge. It was the sort of look that said, ‘if you want it, come and get it.’ The sort of look that made my nipples tighten and made heat pool low in my belly. Who wouldn’t want the full attention of Blake Simpson-West? Especially when the loose curls framed his brow so perfectly, and that fine, sculpted chest already heaved in anticipation for a close contact wrestling match?

  Somewhere, through the rush of blood through my eardrums, I heard the beep of a camera phone. I stopped advancing on Blake and glared at the taller doppelgänger who stood twelve feet away, holding a smartphone at the ready for the oncoming spectacle. She wanted me to rush forward and try to snatch my property while the others laughed and hooted at the trollop manhandling their friend. Well, I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction… or the footage.

  I feinted toward the doppelgänger, dodged left, spun Charlotte around, and snatched the bottle of ink out of her hands. “Is this what you used to ruin my clothes?”

  She stepped back, red blotches appearing on her cheeks. “What are you talking about?”

  I untwisted the cap off the bottle and wielded it like a weapon. “Give me my package, or this ink gets on all of you!”

  “What?” she screeched.

  Edward’s nostrils flared. “Give it to her.”

  I straightened. Why were they giving up so easily?

  “But I was having so much fun.” Blake lowered the package to chest level and strode to the table, his dark eyes fixed on mine, and a smirk dancing across his full lips.

  I stepped back, not trusting any of them to make a last-minute lunge, snatch the open bottle of ink, and pour it over me and my new clothes. “Don’t try anything stupid, or you’ll get a face-full of ink.”

  “Message received and understood.” He placed the package on the table and backed away, palms up, as though I was holding a grenade.

  “Crazy bitch,” muttered one of Charlotte’s doppelgängers.