Cruel King (Royal Elite #0) by Rina Kent

Especially now when everything, even the fucking air, is clawing up my throat and suffocating my breathing.

Ignoring Chloe’s protests, I breeze through the crowd, snatching a cigarette from between Xander’s fingers on the way out.

As soon as the outside cool air hits me, I take a drag and blow a cloud of smoke in the distance.

I’m not a smoker, but whenever it feels like shit is closing in on me, nicotine chases the fog away. There are also the happy pills some of the guys use, but I promised myself to never come within two inches of that poison.

Not after what happened in the past.

It’s one of those nights where everything feels fucking wrong.

Wrong place.

Wrong mindset.

Wrong bloody air.

The only thing that keeps flashing in my mind is the look of horror and despair on those teary eyes as she stared up at me.

The way she begged even though she’s not the type to.

I meant to scare her, put her in her place, and teach her that there’s no crossing me.

But as I stared at the terror in her gaze and felt her shrink and tremble against me, something strange happened.

I had doubts.

I have doubts.

For my entire life, I’ve been taught to be assertive. Once I plan everything to a T and study every possible outcome, I shouldn’t look twice before forging ahead.

After all, no battles were won by just holding down the fort.

My family is known for its boldness whether in business, social, or political situations. We don’t back down once we put our sights on something.

Tonight shouldn’t have been any different.

Yet… it was.

Maybe I took it too far. Maybe I triggered some sort of a trauma that she struggled to keep buried inside.

Her voice sounded hauntingly similar to that black night.

I run a hand through my hair and throw the cigarette away.

It’s over.

It’s done.

That should teach Astrid her place.

Judging from how Daniel is singing with Ronan, it seems she didn’t bother to call or text him.

Not sure if that should delight or anger me.

A part of me is glad the whole thing is done, but the other part, the most confusing fucking part feels emptier and blacker than I did at the beginning of the night.

This is supposed to be my win but I don’t feel victorious.





14





Astrid





I don’t hate you, I hate my weakness.



* * *



I hide in the confines of my room underneath the blanket, breathing my own air.

For always chastising myself about feeling strong, I don’t anymore.

I spent the entire night curled into a fetal position beneath the blanket crying until no more tears came out.

There are no words to describe the amount of hate I feel for myself for letting him — or them — get to me.

How am I to survive in the big, vast world if I can’t even stand up for myself?

Is leaving Dad’s house real freedom or am I just deluding myself?

All these chaotic questions never left me the entire night. I thought about Mum and her strength and that only brought more self-hatred for not being more like her.

I thought about Dad and his power and how I didn’t inherit an ounce of it.

I thought about college and my art and how I have no idea where I’m going from here.

It’s been all crashing down on me. I don’t know how to stop it — or if I can stop it.

Last night, in the aftershock of adrenaline and fear, I learnt something important.

I never really had control over my life.

All this time, I’ve been floating like an aimless object with no landing zone in sight.

The door opens and I still, holding my breaths. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone — even Sarah.

She’s been checking up on me, but I told her that I wanted to be alone.

The bed dips as a weight settles on the edge. His strong cedar scent gives him away before he speaks.

“Sarah said you’re staying in sick today?” Dad asks in his usual calm tone.

I make an affirmative sound without changing my position.

A sigh comes from my left. It’s not annoyance, but more like resignation — or something similar. He makes the same sound every time he comes to adjust my blanket at night.

It’s the only habit Dad has kept doing since I came to this house.

Every night, he readjusts my blanket as if I’m a child and murmurs, “Night, Star.”

I always pretended to be asleep, or maybe he only comes when he thinks I’m asleep.

He’s been doing that religiously, even during the nights when he’s caught up late with work. The only time he misses his habit is when he’s abroad. Even then, he sends me my goodnight wish in a text.

When he came last night, I resisted the urge to turn around and cry in his arms. I’m still tempted to do it now, but I stop myself.

His ‘Goodnights’ aren’t fatherly, they’re obligatory. Dad’s upbringing and aristocratic name are all about manners and etiquette. I’m sure he gives Nicole her ‘Goodnights’, too.

“Is it because of the accident? Are you having nightmares?” he asks. “I’ll call Dr Edmonds.”

The shrink is Dad’s solution for everything.

“No, I’m just down with something.” Like my dignity.