Cruel King (Royal Elite #0) by Rina Kent

“You little bitch,” Nicole snarls in my face, “You and your slut of a mother were and will always be nothing to Uncle Henry. You’re just used tissue that can be thrown any second.”

I raise my fist and punch Nicole in the face.

It’s a knee-jerk reaction. Something that comes in the ruse of the moment.

Hearing her talk about my mother that way brings a rolling wave of rage.

No one, absolutely no one, badmouths my mother and gets away with it.

Nicole and Victoria shriek at the same time as the younger girl falls against the table clutching her face.

Nicole straightens with her eyes shimmering. She fists her hands, and I hold my ground.

Bring it. I’m ready for a fight to the death with her right now.

Victoria pulls her daughter back by the collar of her dress.

“Oh, Henry. I don’t know what’s wrong with Astrid.” She caresses Nicole’s hair. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.”

My muscles lock at the mention of Dad’s name. Measured footsteps come from behind me before he stands by his wife and stepdaughter’s side. His face is so closed, it’s impossible to read his mood.

“She called my mother a whore, Uncle,” Nicole sobs, showing him the reddening circle around her left eye. “When I told her to stop, she punched me.”

“That’s not true!” I yell.

“Oh, Henry,” Victoria cries. “I think Nicole needs to see a doctor.”

“Oh, come on.” I stare at her with stupefaction. It wasn’t that strong, although I wish it were.

“I know you don’t like us, Astrid.” Victoria looks at me with pity-filled eyes. “But I thought we were a family.”

“Stop being a hypocrite! You called my mother —

“Enough.” Dad’s voice booms in the dining room.

“But, Dad, she —

“It’s Father, not Dad,” he grits out.

I fight the sob trying to be set free. “She said my mum — ”

“Your mother is dead.” He deadpans as if I don’t know that piece of information. “She’s been dead for three years. I’ve been trying to give you leeway, but it’s not working. When will you learn that your mother is in the past?”

“Never!” My vision blurs with tears. “Just because you forgot about her doesn’t mean I will.”

“Astrid Elizabeth Clifford. You’ll stop this instant and apologise to Victoria and Nicole.”

Both mother and daughter smile discreetly.

I lift my chin up even as a tear slides down my cheek. “I’ll never apologise.”

“Then you’ll forget about attending next week’s exhibition.”

No. I’ve been looking forward to it since my accident. He can’t take that away from me. “But you promised.”

“And you promised to try and get along with Victoria and Nicole. If you don’t keep your promises, why should I?”

“I won’t apologise for something they started.”

“No apology. No exhibition.”

“Fine!” I snatch my backpack and throw it over my shoulder. “But for the record, you stopped keeping your promises since I was seven, Father.”

I wait until I’m out of the house before letting the tears loose.





21





Astrid





If you’re the devil, why am I not running? Why am I barging into your hell instead?



* * *



The energy in the stadium is beyond infectious. It seeps under my skin and awakens a part of me I never thought existed.

The crowd’s chants, the girls’ screaming at players, the parents’ cheering from their conservative place down below, Something Like This by Coldplay blasting from the speakers.

It’s all such a huge chaos — aside from Coldplay.

I’ve never been to a football game before, not only because sports aren’t my thing, but also because I never understood the fanatic mindset of most Premier League’s fans.

Today seems like a fraction of the Premier League — a younger brother of sorts. A few thousand spectators fill the school’s stadium, chanting and carrying the royal blue sticks matching the team’s colours.

I’m going to watch till half-time for Dan’s sake and then I’m out of here.

“Ugh, some parasites decided to show up.”

My head lifts up at Nicole’s malicious voice. I can’t help smiling at the slight bruise on her left eye from this morning. She did her best to hide it with makeup, but it’s visible.

Nicole is wearing the team’s jersey and jeans. King’s number 10. Of course. Her friend Chloe is wearing Number 13, Astor.

“If we lose, you’re dead,” Chloe says with a twist in her dramatically red lips.

I roll my eyes and decide to ignore them. The best method to conquer any bullies is to not give them what they seek — a reaction.

After some glaring, they huff and puff then head up to the ‘best’ seats.

I retrieve my sketchpad from my bag and snuggle it in my lap. Here’s to hoping the other spectators are too busy with the before-game glow to notice me sketching in the middle of their beloved game.

I focus on a small boy, probably one of the players’ brothers. He’s wearing a blue jersey and screaming ‘An!’ over and over. I smile and attempt to capture that spark in his eyes and the carefree flinging of his arms as his mother holds him.